Midterm PHIL

Midterm Paper

Having now read substantial sections from the Confucian Analects and Aristotle’s

Nicomachean Ethics, your task for this paper is thus. You should put forth a definition of

“Virtue”, in doing so you will provide some evidence. In choosing how you provide this

evidence one must be aware of the differences between Aristotle and Confucius; do they have the

same definition of virtue? After putting forth your own definition, with supporting evidence from

one or both of our major texts, pick one or two virtues from Aristotle and Confucius and, explain,

(i) what they are, (ii) if they are the same, similar, or different, and (iii) why the conclusion in (ii)

is important. Please see above for the re- write policy. If you want to use an outside source, you

must approve it with me before hand. If you do use an outside source without prior permission,

you will lose a letter grade on this paper. 1000 words (approximately 4 pages).

Warning: Use Times New Roman, or Cambria. Double space. 12 point font size. 1 inch margins

(make sure to double check, people often mess this one up). Page numbers. Failure to do so is a

letter grade off your paper. This is (i) a college course, and (ii) this is not a writing skills class.

These are very basic writing skills. Points lost in this manner cannot be earned back via rewrite.

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Book V 5.1 The Master characterized Gongye Chang: “He is marriageable. Though he was in shack- les, it was through no crime of his own.” And he wed his daughter to him. 5.2 The Master characterized Nan Rong: “If the dao prevailed in the state, he would not be discarded; if the dao did not prevail in the state, he would evade corporal punishment.” And he wed his elder brother’s daughter to him. 5.3 The Master characterized Zijian thus: “He is a junzi! If Lu truly lacks any junzis, where has he come from?” 5.4 Zigong said, “What am I like?” The Mas- ter said, “You are a vessel.” “What vessel?” “A vessel of ancestral sacrifice.” 5.5 Someone said, “Yong is ren but he has no craft in speech.” The Master said, “Of what use is craft in speech? Those who parry others with glib tongues are frequent objects of detestation. I don’t know whether Yong is ren, but of what use is craft in speech?” 5.6 The Master gave Qidiao Kai leave to take up a position. He replied, “I’m not yet pre- pared to fulfill this faithfully.” The Master was pleased. 5.7 The Master said, “The dao does not pre- vail! I shall set out over the sea on a raft. I ex- pect that Yóu will be willing to accompany

Notes 5.1 Many passages in Book V comment on contemporary and historical figures. In many cases, we know little or nothing about them. Gongye Chang 公冶長 is elsewhere said to have been a dis- ciple. It is unknown why he was imprisoned. 5.2 Nan Rong 南容 is also said to have been a disciple (see 14.5) Other sources tell us Con- fucius’s father had another, elder son, born of a woman other than Confucius’s mother. The basic rule that Nan Rong here follows is known as ‘timeliness’ (shí 時); it is a key Confucian concept, which grows in scope from the simple idea ar- ticulated here, to a broad vision of the dynamic application of ethical authority in ever-changing con- texts (see the Glossary). 5.3 Zijian 子賤 was a disciple. 5.4 This passage is often thought to resonate with 2.12: “The junzi is not a vessel.” This idea is in ten- sion with the sacred character of the sacrificial vessel. 5.5 Yong 雍 is the disciple Zhong- gong 仲弓 (see 6.1). Compare 1.3, 4.22, and 4.24 with the message of this passage. The term for ‘craft in speech’ (or glibness), ning 佞, is a phonetic and graphic cognate for ren 仁. Ren sometimes carries the sense of ‘manliness’ (and, as an ethical term, may build on the con- cept of being a ‘real man’), while the character for ning adds the fe- male signifier and may reflect a pejorative view of pleasing speech

The Analects of Confucius 19

me.” Zilu heard of this and was pleased. The Master said, “Yóu’s love of valor exceeds mine; there is nowhere to get the lumber.” 5.8 Meng Wubo asked, “Is Zilu ren?” The Master said, “I don’t know.” When asked again, the Master said, “Yóu may be placed in charge of managing the military exactions for a state of a thou- sand war chariots. I don’t know whether he is ren.” “What about Qiu?” The Master said, “Qiu may be made steward of a city of a thousand households or a feudal estate of a hundred war chariots. I don’t know whether he is ren.” “What about Chi?” The Master said, “Girt with a sash and standing in court, Chi may be entrusted with the role of greeting visitors. I don’t know whether he is ren.” 5.9 The Master addressed Zigong, saying, “Who is superior, you or Hui?” “How could I dare even to gaze up at Hui? When Hui hears one part, he under- stands all ten; I hear one and understand two.” The Master said, “Yes, you do not come up to him. Neither you nor I come up to him.” 5.10 Zai Yu napped in his chamber during the day. The Master said, “Rotten wood can- not be carved; a wall of dung cannot be whitewashed. What point is there in blaming Yu?”

as ‘womanly’. 5.6 Qidiao Kai 漆彫開 is a dis- ciple referred to only in this one Analects passage, but there is evidence his later influence was substantial (see Appendix 1). 5.7 The disciple Zilu (Zhong Yóu – personal name: Yóu) is portrayed as martial and impetu- ous throughout the Analects (see the next passage). Here, Confu- cius teases him. ‘Lumber’ (cai 材) is a pun on the word ‘talent’ (cai 才), a harsh comment on Zilu’s limited abilities. (Humor in the Analects can bite.) 5.8 Meng Wubo was a grandee in the state of Lu (see 2.5-6). Here, we are probably to assume he is seeking job references.

Qiu is the senior disciple Ran Qiu. Both he and Zilu served for a time as officers at the warlord Ji family court. Chi is the disciple Gongxi Hua 公西華, from a pa- trician Lu family. All these disciples did achieve some political stature in Lu. 5.8 should be read as the basis of the most elaborate pas- sage in the Analects: 11.26. 5.9 ‘Hui’ refers to the disciple Yan Hui. 5.10 The only disciple in the An- alects towards whom no type of approval or affection is shown is the senior disciple Zai Yu 宰予 (also known as Zai Wo 我; see 3.21). (It is possible that there is an error in the text here and that

The Analects of Confucius 20

The Master said, “It used to be that with people, when I heard what they said I trusted their conduct would match. Now I listen to what they say and observe their conduct. It is because of Yu that I have changed.” 5.11 The Master said, “I have never seen an- yone who was incorruptible.” Someone re- plied by mentioning Shen Cheng. The Mas- ter said, “Cheng is full of desires. How could he be called incorruptible?” 5.12 Zigong said, “What I do not wish others to do to me, I do not wish to do to others.” The Master said, “Si, this is a level you have not yet reached.” 5.13 Zigong said, The Master’s emblem of patterns is something we may learn of. The Master’s statements concerning our nature and the dao of Tian are things we may not learn of. 5.14 When Zilu heard something new and had not yet learned to practice it, his only fear was that he would hear something else new. 5.15 Zigong asked, “Why is Kong Wenzi re- ferred to by the posthumous title of Wen?” The Master said, “He was bright and loved learning, and unashamed to ask ques- tions of those below him. That is why he is referred to as Wen.” 5.16 The Master characterized Zichan thus: “There were in him four aspects of the dao of the junzi. He was reverent in his com-

what Zai Yu is accused of is actu- ally decorating the walls of his chamber [hua qin 畫寢] rather than sleeping in the day [zhou qin 晝寢].) 5.11 Nothing is known of Shen Cheng; some sources list him as a disciple. 5.12 Si was Zigong’s personal name. This formula, a version of the Golden Rule, is important to the Analects, and is sometimes referred to as ‘reciprocity’ (see 15.24). 5.13 ‘Emblem of patterns’ (wen- zhang 文章) is a phrase that occurs again in 8.19 (see also 5.22). It likely refers to the practical style of conduct that was central to the Confucian ritualist school. 5.15 Kong Wenzi was a grandee in the state of Wei. After a senior patrician’s death, it was common to select an honorific name to use posthumously as a sign of respect. The name was intended to capture some aspect of character. In this case, the issue is most importantly a gloss on the meaning of the key term wen (patterned; see the Glos- sary).

The Analects of Confucius 21

portment, he was respectfully attentive in service to his superiors, he was generous in nurturing the people, he was righteous in di- recting the people.” 5.17 The Master said, Yan Pingzhong was good at interacting with people. Even after long acquaintance, he remained respectfully attentive. 5.18 The Master said, When Zang Wen- zhong created a chamber for his great turtle, he had the beams painted with mountains, and the supporting posts with water plants. What wisdom he had! 5.19 Zizhang asked, “Chief minister Ziwen when thrice appointed chief minister showed no sign of pleasure; when thrice dismissed, he showed no sign of displeasure and duly reported to the new chief minister the affairs of the old. What would you say of him?” The Master said, “He was loyal.” “Was he ren?” “I don’t know. Wherein would he be ren?” “When Cuizi assassinated the ruler of Qi, Chen Wenzi possessed ten teams of horses, but he cast all that away and took his leave. Arriving at another state, he said, ‘These men are like our grandee Cuizi,’ and took his leave. Arriving at yet another state, he said, ‘These men are like our grandee Cuizi,’ and took his leave. What would you say of him?” The Master said, “He was pure.” “Was he ren?” “I don’t know. Wherein would he be ren?”

5.16 Zichan was an exemplary prime minister in the small state of Zheng, who died in 522 BCE, when Confucius was still young.

“Directing the people” re- fers to calling on corvée manpower obligations for war or labor pro- jects. 5.17 Yan Pingzhong was a famous prime minister in the state of Qi. He lived well into Confucius’s lifetime, dying c. 506 BCE. 5.18 Zang Wenzhong was a fa- mous prime minister in Lu three generations senior to Confucius. He procured for his clan a great turtle, of some sacred significance. The decor described here is said to have been the prerogative of the Zhou king, hence Confucius’s final sarcastic remark. 5.19 Another illustration of how difficult it is to earn the Master’s praise as ren. Ziwen was chief minister in the state of Chu several genera- tions before Confucius. The assassination of Duke Zhuang of Qi took place about the time of Confucius’s birth. ‘Ten teams of horses’ clearly means only that Chen Wenzi abandoned a lavish household to avoid associa- tion with Cuizi.

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5.20 Ji Wenzi always pondered thrice before acting. The Master heard of this and said, “Twice is enough.” 5.21 The Master said, As for Ning Wuzi, when the dao prevailed in his state, he was wise; when the dao did not prevail, he was stupid. His wisdom may be matched; his stu- pidity is unmatchable.” 5.22 The Master was in Chen. He said, “Let us return! Let us return! The young men of our group are bold but simple. They weave an emblem but do not know how to trim it.” 5.23 The Master said, Bo Yi and Shu Qi did not recite old wrongs. For this reason, their complaints were rare. 5.24 The Master said, Who says Weisheng Gao is straightforward. If someone asked him for vinegar, he would borrow it from a neighbor and give it. 5.25 The Master said, Crafty words, an in- gratiating expression, obsequious conduct – Zuo Qiuming would be ashamed of such be- havior, and I would be ashamed of it as well. To hide one’s resentment and befriend an- other – Zuo Qiuming would be ashamed of such behavior, and I would be ashamed of it as well. 5.26 Yan Yuan and Ji Lu were sitting in at- tendance. The Master said, “Why not each of us speak his heart’s desire?” Zilu said, “Let me drive a team of horses and be dressed in a light fur jacket

5.20 Ji Wenzi was head of the powerful Ji warlord clan in Lu several generations before Confu- cius. 5.21 Ning Wuzi was a grandee in the state of Wei. Compare with 5.2. This is an example of the dry humor the Analects often imparts to its portrait of Confucius. 5.22 Chen was one of the states Confucius visited during his long exile from Lu. Here he imagines the activity of the disciples left behind using the metaphor of the cloth emblem of patterns (see 5.13). 5.23 Bo Yi and Shu Qi were two legendary brothers who retreated to the wilderness to escape the evil of the last Shang ruler. They re- turned upon hearing of the virtues of King Wen of the Zhou, but ar- rived as his son, King Wu, con- quered the Shang. Seeing his war- making as no improvement, they retreated again, to die of hunger in the mountains. The last phrase may be read to mean few complained against them. 5.24 Nothing is known of Weisheng Gao, or why Confucius devises this colorful characteriza- tion. 5.25 Zuo Qiuming is the name of the putative author of the Zuo- chuan (Zuo’s Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals), the

The Analects of Confucius 23

side by side with friends; even were we all in tatters, we would be free of resentment.” Yan Yuan said, “I would wish not to boast of my virtues nor cause others labor.” Zilu said, “We would like to hear the Master’s wish.” The Master said, “That the old are content with me, my friends trust me, and the young cherish me.” 5.27 The Master said, Enough! I have yet to see anyone who can recognize his own errors and bring changes against himself within. 5.28 The Master said, In a town of ten households, there will surely be one who is as loyal and trustworthy as I. But there will be none who loves learning as much!

great history of the early Classical period. Why Confucius character- izes him as he does here is not known. 5.26 Yan Yuan is the disciple Yen Hui. Ji Lu 季路 is the disciple Zilu. Like 5.8, this passage is like- ly an inspiration for 11.26.

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Book VI 6.1 The Master said, Yong may be permitted to sit facing south. 6.2 Zhonggong asked about Zisang Bozi. The Master said, “He was satisfactory; his style was simple.” Zhonggong said, “To be attentively respectful when interacting at home but sim- ple in conduct when approaching one’s peo- ple is indeed satisfactory. But is not being simple both at home and in conduct abroad to be too simple?” The Master said, “Yong’s words are correct.” 6.3 Duke Ai asked which of the disciples loved learning. The Master said, “There was Yan Hui who loved learning. He never shift- ed his anger, never repeated his errors. Un- fortunately, his life was short and he died. Now there is none. I have not heard of an- other who loves learning.” 6.4 Zihua was dispatched on a mission to Qi. Ranzi asked for an allotment of grain to pro- vide his mother. The Master said, “Give her six measures.”

Ranzi asked for more. “Give her nine measures.” Ranzi gave her twenty-five measures. The Master said, “When Chi traveled

to Qi, he rode a sleek horse and wore a fine fur jacket. I have heard it said, ‘The junzi at- tends to the needy; he does not enrich the wealthy.’”

Notes 6.1 Yong (Ran Yong) is the disci- ple Zhonggong. The ruler’s throne faces south. This is extraordinary praise. No extensive lore praising Zhong- gong exists, but in the Xunzi, the third great early Confucian text (third century BCE), Zhonggong is noted as a founder of a branch of the Confucian school. 6.2 Nothing certain is known of Zisang Bozi. 6.3 Essentially duplicated at 11.7, with Ji Kangzi as the interlocutor. 6.4 Zihua is the disciple Gongxi Hua (see 5.8). Ranzi is Ran Qiu. 6.5 Yuan Si was a disciple; he is

The Analects of Confucius 25

6.5 Yuan Si acted as steward of the Master’s household. The Master set his salary at nine hundred measures. Yuan Si declined. The Master said, “No, you can give it to your neighbors and townsmen.” 6.6 The Master characterized Zhonggong thus: If the calf of a plough ox has a sorrel coat and fine horns, though one wished not to sacrifice it, would the spirits of the moun- tains and rivers forego it? 6.7 The Master said, Hui would go three months without his heart ever departing from ren. As for the others, their hearts merely come upon ren from time to time. 6.8 Ji Kangzi asked, “Cannot Zhong Yóu be appointed to government position?”

The Master said, “Yóu is resolute. What difficulty would he have in govern- ance?” “Cannot Si be appointed to govern- ment position?” The Master said, “Si has understand- ing. What difficulty would he have in gov- ernance?” “Cannot Qiu be appointed to govern- ment position?” The Master said, “Qiu is accomplished in arts. What difficulty would he have in governance?” 6.9 The Ji family sent word appointing Min Ziqian as the steward of Bi. Min Ziqian said, “Make a good excuse for me. If they send for me again, I will surely be found north of the River Wen.”

more usually referred to by his personal name, Xian (see 14.1).

The lesson of this passage is clearly meant to be coupled with the last. 6.6 From this, we can infer that Zhonggong, who is so highly praised in Book VI, was of humble birth. (See 6.10.) 6.8 Ji Kangzi was head of the war- lord Ji clan in Lu. Zhong Yóu is the disciple Zilu; Si is the disciple Zigong; Qiu is the disciple Ran Qiu. This passage seems in- tended to identify key traits valua- ble in public roles. ‘Resolute’ car- ries a sense of following through in action; ‘understanding’ may also mean able to express ideas clearly. 6.9 Min Ziqian was a disciple. Bi was the walled city at the center of the of the Ji family domain.

‘North of the River Wen’ suggests an intent to flee beyond the borders of Lu. 6.10 Boniu (Ran Boniu) is the fa-

The Analects of Confucius 26

6.10 Boniu fell ill. The Master called upon him, grasping Boniu’s hand through the win- dow. He said, “There is nothing for it! It is fated. Yet for such a man to have such an ill- ness! For such a man to have such an ill- ness!” 6.11 The Master said, How worthy is Hui! A simple bowl of food and a dipperful of drink, living on a shabby lane – others could not bear the cares, yet Hui is unchanging in his joy. How worthy is Hui! 6.12 Ran Qiu said, “It is not that I do not de- light in your dao, Master – my strength is in- sufficient.” The Master said, “Those with insuffi- cient strength fall by the path midway. You are simply drawing a line.” 6.13 The Master addressed Zixia, saying, “Be a junzi Ru; don’t be a small man Ru.” 6.14 Ziyou became the steward of Wucheng. The Master said, “Do you find good men there?” “There is one called Tantai Mieming. He never takes shortcuts in his conduct, and if it is not upon official business, he never comes to see me in my chamber.” 6.15 The Master said, Meng Zhifan was not boastful. When the army retreated, he held the rear, but as they approached the city gate he whipped his horse ahead, saying, “It’s not that I dared to stay behind – my horse simply wouldn’t go!”

ther of Zhonggong (Ran Yong). His polite name means “elder ox,” which may explain the metaphor used in 6.6. What Boniu’s illness may have been is a matter of specula- tion. The word ‘fated’ (ming 命) also carried the sense of ‘lifespan’, and it was commonly believed that a limit of years was determined for each person by destiny. 6.12 ‘The path’ simply translates dao in its original sense, in order to clarify the metaphor governing Confucius’s reply. 6.13 ‘Ru’ 儒 is the name by which the Confucian school was known (Confucianism is sometimes called Ruism in English). Its original meaning is disputed. This passage (the only one in the Analects to employ the term) suggests a split already existing in the school at the time the Analects was compiled. Clearly, the followers of Zixia be- lieved their master was on the junzi side of the equation. 6.14 The final statement means he never seeks contact for private rea- sons. 6.15 Meng Zhifan was a contem- porary grandee of Lu. 6.16 Confucius refers to the super-

The Analects of Confucius 27

6.16 The Master said, Without the glibness of Zhu Tuo or the handsomeness of Song Zhao, it is hard to escape in times like these. 6.17 The Master said, Who can go out except through the door? Why, then, does no one follow this dao? 6.18 When plain substance prevails over pat- terned refinement, you have a bumpkin. When patterned refinement prevails over substance, you have a clerk. When substance and pattern are in balance, only then do you have a junzi. 6.19 Men stay alive through straightforward conduct. When the crooked stay alive it is simply a matter of escaping through luck. 6.20 The Master said, Knowing it is not so good as loving it; loving it is not so good as taking joy in it. 6.21 The Master said, With men of middle level or higher, one may discuss the highest; with men below the middle rank, one may not discuss the highest. 6.22 Fan Chi asked about knowledge. The Master said, “To concentrate on what is right for the people; to be attentively respectful towards ghosts and spirits but keep them at a distance – this may be called knowledge.” He asked about ren. “People who are ren are first to shoulder difficulties and last to reap rewards. This may be called ren.” 6.23 The Master said, The wise delight in water; the ren delight in mountains. The wise

ficial advantages of two minor fig- ures from history to suggest the values of a debased age. 6.20 This may refer to any activity, but ‘it’ is probably best understood as the dao. 6.22 This and the following pas- sage pair ren and knowledge (or wisdom) in the manner of 4.2.

The Analects of Confucius 28

are in motion; the ren are at rest. The wise are joyful; the ren are long lived. 6.24 The Master said, The state of Qi with one transformation could become the state of Lu, and the state of Lu with one transfor- mation could reach the dao. 6.25 The Master said, A gourd that is not a gourd – is it a gourd? Is it a gourd? 6.26 Zai Wo asked, “If you were to say to a ren person that there was someone fallen down into a well, would he leap in to save him?” The Master said, “What do you mean by this? A junzi may be urged, but he cannot be snared; he may be deceived, but he may not be made a fool of.” 6.27 The Master said, Once a junzi has stud- ied broadly in patterns and constrained them with li, indeed he will never turn his back on them. 6.28 The Master had an audience with Nanzi. Zilu was displeased. The Master swore an oath: “That which I deny, may Tian detest it! May Tian detest it!” 6.29 The Master said, The Central Mean in conduct is where virtue reaches its pinnacle. Few are those who can sustain it for long. 6.30 Zigong said, “If one were to bring broad benefits to the people and be able to aid the multitudes, what would you say about him? Could you call him ren?” The Master said, “Why would you call

6.24 Confucius privileges his home state of Lu here, but his op- timistic view extends it its neigh- bor state Qi. The Analects main- tains a balance between deploring how far the present time have fall- en from the era of the sages, and envisioning the potential for rapd transformation, if only the political will is present. 6.25 Gourds were used as a certain type of wine vessel, called, there- fore, ‘gourds’. This passage must refer to some irregularity of vessel usage, and, in doing so, raise the issue of the distortion of language to cover up unorthodox conduct. An implied meaning might be that a ‘ruler’ who does not properly ‘rule’ should not be called a ‘ruler’ – an idea that has come to be known as part of a doctrine called ‘the rectification of names’. (See also 17.11.) 6.26 This is one of many instances of tension between Zai Wo and Confucius (see 3.21, 5.10, 17.21). 6.27 Duplicated at 12.15 and in part at 9.11. ‘Patterns’ (wen) are usually pictured as forms of cul- tural refinement basic to the ritual- ized conduct of li. Here, the two are in tension, indicating that li denotes only those features of cul- ture that sages have designed to promote perfect social communi- cation and order. 6.28 Nanzi was the unsavory fe- male consort of the Marquis of Wei. Confucius here denies Zilu’s suspicion that he was planning to conspire with Wei’s unethical

The Analects of Confucius 29

this a matter of ren? Surely, this would be a sage! Yao and Shun themselves would fall short of this. “The ren person is one who, wishing himself to be settled in position, sets up oth- ers; wishing himself to have access to the powerful, achieves access for others. To be able to proceed by analogy from what lies nearest by, that may be termed the formula for ren.”

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power brokers in order to gain a court position. (See 3.13.) 6.29 ‘Central Mean’ is capitalized here because the concept serves as the title of one of a famous early Confucian work, usually known as the Doctrine of the Mean. That text probably reached its present form no earlier than the late third centu- ry BCE, and it is possible that 6.29 was incorporated into the Analects only as the Doctrine of the Mean came together. Since the Doctrine includes a passage almost identical to 6.29, it is difficult to know which text may be quoting the oth- er; both could also derive from a common source. 6.30 ‘Sage’ (sheng 聖) is a term generally reserved for great figures of legendary accomplishment. One may read this passage as saying either that sagehood is a type of ‘super-ren’ – ren with political achievements added on – or that these are two different types of issues, one having to do with pow- er opportunities turned to ad- vantage, and the other having to do with a habitual linkage of self and other – not unrelated matters, but still distinct. The final sentence, which seems to describe a rule of thumb for the ordinary person striving to become ren, provides a clue to what, in practice, the ambiguous term may have meant to early Con- fucians. It stands in contrast to the almost unattainable goal expressed in 4.5.

The Analects of Confucius 30

Book VII 7.1 The Master said, To transmit but not cre- ate, to be faithful in loving the old – in this I dare compare myself to Old Peng. 7.2 The Master said, To stay silent and mark something in the mind, to study without tir- ing, to instruct others without fatigue – what difficulty are these things to me? 7.3 The Master said, That I have not culti- vated virtue, that I have learned but not ex- plained, that I have heard what is right but failed to align with it, that what is not good in me I have been unable to change – these are my worries. 7.4 When the Master was at leisure, his manner was relaxed and easy. 7.5 The Master said, How far I have de- clined! Long has it been since I have again dreamed of the Duke of Zhou. 7.6 The Master said, Set your heart on the dao, base yourself in virtue, rely on ren, journey in the arts. 7.7 The Master said, From those who offer only a bundle of dried sausages on up, I have never refused to teach. 7.8 The Master said, Where there is no agi- tated attempt at thinking, I do not provide a clue; where there is no stammered attempt at expression, I do provide a prompt. If I raise one corner and do not receive the other three in response, I teach no further.

Notes 7.1 There is no consensus about who Old Peng may have been. Some suggest this refers to Peng- zu, a legendary figure comparable to Methuselah, but other than the descriptor ‘old’ nothing in this passage points to features in com- mon with the legend. Book VII is, by and large, a portrait of Confucius, in his own words or in the words of the Ana- lects compilers. 7.5 The Duke of Zhou was a dy- nastic founder, younger brother of King Wu, famous for saving the newly established dynastic house through his wise regency after King Wu’s early death. He was also said to have devised the rituals of the Zhou government.

The passage may mean that Confucius has long given up hope of seeing a new sage arise.

7.6 ‘The arts’ refers to the gentle- manly arts of archery, charioteer- ing, and writing, and the Confu- cian ritual arts of li and music. 7.7 The openness of Confucius’s ‘school’ to men of all classes is reflected here. Note ‘on up’: Con- fucius was a professional private teacher (often said to be the first), who seems to have lived largely off the largess of his wealthier pu- pils.

The Analects of Confucius 31

7.9 When the Master dined by the side of one who was in mourning, he never ate his fill. 7.10 If on a certain day the Master cried, he did not on that day sing. 7.11 The Master said of Yan Yuan, When put to use, act; when discarded, hide – only you and I are thus.

Zilu said, “Master, if you were put in charge of the three army divisions, then whom would you wish to have with you?” The Master said, “Those who fight ti- gers with their bare hands, wade across riv- ers, and are willing to die without regret – I would not want their company. I would cer- tainly want those who approach affairs with fearful caution and who like to lay careful plans for success.” 7.12 The Master said, If wealth may be well sought, though it be as lowly bearer of the whip I too would pursue it. If it cannot be well sought, I will follow what I love. 7.13 Things the Master was vigilant about: fasting, war, illness. 7.14 When the Master was in the state of Qi, he heard the Shao Music. For three months he did not know the taste of meat. He said, “I never imagined that the making of music could reach this level.” 7.���5DQ�<ԁX�VDLG��³:LOO�WKH�0DVWHU�Eecome a partisan on behalf of the ruler of Wei?” Zigong said, “Right – I’ll ask him.”

7.11 What is ‘put to use’ or ‘dis- carded’ may refer to rulers’ treat- ment of Confucius and Yan Yuan, or, more likely, to the dao. The initial passage here restates the doctrine of timeliness.

Classical era armies were typically divided into left, right, and central divisions. Zilu’s eager valor is once again quashed here (see 5.7). 7.12 See the first part of 4.5 and 7.17. Confucius claims to desire what others desire – wealth – but here his desires seem superseded by what he ‘loves’. 7.13 ‘Fasting’ refers to dietary and other rules for purification appro- priate prior to ancestral sacrifice rituals, during mourning periods, and so forth. 7.14 The Shao dance was said to have been composed by the sage emperor Shun. Other sources sug- gest this visit to Qi took place ear- ly in Confucius’s career. 7.15 Ran YԁX is the disciple Ran Qiu.

The heir to the throne of Wei was exiled. Upon his father’s

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He entered and said to the Master, “What sort of men were Bo Yi and Shu Qi?” “They were worthies of ancient times.” “Did they harbor complaints?” “They sought ren and gained ren – what complaint could they have?” Zigong exited. “The Master will not be a partisan in this,” he said. 7.16 The Master said, To eat coarse greens, drink water, and crook one’s elbow for a pil- low – joy also lies therein. Wealth and high rank obtained by unrighteous means are to me like the floating clouds. 7.17 The Master said, Give me a few years, till fifty, in order to learn, and indeed I may be free of great flaws. 7.18 Those things for which the Master al- ways employed court dialect: the Poetry, the Documents, the conduct of li. For all these, he employed court dialect. 7.19 The Lord of She asked Zilu about Con- fucius. Zilu could think of no response. The Master said, “Why did you not say: As a man, when agitated in thought he forgets to eat, joyfully forgetting his cares, not realiz- ing that old age is near at hand?” 7.20 The Master said, I was not born with knowledge. I love what is old and am assid- uous in pursuing it. 7.21 The Master did not speak of strange oc- currences, feats of strength, political disrup- tions, and spirits.

death, his son was enthroned in his place, and he, the rightful ‘ruler’, planned to lead an army to retake the throne for himself. Confucius had made many contacts in Wei (see 3.13, 6.28), and Ran Qiu here wonders whether he will take ad- vantage of the situation. On Bo Yi and Shu Qi, see 5.23. 7.16 See 4.5 and 7.12. 7.17 The word rendered as ‘in- deed’ (based on the reading of an alternative early version of the An- alects) is also the title of the fa- mous mantic work, Yi jing (Book of Changes). Most interpreters take Confucius to be saying here that he wishes to study that text, which is otherwise not mentioned in the Analects. (An oblique reference may appear at 13.22, however.) 7.18 Classical China was a patch- work of regions speaking different languages and dialects. Confucius likely spent his childhood in a re- gion south of Lu that spoke a local language or dialect distinct from Zhou norms (see 3.15). 7.19 The Lord of She was a gran- dee of the state of Chu; She was his feudal estate. 7.20 See 16.9. 7.21 This should be understood in contrast to some other ‘wisdom’ schools, which claimed to under-

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7.22 The Master said, When walking in a group of three, my teachers are always pre- sent. I draw out what is good in them so as to emulate it myself, and what is not good in them so as to alter it in myself. 7.23 The Master said, Tian has engendered virtue in me – what harm can Huan Tui do to me? 7.24 The Master said, My friends, do you be- lieve I have secrets from you? I am without secrets. There is nothing I do that I do not share with you, my friends. That is who I am. 7.25 The Master taught by means of four things: patterns, conduct, loyalty, faithful- ness. 7.26 The Master said, “Sages I have had no opportunity to see. You may say that I have been able to see junzis.” The Master said, “Good men I have had no opportunity to see. You may say that I have been able to see steadfast men. To treat having nothing as having enough, being empty as being full, being in tight constraints as being in luxury – it is hard enough to be steadfast!” 7.27 When the Master fished he did not use a net; when he hunted, he did not shoot at nest- ing birds. 7.28 The Master said, There may be some who invent without prior knowledge. I am not such a one. To listen to much, select

stand anomalies like earthquakes or comets, to be able to nurture super-human bodily capacities, to teach how to turn political turmoil to advantage, or to penetrate the world of spirit beings. 7.23 The Han period historical text Shiji offers context. Huan Tui was minister of war in the state of Song. Jealous of Confucius, he threatened him when Confucius and his disciples journeyed to Song. Confucius calmed his disci- ples with this statement. The Shiji account may preserve part of an oral teaching that was an original complement to the very terse Ana- lects text. See 9.5 for what seems to be a different version of the same lesson. 7.25 ‘Patterns’ (wen) denotes the arts associated with the Confucian view of cultural excellence, such as li and music. 7.26 Two separate and somewhat contradictory passages seem to have been combined here. It may be that originally, different branches of the school developed variant texts on a common teach- ing theme, and the Analects editors simply juxtaposed them, rather then selecting between them. 7.28 Although the ‘inventors’ here are said to have no prior knowledge, the point seems to in-

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what is good, and follow it; to observe much and to mark it in memory – these are second to knowledge. 7.29 The people of Hu Village were difficult to talk with. Confucius granted a village youth an interview and the disciples were doubtful. The Master said, “To approve of him when he advances does not mean you’ve ap- proved of his steps back. What is extraordi- nary in this? When a person purifies himself so as to advance, you approve his purity; you are not endorsing his past.” 7.30 The Master said, Is ren distant? When I wish to be ren, ren arrives. 7.31 The Minister of Crime in the state of Chen asked, “Did Duke Zhao understand li?” Confucius said, “He did.” Confucius retired, and the Minister bowed to Wuma Qi, who entered. The Min- ister said, “I have heard that the junzi is not a partisan – is he indeed a partisan after all? Your former ruler married a woman from the state of Wu with the same surname as his own clan, but simply referred to her as ‘Mengzi of Wu.’ If your ruler understood li, who does not understand li?” Wuma Qi reported this to the Master, who said, “I am lucky. When I make an er- ror, others always know it.” 7.32 When the Master sang with others and they sang well, he would always wait and then ask them to repeat before joining in harmony.

volve the idea of ‘natural’ sages, men who somehow have innate wisdom (see 7.20, 16.9). Confu- cius denies being such a person, if such there are, but describes a practical path that comes closest to this imagined ideal. 7.30 It is probably an intention- al paradox in the Analects that ren is pictured both as forbid- dingly elusive and easily near at hand. (See, e.g., 7.34.) 7.31 Confucius is here pictured visiting Chen in his quest to find political employment. Duke Zhao was a former duke in Lu. The Minister has put Confucius in the difficult position of choosing between telling the truth and being loyal to his state’s ruling house. Wuma Qi appears to be a man of Lu traveling with Confu- cius, perhaps a minor disciple. Marrying someone of the same surname was considered to be breaking an incest taboo. Had ‘Mengzi of Wu’ been referred to in an ordinary way, she would have been called ‘Madame Ji’, using the surname Ji 姬, which was the same as that of the dukes of Lu. Confucius’s final remark is sarcastic. The Minister could have criticized him either way.

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7.33 The Master said, In terms of unstinting effort, I can measure up to others, but as far as exemplifying the junzi in my personal conduct, I have not yet grasped it. 7.34 The Master said, “As for terms such as ‘sage’ or ‘ren’, how could I dare accept them? Rather, ‘tireless in pursuing it, unflag- ging in teaching others’ – that may be said of me.” Gongxi Hua said, “That is just what we disciples cannot learn to be.” 7.35 The Master fell ill. Zilu requested per- mission to offer prayers. The Master said, “Is there precedent for this?” Zilu answered, “There is. In the liturgy it says, ‘Pray to the spirits above and below.’” The Master said, “My prayers are longstanding.” 7.36 The Master said, Extravagance leads towards disobedience; thrift leads towards uncouthness. Rather than be disobedient, it is better to be uncouth. 7.37 The Master said, The junzi is free and easy, the small man always careworn. 7.38 The Master was warm, yet severe; awe- some, yet never harsh; reverent, yet calm.

7.34 See 7.2. 7.35 For an alternative account, see 9.12. One of the interesting puz- zles of the early Confucian move- ment was its great emphasis on li, which included religious rituals, in which Confucians were profes- sional specialists, and the frequent expressions of skepticism about the efficacy of those rituals to ef- fect outcomes. So profound was this problem that the great adver- saries of the Confucians, the Mo- hists, claimed that Confucians were in fact atheists, and described their commitment to religious ritu- al action as “casting nets into the sea while proclaiming that there are no fish.”

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PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.

Many more or less important alterations have been made in this translation, which was first published in 1881, as new editions have from time to time been called for. The present edition in particular has been revised throughout, and brought into accordance with Bywater’s text (Oxford, 1890),* which is coming to be recognized, not in Oxford only, as the received text of the Nicomachean Ethics. I wish gratefully to acknowledge the debt which, in common with all lovers of Aristotle, I owe to Mr. Bywater, both for his edition and for his “Contributions to the Textual Criticism of the Nicomachean Ethics” (Oxford, 1892).

To Mr. Stewart also I wish to express my gratitude, not only for much assistance derived from his admirable “Notes on the Nicomachean Ethics” (Oxford, 1892), but also for much kindly and helpful criticism in that work and in a review of my first edition (Mind, July, 1881). My old friends Mr. A. C. Bradley and Mr. J. Cook Wilson (Professors now at Glasgow and Oxford respectively) will allow me to repeat my thanks for the valuable help they gave me when the first edition was passing through the press. To Mr. F. H. Hall of Oriel, and Mr. L. A. Selby Bigge of my own College, I am indebted for some corrections in a subsequent edition. To other translators and commentators I am also under many obligations, which I can only acknowledge in general terms.

When I have inserted in the text explanatory words of my own, I have enclosed them in square brackets thus [ ]. A short Index of leading terms and proper names has been added to this edition (in preparing which I have found Mr. Bywater’s Index of the greatest service). This Index makes no pretension to completeness or anything approaching to completeness (except in regard to proper names). Its aim is merely, in conjunction with the Table of Contents, to help the reader to find the more important passages bearing on the questions in which he may be specially interested.

F. H. PETERS.

Oxford,May, 1893.

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BOOK I.

THE END.

1.

In All He Does Man Seeks Same Good As End Or Means.

Every art and every kind of inquiry, and likewise every act and purpose, seems to aim at some good: and so it has been well said that the good is that at which everything aims.

But a difference is observable among these aims or ends. What is aimed at is sometimes the exercise of a faculty, sometimes a certain result beyond that exercise. And where there is an end beyond the act, there the result is better than the exercise of the faculty.

Now since there are many kinds of actions and many arts and sciences, it follows that there are many ends also; e.g. health is the end of medicine, ships of shipbuilding, victory of the art of war, and wealth of economy.

But when several of these are subordinated to some one art or science,—as the making of bridles and other trappings to the art of horsemanship, and this in turn, along with all else that the soldier does, to the art of war, and so on,* —then the end of the master-art is always more desired than the ends of the subordinate arts, since these are pursued for its sake. And this is equally true whether the end in view be the mere exercise of a faculty or something beyond that, as in the above instances.

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2.

THE End Is THE Good; Our Subject Is This And Its Science Politics.

If then in what we do there be some end which we wish for on its own account, choosing all the others as means to this, but not every end without exception as a means to something else (for so we should go on ad infinitum, and desire would be left void and objectless),—this evidently will be the good or the best of all things. And surely from a practical point of view it much concerns us to know this good; for then, like archers shooting at a definite mark, we shall be more likely to attain what we want.

If this be so, we must try to indicate roughly what it is, and first of all to which of the arts or sciences it belongs.

It would seem to belong to the supreme art or science, that one which most of all deserves the name of master-art or master-science.

Now Politics† seems to answer to this description. For it prescribes which of the sciences a state needs, and which each man shall study, and up to what point; and to it we see subordinated even the highest arts, such as economy, rhetoric, and the art of war.

Since then it makes use of the other practical sciences, and since it further ordains what men are to do and from what to refrain, its end must include the ends of the others, and must be the proper good of man.

For though this good is the same for the individual and the state, yet the good of the state seems a grander and more perfect thing both to attain and to secure; and glad as one would be to do this service for a single individual, to do it for a people and for a number of states is nobler and more divine.

This then is the aim of the present inquiry, which is a sort of political inquiry.*

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3.

Exactness Not Permitted By Subject Nor To Be Expected By Student, Who Needs Experience And Training.

We must be content if we can attain to so much precision in our statement as the subject before us admits of; for the same degree of accuracy is no more to be expected in all kinds of reasoning than in all kinds of handicraft.

Now the things that are noble and just (with which Politics deals) are so various and so uncertain, that some think these are merely conventional and not natural distinctions.

There is a similar uncertainty also about what is good, because good things often do people harm: men have before now been ruined by wealth, and have lost their lives through courage.

Our subject, then, and our data being of this nature, we must be content if we can indicate the truth roughly and in outline, and if, in dealing with matters that are not amenable to immutable laws, and reasoning from premises that are but probable, we can arrive at probable conclusions.*

The reader, on his part, should take each of my statements in the same spirit; for it is the mark of an educated man to require, in each kind of inquiry, just so much exactness as the subject admits of: it is equally absurd to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician, and to demand scientific proof from an orator.

But each man can form a judgment about what he knows, and is called “a good judge” of that—of any special matter when he has received a special education therein, “a good judge” (without any qualifying epithet) when he has received a universal education. And hence a young man is not qualified to be a student of Politics; for he lacks experience of the affairs of life, which form the data and the subject-matter of Politics.

Further, since he is apt to be swayed by his feelings, he will derive no benefit from a study whose aim is not speculative but practical.

But in this respect young in character counts the same as young in years; for the young man’s disqualification is not a matter of time, but is due to the fact that feeling rules his life and directs all his desires. Men of this character turn the knowledge they get to no account in practice, as we see with those we call incontinent; but those who direct their desires and actions by reason will gain much profit from the knowledge of these matters.

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So much then by way of preface as to the student, and the spirit in which he must accept what we say, and the object which we propose to ourselves.

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We must reason from facts accepted without question by the man of trained character.

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4.

Men Agree That The Good Is Happiness, But Differ As To What This Is.

4. Since—to resume—all knowledge and all purpose aims at some good, what is this which we say is the aim of Politics; or, in other words, what is the highest of all realizable goods?

As to its name, I suppose nearly all men are agreed; for the masses and the men of culture alike declare that it is happiness, and hold that to “live well” or to “do well” is the same as to be “happy.”

But they differ as to what this happiness is, and the masses do not give the same account of it as the philosophers.

The former take it to be something palpable and plain, as pleasure or wealth or fame; one man holds it to be this, and another that, and often the same man is of different minds at different times,—after sickness it is health, and in poverty it is wealth; while when they are impressed with the consciousness of their ignorance, they admire most those who say grand things that are above their comprehension.

Some philosophers, on the other hand, have thought that, beside these several good things, there is an “absolute” good which is the cause of their goodness.

As it would hardly be worth while to review all the opinions that have been held, we will confine ourselves to those which are most popular, or which seem to have some foundation in reason.

But we must not omit to notice the distinction that is drawn between the method of proceeding from your starting-points or principles, and the method of working up to them. Plato used with fitness to raise this question, and to ask whether the right way is from or to your starting-points, as in the race-course you may run from the judges to the boundary, or vice versâ.

Well, we must start from what is known.

But “what is known” may mean two things: “what is known to us,” which is one thing, or “what is known” simply, which is another.

I think it is safe to say that we must start from what is known to us.

And on this account nothing but a good moral training can qualify a man to study what is noble and just—in a word, to study questions of Politics. For the

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undemonstrated fact is here the starting-point, and if this undemonstrated fact be sufficiently evident to a man, he will not require a “reason why.” Now the man who has had a good moral training either has already arrived at starting-points or principles of action, or will easily accept them when pointed out. But he who neither has them nor will accept them may hear what Hesiod says* —

“The best is he who of himself doth know; Good too is he who listens to the wise; But he who neither knows himself nor heeds The words of others, is a useless man.”

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5.

The Good Cannot Be Pleasure, Nor Honour, Nor Virtue.

Let us now take up the discussion at the point from which we digressed.

It seems that men not unreasonably take their notions of the good or happiness from the lives actually led, and that the masses who are the least refined suppose it to be pleasure, which is the reason why they aim at nothing higher than the life of enjoyment.

For the most conspicuous kinds of life are three: this life of enjoyment, the life of the statesman, and, thirdly, the contemplative life.

The mass of men show themselves utterly slavish in their preference for the life of brute beasts, but their views receive consideration because many of those in high places have the tastes of Sardanapalus.

Men of refinement with a practical turn prefer honour; for I suppose we may say that honour is the aim of the statesman’s life.

But this seems too superficial to be the good we are seeking: for it appears to depend upon those who give rather than upon those who receive it; while we have a presentiment that the good is something that is peculiarly a man’s own and can scarce be taken away from him.

Moreover, these men seem to pursue honour in order that they may be assured of their own excellence,—at least, they wish to be honoured by men of sense, and by those who know them, and on the ground of their virtue or excellence. It is plain, then, that in their view, at any rate, virtue or excellence is better than honour; and perhaps we should take this to be the end of the statesman’s life, rather than honour.

But virtue or excellence also appears too incomplete to be what we want; for it seems that a man might have virtue and yet be asleep or be inactive all his life, and, moreover, might meet with the greatest disasters and misfortunes; and no one would maintain that such a man is happy, except for argument’s sake. But we will not dwell on these matters now, for they are sufficiently discussed in the popular treatises.

The third kind of life is the life of contemplation: we will treat of it further on.*

As for the money-making life, it is something quite contrary to nature; and wealth evidently is not the good of which we are in search, for it is merely useful as a means to something else. So we might rather take pleasure and virtue or excellence to be ends than wealth; for they are chosen on their own account. But it seems that not even they are the end, though much breath has been wasted in attempts to show that they are.

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6.

Various Arguments To Show Against The Platonists That There Cannot Be One Universal Good.

Dismissing these views, then, we have now to consider the “universal good,” and to state the difficulties which it presents; though such an inquiry is not a pleasant task in view of our friendship for the authors of the doctrine of ideas. But we venture to think that this is the right course, and that in the interests of truth we ought to sacrifice even what is nearest to us, especially as we call ourselves philosophers. Both are dear to us, but it is a sacred duty to give the preference to truth.

In the first place, the authors of this theory themselves did not assert a common idea in the case of things of which one is prior to the other; and for this reason they did not hold one common idea of numbers. Now the predicate good is applied to substances and also to qualities and relations. But that which has independent existence, what we call “substance,” is logically prior to that which is relative; for the latter is an offshoot as it were, or [in logical language] an accident of a thing or substance. So [by their own showing] there cannot be one common idea of these goods.

Secondly, the term good is used in as many different ways as the term “is” or “being:” we apply the term to substances or independent existences, as God, reason; to qualities, as the virtues; to quantity, as the moderate or due amount; to relatives, as the useful; to time, as opportunity; to place, as habitation, and so on. It is evident, therefore, that the word good cannot stand for one and the same notion in all these various applications; for if it did, the term could not be applied in all the categories, but in one only.

Thirdly, if the notion were one, since there is but one science of all the things that come under one idea, there would be but one science of all goods; but as it is, there are many sciences even of the goods that come under one category; as, for instance, the science which deals with opportunity in war is strategy, but in disease is medicine; and the science of the due amount in the matter of food is medicine, but in the matter of exercise is the science of gymnastic.

Fourthly, one might ask what they mean by the “absolute:” in “absolute man” and “man” the word “man” has one and the same sense; for in respect of manhood there will be no difference between them; and if so, neither will there be any difference in respect of goodness between “absolute good” and “good.”

Fifthly, they do not make the good any more good by making it eternal; a white thing that lasts a long while is no whiter than what lasts but a day.

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Even if there were, it would not help us here.

There seems to be more plausibility in the doctrine of the Pythagoreans, who [in their table of opposites] place the one on the same side with the good things [instead of reducing all goods to unity]; and even Speusippus* seems to follow them in this.

However, these points may be reserved for another occasion; but objection may be taken to what I have said on the ground that the Platonists do not speak in this way of all goods indiscriminately, but hold that those that are pursued and welcomed on their own account are called good by reference to one common form or type, while those things that tend to produce or preserve these goods, or to prevent their opposites, are called good only as means to these, and in a different sense.

It is evident that there will thus be two classes of goods: one good in themselves, the other good as means to the former. Let us separate then from the things that are merely useful those that are good in themselves, and inquire if they are called good by reference to one common idea or type.

Now what kind of things would one call “good in themselves”?

Surely those things that we pursue even apart from their consequences, such as wisdom and sight and certain pleasures and certain honours; for although we sometimes pursue these things as means, no one could refuse to rank them among the things that are good in themselves.

If these be excluded, nothing is good in itself except the idea; and then the type or form will be meaningless.*

If however, these are ranked among the things that are good in themselves, then it must be shown that the goodness of all of them can be defined in the same terms, as white has the same meaning when applied to snow and to white lead.

But, in fact, we have to give a separate and different account of the goodness of honour and wisdom and pleasure.

Good, then, is not a term that is applied to all these things alike in the same sense or with reference to one common idea or form.

But how then do these things come to be called good? for they do not appear to have received the same name by chance merely. Perhaps it is because they all proceed from one source, or all conduce to one end; or perhaps it is rather in virtue of some analogy, just as we call the reason the eye of the soul because it bears the same relation to the soul that the eye does to the body, and so on.

But we may dismiss these questions at present; for to discuss them in detail belongs more properly to another branch of philosophy.

And for the same reason we may dismiss the further consideration of the idea; for even granting that this term good, which is applied to all these different things, has one and the same meaning throughout, or that there is an absolute good apart

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from these particulars, it is evident that this good will not be anything that man can realize or attain: but it is a good of this kind that we are now seeking.

It might, perhaps, be thought that it would nevertheless be well to make ourselves acquainted with this universal good, with a view to the goods that are attainable and realizable. With this for a pattern, it may be said, we shall more readily discern our own good, and discerning achieve it.

There certainly is some plausibility in this argument, but it seems to be at variance with the existing sciences; for though they are all aiming at some good and striving to make up their deficiencies, they neglect to inquire about this universal good. And yet it is scarce likely that the professors of the several arts and sciences should not know, nor even look for, what would help them so much.

And indeed I am at a loss to know how the weaver or the carpenter would be furthered in his art by a knowledge of this absolute good, or how a man would be rendered more able to heal the sick or to command an army by contemplation of the pure form or idea. For it seems to me that the physician does not even seek for health in this abstract way, but seeks for the health of man, or rather of some particular man, for it is individuals that he has to heal.

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7.

The Good Is The Final End, And Happiness Is This.

Leaving these matters, then, let us return once more to the question, what this good can be of which we are in search.

It seems to be different in different kinds of action and in different arts,—one thing in medicine and another in war, and so on. What then is the good in each of these cases? Surely that for the sake of which all else is done. And that in medicine is health, in war is victory, in building is a house,—a different thing in each different case, but always, in whatever we do and in whatever we choose, the end. For it is always for the sake of the end that all else is done.

If then there be one end of all that man does, this end will be the realizable good,—or these ends, if there be more than one.

By this generalization our argument is brought to the same point as before.* This point we must try to explain more clearly.

We see that there are many ends. But some of these are chosen only as means, as wealth, flutes, and the whole class of instruments. And so it is plain that not all ends are final.

But the best of all things must, we conceive, be something final.

If then there be only one final end, this will be what we are seeking,—or if there be more than one, then the most final of them.

Now that which is pursued as an end in itself is more final than that which is pursued as means to something else, and that which is never chosen as means than that which is chosen both as an end in itself and as means, and that is strictly final which is always chosen as an end in itself and never as means.

Happiness seems more than anything else to answer to this description: for we always choose it for itself, and never for the sake of something else; while honour and pleasure and reason, and all virtue or excellence, we choose partly indeed for themselves (for, apart from any result, we should choose each of them), but partly also for the sake of happiness, supposing that they will help to make us happy. But no one chooses happiness for the sake of these things, or as a means to anything else at all.

We seem to be led to the same conclusion when we start from the notion of self- sufficiency.

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To find it we ask, What is man’s junction?

The final good is thought to be self-sufficing [or all-sufficing]. In applying this term we do not regard a man as an individual leading a solitary life, but we also take account of parents, children, wife, and, in short, friends and fellow-citizens generally, since man is naturally a social being. Some limit must indeed be set to this; for if you go on to parents and descendants and friends of friends, you will never come to a stop. But this we will consider further on: for the present we will take self-sufficing to mean what by itself makes life desirable and in want of nothing. And happiness is believed to answer to this description.

And further, happiness is believed to be the most desirable thing in the world, and that not merely as one among other good things: if it were merely one among other good things [so that other things could be added to it], it is plain that the addition of the least of other goods must make it more desirable; for the addition becomes a surplus of good, and of two goods the greater is always more desirable.

Thus it seems that happiness is something final and self-sufficing, and is the end of all that man does.

But perhaps the reader thinks that though no one will dispute the statement that happiness is the best thing in the world, yet a still more precise definition of it is needed.

This will best be gained, I think, by asking, What is the function of man? For as the goodness and the excellence of a piper or a sculptor, or the practiser of any art, and generally of those who have any function or business to do, lies in that function, so man’s good would seem to lie in his function, if he has one.

But can we suppose that, while a carpenter and a cobbler has a function and a business of his own, man has no business and no function assigned him by nature? Nay, surely as his several members, eye and hand and foot, plainly have each his own function, so we must suppose that man also has some function over and above all these.

What then is it?

Life evidently he has in common even with the plants, but we want that which is peculiar to him. We must exclude, therefore, the life of mere nutrition and growth.

Next to this comes the life of sense; but this too he plainly shares with horses and cattle and all kinds of animals.

There remains then the life whereby he acts—the life of his rational nature,* with its two sides or divisions, one rational as obeying reason, the other rational as having and exercising reason.

But as this expression is ambiguous,† we must be understood to mean thereby the life that consists in the exercise of the faculties; for this seems to be more properly entitled to the name.

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Resulting definition of happiness.

The function of man, then, is exercise of his vital faculties [or soul] on one side in obedience to reason, and on the other side with reason.

But what is called the function of a man of any profession and the function of a man who is good in that profession are generically the same, e.g. of a harper and of a good harper; and this holds in all cases without exception, only that in the case of the latter his superior excellence at his work is added; for we say a harper’s function is to harp, and a good harper’s to harp well.

(Man’s function then being, as we say, a kind of life—that is to say, exercise of his faculties and action of various kinds with reason—the good man’s function is to do this well and beautifully [or nobly]. But the function of anything is done well when it is done in accordance with the proper excellence of that thing.)‡

If this be so the result is that the good of man is exercise of his faculties in accordance with excellence or virtue, or, if there be more than one, in accordance with the best and most complete virtue.*

But there must also be a full term of years for this exercise;† for one swallow or one fine day does not make a spring, nor does one day or any small space of time make a blessed or happy man.

This, then, may be taken as a rough outline of the good; for this, I think, is the proper method,—first to sketch the outline, and then to fill in the details. But it would seem that, the outline once fairly drawn, any one can carry on the work and fit in the several items which time reveals to us or helps us to find. And this indeed is the way in which the arts and sciences have grown; for it requires no extraordinary genius to fill up the gaps.

We must bear in mind, however, what was said above, and not demand the same degree of accuracy in all branches of study, but in each case so much as the subject- matter admits of and as is proper to that kind of inquiry. The carpenter and the geometer both look for the right angle, but in different ways: the former only wants such an approximation to it as his work requires, but the latter wants to know what constitutes a right angle, or what is its special quality; his aim is to find out the truth. And so in other cases we must follow the same course, lest we spend more time on what is immaterial than on the real business in hand.

Nor must we in all cases alike demand the reason why; sometimes it is enough if the undemonstrated fact be fairly pointed out, as in the case of the starting-points or principles of a science. Undemonstrated facts always form the first step or starting- point of a science; and these starting-points or principles are arrived at some in one way, some in another—some by induction, others by perception, others again by some kind of training. But in each case we must try to apprehend them in the proper way, and do our best to define them clearly; for they have great influence upon the subsequent course of an inquiry. A good start is more than half the race, I think, and our starting-point or principle, once found, clears up a number of our difficulties.

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8.

This View Harmonizes Various Current Views.

We must not be satisfied, then, with examining this starting-point or principle of ours as a conclusion from our data, but must also view it in its relation to current opinions on the subject; for all experience harmonizes with a true principle, but a false one is soon found to be incompatible with the facts.

Now, good things have been divided into three classes, external goods on the one hand, and on the other goods of the soul and goods of the body; and the goods of the soul are commonly said to be goods in the fullest sense, and more good than any other.

But “actions and exercises of the vital faculties or soul” may be said to be “of the soul.” So our account is confirmed by this opinion, which is both of long standing and approved by all who busy themselves with philosophy.

But, indeed, we secure the support of this opinion by the mere statement that certain actions and exercises are the end; for this implies that it is to be ranked among the goods of the soul, and not among external goods.

Our account, again, is in harmony with the common saying that the happy man lives well and does well; for we may say that happiness, according to us, is a living well and doing well.

And, indeed, all the characteristics that men expect to find in happiness seem to belong to happiness as we define it.

Some hold it to be virtue or excellence, some prudence, others a kind of wisdom; others, again, hold it to be all or some of these, with the addition of pleasure, either as an ingredient or as a necessary accompaniment; and some even include external prosperity in their account of it.

Now, some of these views have the support of many voices and of old authority; others have few voices, but those of weight; but it is probable that neither the one side nor the other is entirely wrong, but that in some one point at least, if not in most, they are both right.

First, then, the view that happiness is excellence or a kind of excellence harmonizes with our account; for “exercise of faculties in accordance with excellence” belongs to excellence.

But I think we may say that it makes no small difference whether the good be conceived as the mere possession of something, or as its use—as a mere habit or trained faculty, or as the exercise of that faculty. For the habit or faculty may be

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present, and yet issue in no good result, as when a man is asleep, or in any other way hindered from his function; but with its exercise this is not possible, for it must show itself in acts and in good acts. And as at the Olympic games it is not the fairest and strongest who receive the crown, but those who contend (for among these are the victors), so in life, too, the winners are those who not only have all the excellences, but manifest these in deed.

And, further, the life of these men is in itself pleasant. For pleasure is an affection of the soul, and each man takes pleasure in that which he is said to love,—he who loves horses in horses, he who loves sight-seeing in sight-seeing, and in the same way he who loves justice in acts of justice, and generally the lover of excellence or virtue in virtuous acts or the manifestation of excellence.

And while with most men there is a perpetual conflict between the several things in which they find pleasure, since these are not naturally pleasant, those who love what is noble take pleasure in that which is naturally pleasant. For the manifestations of excellence are naturally pleasant, so that they are both pleasant to them and pleasant in themselves.

Their life, then, does not need pleasure to be added to it as an appendage, but contains pleasure in itself.

Indeed, in addition to what we have said, a man is not good at all unless he takes pleasure in noble deeds. No one would call a man just who did not take pleasure in doing justice, nor generous who took no pleasure in acts of generosity, and so on.

If this be so, the manifestations of excellence will be pleasant in themselves. But they are also both good and noble, and that in the highest degree—at least, if the good man’s judgment about them is right, for this is his judgment.

Happiness, then, is at once the best and noblest and pleasantest thing in the world, and these are not separated, as the Delian inscription would have them to be:—

“What is most just is noblest, health is best, Pleasantest is to get your heart’s desire.”

For all these characteristics are united in the best exercises of our faculties; and these, or some one of them that is better than all the others, we identify with happiness.

But nevertheless happiness plainly requires external goods too, as we said; for it is impossible, or at least not easy, to act nobly without some furniture of fortune. There are many things that can only be done through instruments, so to speak, such as friends and wealth and political influence: and there are some things whose absence takes the bloom off our happiness, as good birth, the blessing of children, personal beauty; for a man is not very likely to be happy if he is very ugly in person, or of low birth, or alone in the world, or childless, and perhaps still less if he has worthless children or friends, or has lost good ones that he had.

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As we said, then, happiness seems to stand in need of this kind of prosperity; and so some identify it with good fortune, just as others identify it with excellence.

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9.

It Happiness Acquired, Or The Gift Of Gods Or Of Chance?

This has led people to ask whether happiness is attained by learning, or the formation of habits, or any other kind of training, or comes by some divine dispensation or even by chance.

Well, if the Gods do give gifts to men, happiness is likely to be among the number, more likely, indeed, than anything else, in proportion as it is better than all other human things.

This belongs more properly to another branch of inquiry; but we may say that even if it is not heavensent, but comes as a consequence of virtue or some kind of learning or training, still it seems to be one of the most divine things in the world; for the prize and aim of virtue would appear to be better than anything else and something divine and blessed.

Again, if it is thus acquired it will be widely accessible; for it will then be in the power of all except those who have lost the capacity for excellence to acquire it by study and diligence.

And if it be better that men should attain happiness in this way rather than by chance, it is reasonable to suppose that it is so, since in the sphere of nature all things are arranged in the best possible way, and likewise in the sphere of art, and of each mode of causation, and most of all in the sphere of the noblest mode of causation. And indeed it would be too absurd to leave what is noblest and fairest to the dispensation of chance.

But our definition itself clears up the difficulty;* for happiness was defined as a certain kind of exercise of the vital faculties in accordance with excellence or virtue. And of the remaining goods [other than happiness itself], some must be present as necessary conditions, while others are aids and useful instruments to happiness. And this agrees with what we said at starting. We then laid down that the end of the art political is the best of all ends; but the chief business of that art is to make the citizens of a certain character—that is, good and apt to do what is noble. It is not without reason, then, that we do not call an ox, or a horse, or any brute happy; for none of them is able to share in this kind of activity.

For the same reason also a child is not happy; he is as yet, because of his age, unable to do such things. If we ever call a child happy, it is because we hope he will do them. For, as we said, happiness requires not only perfect excellence or virtue, but also a full term of years for its exercise. For our circumstances are liable to many changes and to all sorts of chances, and it is possible that he who is now most prosperous will in his

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old age meet with great disasters, as is told of Priam in the tales of Troy; and a man who is thus used by fortune and comes to a miserable end cannot be called happy.

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10.

Can No Man Be Called Happy During Life?

Are we, then, to call no man happy as long as he lives, but to wait for the end, as Solon said?

And, supposing we have to allow this, do we mean that he actually is happy after he is dead? Surely that is absurd, especially for us who say that happiness is a kind of activity or life.

But if we do not call the dead man happy, and if Solon meant not this, but that only then could we safely apply the term to a man, as being now beyond the reach of evil and calamity, then here too we find some ground for objection. For it is thought that both good and evil may in some sort befall a dead man (just as they may befall a living man, although he is unconscious of them), e.g. honours rendered to him, or the reverse of these, and again the prosperity or the misfortune of his children and all his descendants.

But this, too, has its difficulties; for after a man has lived happily to a good old age, and ended as he lived, it is possible that many changes may befall him in the persons of his descendants, and that some of them may turn out good and meet with the good fortune they deserve, and others the reverse. It is evident too that the degree in which the descendants are related to their ancestors may vary to any extent. And it would be a strange thing if the dead man were to change with these changes and become happy and miserable by turns. But it would also be strange to suppose that the dead are not affected at all, even for a limited time, by the fortunes of their posterity.

But let us return to our former question; for its solution will, perhaps, clear up this other difficulty.

The saying of Solon may mean that we ought to look for the end and then call a man happy, not because he now is, but because he once was happy.

But surely it is strange that when he is happy we should refuse to say what is true of him, because we do not like to apply the term to living men in view of the changes to which they are liable, and because we hold happiness to be something that endures and is little liable to change, while the fortunes of one and the same man often undergo many revolutions: for, it is argued, it is plain that, if we follow the changes of fortune, we shall call the same man happy and miserable many times over, making the happy man “a sort of chameleon and one who rests on no sound foundation.”

We reply that it cannot be right thus to follow fortune. For it is not in this that our weal or woe lies; but, as we said, though good fortune is needed to complete man’s life, yet it is the excellent employment of his powers that constitutes his happiness, as the reverse of this constitutes his misery.

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But the discussion of this difficulty leads to a further confirmation of our account. For nothing human is so constant as the excellent exercise of our faculties. The sciences themselves seem to be less abiding. And the highest of these exercises* are the most abiding, because the happy are occupied with them most of all and most continuously (for this seems to be the reason why we do not forget how to do them† ).

The happy man, then, as we define him, will have this required property of permanence, and all through life will preserve his character; for he will be occupied continually, or with the least possible interruption, in excellent deeds and excellent speculations; and, whatever his fortune be, he will take it in the noblest fashion, and bear himself always and in all things suitably, since he is truly good and “foursquare without a flaw.”

But the dispensations of fortune are many, some great, some small. The small ones, whether good or evil, plainly are of no weight in the scale; but the great ones, when numerous, will make life happier if they be good; for they help to give a grace to life themselves, and their use is noble and good; but, if they be evil, will enfeeble and spoil happiness; for they bring pain, and often impede the exercise of our faculties.

But nevertheless true worth shines out even here, in the calm endurance of many great misfortunes, not through insensibility, but through nobility and greatness of soul. And if it is what a man does that determines the character of his life, as we said, then no happy man will become miserable; for he will never do what is hateful and base. For we hold that the man who is truly good and wise will bear with dignity whatever fortune sends, and will always make the best of his circumstances, as a good general will turn the forces at his command to the best account, and a good shoemaker will make the best shoe that can be made out of a given piece of leather, and so on with all other crafts.

If this be so, the happy man will never become miserable, though he will not be truly happy if he meets with the fate of Priam.

But yet he is not unstable and lightly changed: he will not be moved from his happiness easily, nor by any ordinary misfortunes, but only by many heavy ones; and after such, he will not recover his happiness again in a short time, but if at all, only in a considerable period, which has a certain completeness, and in which he attains to great and noble things.

We shall meet all objections, then, if we say that a happy man is “one who exercises his faculties in accordance with perfect excellence, being duly furnished with external goods, not for any chance time, but for a full term of years:” to which perhaps we should add, “and who shall continue to live so, and shall die as he lived,” since the future is veiled to us, but happiness we take to be the end and in all ways perfectly final or complete.

If this be so, we may say that those living men are blessed or perfectly happy who both have and shall continue to have these characteristics, but happy as men only.

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11.

Cannot The Fortunes Of Survivors Affect The Dead?

Passing now from this question to that of the fortunes of descendants and of friends generally, the doctrine that they do not affect the departed at all seems too cold and too much opposed to popular opinion. But as the things that happen to them are many and differ in all sorts of ways, and some come home to them more and some less, so that to discuss them all separately would be a long, indeed an endless task, it will perhaps be enough to speak of them in general terms and in outline merely.

Now, as of the misfortunes that happen to a man’s self, some have a certain weight and influence on his life, while others are of less moment, so is it also with what happens to any of his friends. And, again, it always makes much more difference whether those who are affected by an occurrence are alive or dead than it does whether a terrible crime in a tragedy be enacted on the stage or merely supposed to have already taken place. We must therefore take these differences into account, and still more, perhaps, the fact that it is a doubtful question whether the dead are at all accessible to good and ill. For it appears that even if anything that happens, whether good or evil, does come home to them, yet it is something unsubstantial and slight to them if not in itself; or if not that, yet at any rate its influence is not of that magnitude or nature that it can make happy those who are not, or take away their happiness from those that are.

It seems then—to conclude—that the prosperity, and likewise the adversity, of friends does affect the dead, but not in such a way or to such an extent as to make the happy unhappy, or to do anything of the kind.

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12.

Happiness As Absolute End Is Above Praise.

These points being settled, we may now inquire whether happiness is to be ranked among the goods that we praise, or rather among those that we revere; for it is plainly not a mere potentiality, but an actual good.

What we praise seems always to be praised as being of a certain quality and having a certain relation to something. For instance, we praise the just and the courageous man, and generally the good man, and excellence or virtue, because of what they do or produce; and we praise also the strong or the swiftfooted man, and so on, because he has a certain gift or faculty in relation to some good and admirable thing.

This is evident if we consider the praises bestowed on the Gods. The Gods are thereby made ridiculous by being made relative to man; and this happens because, as we said, a thing can only be praised in relation to something else.

If, then, praise be proper to such things as we mentioned, it is evident that to the best things is due, not praise, but something greater and better, as our usage shows; for the Gods we call blessed and happy, and “blessed” is the term we apply to the most godlike men.

And so with good things: no one praises happiness as he praises justice, but calls it blessed, as something better and more divine.

On these grounds Eudoxus is thought to have based a strong argument for the claims of pleasure to the first prize: for he maintained that the fact that it is not praised, though it is a good thing, shows that it is higher than the goods we praise, as God and the good are higher; for these are the standards by reference to which we judge all other things,—giving praise to excellence or virtue, since it makes us apt to do what is noble, and passing encomiums on the results of virtue, whether these be bodily or psychical.

But to refine on these points belongs more properly to those who have made a study of the subject of encomiums; for us it is plain from what has been said that happiness is one of the goods which we revere and count as final.

And this further seems to follow from the fact that it is a starting-point or principle: for everything we do is always done for its sake; but the principle and cause of all good we hold to be something divine and worthy of reverence.

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13.

Division Of The Faculties And Resulting Division Of The Virtues.

Since happiness is an exercise of the vital faculties in accordance with perfect virtue or excellence, we will now inquire about virtue or excellence; for this will probably help us in our inquiry about happiness.

And indeed the true statesman seems to be especially concerned with virtue, for he wishes to make the citizens good and obedient to the laws. Of this we have an example in the Cretan and the Lacedæmonian lawgivers, and any others who have resembled them. But if the inquiry belongs to Politics or the science of the state, it is plain that it will be in accordance with our original purpose to pursue it.

The virtue or excellence that we are to consider is, of course, the excellence of man; for it is the good of man and the happiness of man that we started to seek. And by the excellence of man I mean excellence not of body, but of soul; for happiness we take to be an activity of the soul.

If this be so, then it is evident that the statesman must have some knowledge of the soul, just as the man who is to heal the eye or the whole body must have some knowledge of them, and that the more in proportion as the science of the state is higher and better than medicine. But all educated physicians take much pains to know about the body.

As statesmen [or students of Politics], then, we must inquire into the nature of the soul, but in so doing we must keep our special purpose in view and go only so far as that requires; for to go into minuter detail would be too laborious for the present undertaking.

Now, there are certain doctrines about the soul which are stated elsewhere with sufficient precision, and these we will adopt.

Two parts of the soul are distinguished, an irrational and a rational part.

Whether these are separated as are the parts of the body or any divisible thing, or whether they are only distinguishable in thought but in fact inseparable, like concave and convex in the circumference of a circle, makes no difference for our present purpose.

Of the irrational part, again, one division seems to be common to all things that live, and to be possessed by plants—I mean that which causes nutrition and growth; for we must assume that all things that take nourishment have a faculty of this kind, even

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when they are embryos, and have the same faculty when they are full grown; at least, this is more reasonable than to suppose that they then have a different one.

The excellence of this faculty, then, is plainly one that man shares with other beings, and not specifically human.

And this is confirmed by the fact that in sleep this part of the soul, or this faculty, is thought to be most active, while the good and the bad man are undistinguishable when they are asleep (whence the saying that for half their lives there is no difference between the happy and the miserable; which indeed is what we should expect; for sleep is the cessation of the soul from those functions in respect of which it is called good or bad), except that they are to some slight extent roused by what goes on in their bodies, with the result that the dreams of the good man are better than those of ordinary people.

However, we need not pursue this further, and may dismiss the nutritive principle, since it has no place in the excellence of man.

But there seems to be another vital principle that is irrational, and yet in some way partakes of reason. In the case of the continent and of the incontinent man alike we praise the reason or the rational part, for it exhorts them rightly and urges them to do what is best; but there is plainly present in them another principle besides the rational one, which fights and struggles against the reason. For just as a paralyzed limb, when you will to move it to the right, moves on the contrary to the left, so is it with the soul; the incontinent man’s impulses run counter to his reason. Only whereas we see the refractory member in the case of the body, we do not see it in the case of the soul. But we must nevertheless, I think, hold that in the soul too there is something beside the reason, which opposes and runs counter to it (though in what sense it is distinct from the reason does not matter here).

It seems, however, to partake of reason also, as we said: at least, in the continent man it submits to the reason; while in the temperate and courageous man we may say it is still more obedient; for in him it is altogether in harmony with the reason.

The irrational part, then, it appears, is twofold. There is the vegetative faculty, which has no share of reason; and the faculty of appetite or of desire in general, which in a manner partakes of reason or is rational as listening to reason and submitting to its sway,—rational in the sense in which we speak of rational obedience to father or friends, not in the sense in which we speak of rational apprehension of mathematical truths. But all advice and all rebuke and exhortation testify that the irrational part is in some way amenable to reason.

If then we like to say that this part, too, has a share of reason, the rational part also will have two divisions: one rational in the strict sense as possessing reason in itself, the other rational as listening to reason as a man listens to his father.

Now, on this division of the faculties is based the division of excellence; for we speak of intellectual excellences and of moral excellences; wisdom and understanding and

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prudence we call intellectual, liberality and temperance we call moral virtues or excellences. When we are speaking of a man’s moral character we do not say that he is wise or intelligent, but that he is gentle or temperate. But we praise the wise man, too, for his habit of mind or trained faculty; and a habit or trained faculty that is praiseworthy is what we call an excellence or virtue.

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BOOK II.

MORAL VIRTUE.

1.

Moral Virtue Is Acquired By The Repetition Of The Corresponding Acts.

Excellence, then, being of these two kinds, intellectual and moral intellectual excellence owes its birth and growth mainly to instruction, and so requires time and experience, while moral excellence is the result of habit or custom (?θος), and has accordingly in our language received a name formed by a slight change from ?θος.*

From this it is plain that none of the moral excellences or virtues is implanted in us by nature; for that which is by nature cannot be altered by training. For instance, a stone naturally tends to fall downwards, and you could not train it to rise upwards, though you tried to do so by throwing it up ten thousand times, nor could you train fire to move downwards, nor accustom anything which naturally behaves in one way to behave in any other way.

The virtues,† then, come neither by nature nor against nature, but nature gives the capacity for acquiring them, and this is developed by training.

Again, where we do things by nature we get the power first, and put this power forth in act afterwards: as we plainly see in the case of the senses; for it is not by constantly seeing and hearing that we acquire those faculties, but, on the contrary, we had the power first and then used it, instead of acquiring the power by the use. But the virtues we acquire by doing the acts, as is the case with the arts too. We learn an art by doing that which we wish to do when we have learned it; we become builders by building, and harpers by harping. And so by doing just acts we become just, and by doing acts of temperance and courage we become temperate and courageous.

This is attested, too, by what occurs in states; for the legislators make their citizens good by training; i.e. this is the wish of all legislators, and those who do not succeed in this miss their aim, and it is this that distinguishes a good from a bad constitution.

Again, both the moral virtues and the corresponding vices result from and are formed by the same acts; and this is the case with the arts also. It is by harping that good harpers and bad harpers alike are produced: and so with builders and the rest; by building well they will become good builders, and bad builders by building badly. Indeed, if it were not so, they would not want anybody to teach them, but would all be born either good or bad at their trades. And it is just the same with the virtues also. It is by our conduct in our intercourse with other men that we become just or unjust, and

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by acting in circumstances of danger, and training ourselves to feel fear or confidence, that we become courageous or cowardly. So, too, with our animal appetites and the passion of anger; for by behaving in this way or in that on the occasions with which these passions are concerned, some become temperate and gentle, and others profligate and ill-tempered. In a word, acts of any kind produce habits or characters of the same kind.

Hence we ought to make sure that our acts be of a certain kind; for the resulting character varies as they vary. It makes no small difference, therefore, whether a man be trained from his youth up in this way or in that, but a great difference, or rather all the difference.

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2.

These Acts Must Be Such As Reason Prescribes; They Can’T Be Defined Exactly, But Must Be Neither Too Much Nor Too Little.

But our present inquiry has not, like the rest, a merely speculative aim; we are not inquiring merely in order to know what excellence or virtue is, but in order to become good; for otherwise it would profit us nothing. We must ask therefore about these acts, and see of what kind they are to be; for, as we said, it is they that determine our habits or character.

First of all, then, that they must be in accordance with right reason is a common characteristic of them, which we shall here take for granted, reserving for future discussion* the question what this right reason is, and how it is related to the other excellences.

But let it be understood, before we go on, that all reasoning on matters of practice must be in outline merely, and not scientifically exact: for, as we said at starting, the kind of reasoning to be demanded varies with the subject in hand; and in practical matters and questions of expediency there are no invariable laws, any more than in questions of health.

And if our general conclusions are thus inexact, still more inexact is all reasoning about particular cases; for these fall under no system of scientifically established rules or traditional maxims, but the agent must always consider for himself what the special occasion requires, just as in medicine or navigation.

But though this is the case we must try to render what help we can.

First of all, then, we must observe that, in matters of this sort, to fall short and to exceed are alike fatal. This is plain (to illustrate what we cannot see by what we can see) in the case of strength and health. Too much and too little exercise alike destroy strength, and to take too much meat and drink, or to take too little, is equally ruinous to health, but the fitting amount produces and increases and preserves them. Just so, then, is it with temperance also, and courage, and the other virtues. The man who shuns and fears everything and never makes a stand, becomes a coward; while the man who fears nothing at all, but will face anything, becomes foolhardy. So, too, the man who takes his fill of any kind of pleasure, and abstains from none, is a profligate, but the man who shuns all (like him whom we call a “boor”) is devoid of sensibility.* Thus temperance and courage are destroyed both by excess and defect, but preserved by moderation.

But habits or types of character are not only produced and preserved and destroyed by the same occasions and the same means, but they will also manifest themselves in the

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same circumstances. This is the case with palpable things like strength. Strength is produced by taking plenty of nourishment and doing plenty of hard work, and the strong man, in turn, has the greatest capacity for these. And the case is the same with the virtues: by abstaining from pleasure we become temperate, and when we have become temperate we are best able to abstain. And so with courage: by habituating ourselves to despise danger, and to face it, we become courageous; and when we have become courageous, we are best able to face danger.

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3.

Virtue Is In Various Ways Concerned With Pleasure And Pain.

The pleasure or pain that accompanies the acts must be taken as a test of the formed habit or character.

He who abstains from the pleasures of the body and rejoices in the abstinence is temperate, while he who is vexed at having to abstain is profligate; and again, he who faces danger with pleasure, or, at any rate, without pain, is courageous, but he to whom this is painful is a coward.

For moral virtue or excellence is closely concerned with pleasure and pain. It is pleasure that moves us to do what is base, and pain that moves us to refrain from what is noble. And therefore, as Plato says, man needs to be so trained from his youth up as to find pleasure and pain in the right objects. This is what sound education means.

Another reason why virtue has to do with pleasure and pain, is that it has to do with actions and passions or affections; but every affection and every act is accompanied by pleasure or pain.

The fact is further attested by the employment of pleasure and pain in correction; they have a kind of curative property, and a cure is effected by administering the opposite of the disease.

Again, as we said before, every type of character [or habit or formed faculty] is essentially relative to, and concerned with, those things that form it for good or for ill; but it is through pleasure and pain that bad characters are formed—that is to say, through pursuing and avoiding the wrong pleasures and pains, or pursuing and avoiding them at the wrong time, or in the wrong manner, or in any other of the various ways of going wrong that may be distinguished.

And hence some people go so far as to define the virtues as a kind of impassive or neutral state of mind. But they err in stating this absolutely, instead of qualifying it by the addition of the right and wrong manner, time, etc.

We may lay down, therefore, that this kind of excellence [i.e. moral excellence] makes us do what is best in matters of pleasure and pain, while vice or badness has the contrary effect. But the following considerations will throw additional light on the point.*

There are three kinds of things that move us to choose, and three that move us to avoid them: on the one hand, the beautiful or noble, the advantageous, the pleasant; on the other hand, the ugly or base, the hurtful, the painful. Now, the good man is apt to go right, and the bad man to go wrong, about them all, but especially about

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pleasure: for pleasure is not only common to man with animals, but also accompanies all pursuit or choice; since the noble, and the advantageous also, are pleasant in idea.

Again, the feeling of pleasure has been fostered in us all from our infancy by our training, and has thus become so engrained in our life that it can scarce be washed out.* And, indeed, we all more or less make pleasure our test in judging of actions. For this reason too, then, our whole inquiry must be concerned with these matters; since to be pleased and pained in the right or the wrong way has great influence on our actions.

Again, to fight with pleasure is harder than to fight with wrath (which Heraclitus says is hard), and virtue, like art, is always more concerned with what is harder; for the harder the task the better is success. For this reason also, then, both [moral] virtue or excellence and the science of the state must always be concerned with pleasures and pains; for he that behaves rightly with regard to them will be good, and he that behaves badly will be bad.

We will take it as established, then, that [moral] excellence or virtue has to do with pleasures and pains; and that the acts which produce it develop it, and also, when differently done, destroy it; and that it manifests itself in the same acts which produced it.

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4.

The Conditions Of Virtuous Action As Distinct From Artistic Production.

But here we may be asked what we mean by saying that men can become just and temperate only by doing what is just and temperate: surely, it may be said, if their acts are just and temperate, they themselves are already just and temperate, as they are grammarians and musicians if they do what is grammatical and musical.

We may answer, I think, firstly, that this is not quite the case even with the arts. A man may do something grammatical [or write something correctly] by chance, or at the prompting of another person: he will not be grammatical till he not only does something grammatical, but also does it grammatically [or like a grammatical person], i.e. in virtue of his own knowledge of grammar.

But, secondly, the virtues are not in this point analogous to the arts. The products of art have their excellence in themselves, and so it is enough if when produced they are of a certain quality; but in the case of the virtues, a man is not said to act justly or temperately [or like a just or temperate man] if what he does merely be of a certain sort—he must also be in a certain state of mind when he does it; i.e., first of all, he must know what he is doing; secondly, he must choose it, and choose it for itself; and, thirdly, his act must be the expression of a formed and stable character. Now, of these conditions, only one, the knowledge, is necessary for the possession of any art; but for the possession of the virtues knowledge is of little or no avail, while the other conditions that result from repeatedly doing what is just and temperate are not a little important, but all-important.

The thing that is done, therefore, is called just or temperate when it is such as the just or temperate man would do; but the man who does it is not just or temperate, unless he also does it in the spirit of the just or the temperate man.

It is right, then, to say that by doing what is just a man becomes just, and temperate by doing what is temperate, while without doing thus he has no chance of ever becoming good.

But most men, instead of doing thus, fly to theories, and fancy that they are philosophizing and that this will make them good, like a sick man who listens attentively to what the doctor says and then disobeys all his orders. This sort of philosophizing will no more produce a healthy habit of mind than this sort of treatment will produce a healthy habit of body.

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5.

Virtue Not An Emotion, Nor A Faculty, But A Trained Faculty Or Habit.

We have next to inquire what excellence or virtue is.

A quality of the soul is either (1) a passion or emotion, or (2) a power or faculty, or (3) a habit or trained faculty; and so virtue must be one of these three. By (1) a passion or emotion we mean appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, love, hate, longing, emulation, pity, or generally that which is accompanied by pleasure or pain; (2) a power or faculty is that in respect of which we are said to be capable of being affected in any of these ways, as, for instance, that in respect of which we are able to be angered or pained or to pity; and (3) a habit or trained faculty is that in respect of which we are well or ill regulated or disposed in the matter of our affections; as, for instance, in the matter of being angered, we are ill regulated if we are too violent or too slack, but if we are moderate in our anger we are well regulated. And so with the rest.

Now, the virtues are not emotions, nor are the vices—(1) because we are not called good or bad in respect of our emotions, but are called so in respect of our virtues or vices; (2) because we are neither praised nor blamed in respect of our emotions (a man is not praised for being afraid or angry, nor blamed for being angry simply, but for being angry in a particular way), but we are praised or blamed in respect of our virtues or vices; (3) because we may be angered or frightened without deliberate choice, but the virtues are a kind of deliberate choice, or at least are impossible without it; and (4) because in respect of our emotions we are said to be moved, but in respect of our virtues and vices we are not said to be moved, but to be regulated or disposed in this way or in that.

For these same reasons also they are not powers or faculties; for we are not called either good or bad for being merely capable of emotion, nor are we either praised or blamed for this. And further, while nature gives us our powers or faculties, she does not make us either good or bad. (This point, however, we have already treated.)

If, then, the virtues be neither emotions nor faculties, it only remains for them to be habits or trained faculties.

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6.

Viz., The Habit Of Choosing The Mean.

We have thus found the genus to which virtue belongs; but we want to know, not only that it is a trained faculty, but also what species of trained faculty it is.

We may safely assert that the virtue or excellence of a thing causes that thing both to be itself in good condition and to perform its function well. The excellence of the eye, for instance, makes both the eye and its work good; for it is by the excellence of the eye that we see well. So the proper excellence of the horse makes a horse what he should be, and makes him good at running, and carrying his rider, and standing a charge.

If, then, this holds good in all cases, the proper excellence or virtue of man will be the habit or trained faculty that makes a man good and makes him perform his function well.

How this is to be done we have already said, but we may exhibit the same conclusion in another way, by inquiring what the nature of this virtue is.

Now, if we have any quantity, whether continuous or discrete,* it is possible to take either a larger [or too large], or a smaller [or too small], or an equal [or fair] amount, and that either absolutely or relatively to our own needs.

By an equal or fair amount I understand a mean amount, or one that lies between excess and deficiency.

By the absolute mean, or mean relatively to the thing itself, I understand that which is equidistant from both extremes, and this is one and the same for all.

By the mean relatively to us I understand that which is neither too much nor too little for us; and this is not one and the same for all.

For instance, if ten be larger [or too large] and two be smaller [or too small], if we take six we take the mean relatively to the thing itself [or the arithmetical mean]; for it exceeds one extreme by the same amount by which it is exceeded by the other extreme: and this is the mean in arithmetical proportion.

But the mean relatively to us cannot be found in this way. If ten pounds of food is too much for a given man to eat, and two pounds too little, it does not follow that the trainer will order him six pounds: for that also may perhaps be too much for the man in question, or too little; too little for Milo, too much for the beginner. The same holds true in running and wrestling.

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And so we may say generally that a master in any art avoids what is too much and what is too little, and seeks for the mean and chooses it—not the absolute but the relative mean.

If, then, every art or science perfects its work in this way, looking to the mean and bringing its work up to this standard (so that people are wont to say of a good work that nothing could be taken from it or added to it, implying that excellence is destroyed by excess or deficiency, but secured by observing the mean; and good artists, as we say, do in fact keep their eyes fixed on this in all that they do), and if virtue, like nature, is more exact and better than any art, it follows that virtue also must aim at the mean—virtue of course meaning moral virtue or excellence; for it has to do with passions and actions, and it is these that admit of excess and deficiency and the mean. For instance, it is possible to feel fear, confidence, desire, anger, pity, and generally to be affected pleasantly and painfully, either too much or too little, in either case wrongly; but to be thus affected at the right times, and on the right occasions, and towards the right persons, and with the right object, and in the right fashion, is the mean course and the best course, and these are characteristics of virtue. And in the same way our outward acts also admit of excess and deficiency, and the mean or due amount.

Virtue, then, has to deal with feelings or passions and with outward acts, in which excess is wrong and deficiency also is blamed, but the mean amount is praised and is right—both of which are characteristics of virtue.

Virtue, then, is a kind of moderation (μεσότης τις),* inasmuch as it aims at the mean or moderate amount (τ? μέσον).

Again, there are many ways of going wrong (for evil is infinite in nature, to use a Pythagorean figure, while good is finite), but only one way of going right; so that the one is easy and the other hard—easy to miss the mark and hard to hit. On this account also, then, excess and deficiency are characteristic of vice, hitting the mean is characteristic of virtue:

“Goodness is simple, ill takes any shape.”

Virtue, then, is a habit or trained faculty of choice, the characteristic of which lies in moderation or observance of the mean relatively to the persons concerned, as determined by reason, i.e. by the reason by which the prudent man would determine it. And it is a moderation, firstly, inasmuch as it comes in the middle or mean between two vices, one on the side of excess, the other on the side of defect; and, secondly, inasmuch as, while these vices fall short of or exceed the due measure in feeling and in action, it finds and chooses the mean, middling, or moderate amount.

Regarded in its essence, therefore, or according to the definition of its nature, virtue is a moderation or middle state, but viewed in its relation to what is best and right it is the extreme of perfection.

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But it is not all actions nor all passions that admit of moderation; there are some whose very names imply badness, as malevolence, shamelessness, envy, and, among acts, adultery, theft, murder. These and all other like things are blamed as being bad in themselves, and not merely in their excess or deficiency. It is impossible therefore to go right in them; they are always wrong: rightness and wrongness in such things (e.g. in adultery) does not depend upon whether it is the right person and occasion and manner, but the mere doing of any one of them is wrong.

It would be equally absurd to look for moderation or excess or deficiency in unjust cowardly or profligate conduct; for then there would be moderation in excess or deficiency, and excess in excess, and deficiency in deficiency.

The fact is that just as there can be no excess or deficiency in temperance or courage because the mean or moderate amount is, in a sense, an extreme, so in these kinds of conduct also there can be no moderation or excess or deficiency, but the acts are wrong however they be done. For, to put it generally, there cannot be moderation in excess or deficiency, nor excess or deficiency in moderation.

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7.

This Must Be Applied To The Several Virtues.

But it is not enough to make these general statements [about virtue and vice]: we must go on and apply them to particulars [i.e. to the several virtues and vices]. For in reasoning about matters of conduct general statements are too vague,* and do not convey so much truth as particular propositions. It is with particulars that conduct is concerned:† our statements, therefore, when applied to these particulars, should be found to hold good.

These particulars then [i.e. the several virtues and vices and the several acts and affections with which they deal], we will take from the following table.‡

Moderation in the feelings of fear and confidence is courage: of those that exceed, he that exceeds in fearlessness has no name (as often happens), but he that exceeds in confidence is foolhardy, while he that exceeds in fear, but is deficient in confidence, is cowardly.

Moderation in respect of certain pleasures and also (though to a less extent) certain pains is temperance, while excess is profligacy. But defectiveness in the matter of these pleasures is hardly ever found, and so this sort of people also have as yet received no name: let us put them down as “void of sensibility.”

In the matter of giving and taking money, moderation is liberality, excess and deficiency are prodigality and illiberality. But both vices exceed and fall short in giving and taking in contrary ways: the prodigal exceeds in spending, but falls short in taking; while the illiberal man exceeds in taking, but falls short in spending. (For the present we are but giving an outline or summary, and aim at nothing more; we shall afterwards treat these points in greater detail.)

But, besides these, there are other dispositions in the matter of money: there is a moderation which is called magnificence (for the magnificent is not the same as the liberal man: the former deals with large sums, the latter with small), and an excess which is called bad taste or vulgarity, and a deficiency which is called meanness; and these vices differ from those which are opposed to liberality: how they differ will be explained later.

With respect to honour and disgrace, there is a moderation which is high-mindedness, an excess which may be called vanity, and a deficiency which is little-mindedness.

But just as we said that liberality is related to magnificence, differing only in that it deals with small sums, so here there is a virtue related to high-mindedness, and differing only in that it is concerned with small instead of great honours. A man may have a due desire for honour, and also more or less than a due desire: he that carries this desire to excess is called ambitious, he that has not enough of it is called

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unambitious, but he that has the due amount has no name. There are also no abstract names for the characters, except “ambition,” corresponding to ambitious. And on this account those who occupy the extremes lay claim to the middle place. And in common parlance, too, the moderate man is sometimes called ambitious and sometimes unambitious, and sometimes the ambitious man is praised and sometimes the unambitious. Why this is we will explain afterwards; for the present we will follow out our plan and enumerate the other types of character.

In the matter of anger also we find excess and deficiency and moderation. The characters themselves hardly have recognized names, but as the moderate man is here called gentle, we will call his character gentleness; of those who go into extremes, we may take the term wrathful for him who exceeds, with wrathfulness for the vice, and wrathless for him who is deficient, with wrathlessness for his character.

Besides these, there are three kinds of moderation, bearing some resemblance to one another, and yet different. They all have to do with intercourse in speech and action, but they differ in that one has to do with the truthfulness of this intercourse, while the other two have to do with its pleasantness—one of the two with pleasantness in matters of amusement, the other with pleasantness in all the relations of life. We must therefore speak of these qualities also in order that we may the more plainly see how, in all cases, moderation is praiseworthy, while the extreme courses are neither right nor praiseworthy, but blamable.

In these cases also names are for the most part wanting, but we must try, here as elsewhere, to coin names ourselves, in order to make our argument clear and easy to follow.

In the matter of truth, then, let us call him who observes the mean a true [or truthful] person, and observance of the mean truth [or truthfulness]: pretence, when it exaggerates, may be called boasting, and the person a boaster; when it understates, let the names be irony and ironical.

With regard to pleasantness in amusement, he who observes the mean may be called witty, and his character wittiness; excess may be called buffoonery, and the man a buffoon; while boorish may stand for the person who is deficient, and boorishness for his character.

With regard to pleasantness in the other affairs of life, he who makes himself properly pleasant may be called friendly, and his moderation friendliness; he that exceeds may be called obsequious if he have no ulterior motive, but a flatterer if he has an eye to his own advantage; he that is deficient in this respect, and always makes himself disagreeable, may be called a quarrelsome or peevish fellow.

Moreover, in mere emotions* and in our conduct with regard to them, there are ways of observing the mean; for instance, shame (α?δώς), is not a virtue, but yet the modest (α?δήμων) man is praised. For in these matters also we speak of this man as observing the mean, of that man as going beyond it (as the shame-faced man whom the least thing makes shy), while he who is deficient in the feeling, or lacks it altogether, is

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called shameless; but the term modest (α?δήμων) is applied to him who observes the mean.

Righteous indignation, again, hits the mean between envy and malevolence. These have to do with feelings of pleasure and pain at what happens to our neighbours. A man is called righteously indignant when he feels pain at the sight of undeserved prosperity, but your envious man goes beyond him and is pained by the sight of any one in prosperity, while the malevolent man is so far from being pained that he actually exults in the misfortunes of his neighbours.

But we shall have another opportunity of discussing these matters.

As for justice, the term is used in more senses than one; we will, therefore, after disposing of the above questions, distinguish these various senses, and show how each of these kinds of justice is a kind of moderation.

And then we will treat of the intellectual virtues in the same way.

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8.

The Two Vicious Extremes Are Opposed To One Another And To The Intermediate Virtue.

There are, as we said, three classes of disposition, viz. two kinds of vice, one marked by excess, the other by deficiency, and one kind of virtue, the observance of the mean. Now, each is in a way opposed to each, for the extreme dispositions are opposed both to the mean or moderate disposition and to one another, while the moderate disposition is opposed to both the extremes. Just as a quantity which is equal to a given quantity is also greater when compared with a less, and less when compared with a greater quantity, so the mean or moderate dispositions exceed as compared with the defective dispositions, and fall short as compared with the excessive dispositions, both in feeling and in action; e.g. the courageous man seems foolhardy as compared with the coward, and cowardly as compared with the foolhardy; and similarly the temperate man appears profligate in comparison with the insensible, and insensible in comparison with the profligate man; and the liberal man appears prodigal by the side of the illiberal man, and illiberal by the side of the prodigal man.

And so the extreme characters try to displace the mean or moderate character, and each represents him as falling into the opposite extreme, the coward calling the courageous man foolhardy, the foolhardy calling him coward, and so on in other cases.

But while the mean and the extremes are thus opposed to one another, the extremes are strictly contrary to each other rather than to the mean; for they are further removed from one another than from the mean, as that which is greater than a given magnitude is further from that which is less, and that which is less is further from that which is greater, than either the greater or the less is from that which is equal to the given magnitude.

Sometimes, again, an extreme, when compared with the mean, has a sort of resemblance to it, as foolhardiness to courage, or prodigality to liberality; but there is the greatest possible dissimilarity between the extremes.

Again, “things that are as far as possible removed from each other” is the accepted definition of contraries, so that the further things are removed from each other the more contrary they are.

In comparison with the mean, however, it is sometimes the deficiency that is the more opposed, and sometimes the excess; e.g. foolhardiness, which is excess, is not so much opposed to courage as cowardice, which is deficiency; but insensibility, which is lack of feeling, is not so much opposed to temperance as profligacy, which is excess.

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The reasons for this are two. One is the reason derived from the nature of the matter itself: since one extreme is, in fact, nearer and more similar to the mean, we naturally do not oppose it to the mean so strongly as the other; e.g. as foolhardiness seems more similar to courage and nearer to it, and cowardice more dissimilar, we speak of cowardice as the opposite rather than the other: for that which is further removed from the mean seems to be more opposed to it.

This, then, is one reason, derived from the nature of the thing itself. Another reason lies in ourselves: and it is this—those things to which we happen to be more prone by nature appear to be more opposed to the mean: e.g. our natural inclination is rather towards indulgence in pleasure, and so we more easily fall into profligate than into regular habits: those courses, then, in which we are more apt to run to great lengths are spoken of as more opposed to the mean; and thus profligacy, which is an excess, is more opposed to temperance than the deficiency is.

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9.

The Mean Hard To Hit, And Is A Matter Of Perception, Not Of Reasoning.

We have sufficiently explained, then, that moral virtue is moderation or observance of the mean, and in what sense, viz. (1) as holding a middle position between two vices, one on the side of excess, and the other on the side of deficiency, and (2) as aiming at the mean or moderate amount both in feeling and in action.

And on this account it is a hard thing to be good; for finding the middle or the mean in each case is a hard thing, just as finding the middle or centre of a circle is a thing that is not within the power of everybody, but only of him who has the requisite knowledge.

Thus any one can be angry—that is quite easy; any one can give money away or spend it: but to do these things to the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, with the right object, and in the right manner, is not what everybody can do, and is by no means easy; and that is the reason why right doing is rare and praiseworthy and noble.

He that aims at the mean, then, should first of all strive to avoid that extreme which is more opposed to it, as Calypso* bids Ulysses—

“Clear of these smoking breakers keep thy ship.”

For of the extremes one is more dangerous, the other less. Since then it is hard to hit the mean precisely, we must “row when we cannot sail,” as the proverb has it, and choose the least of two evils; and that will be best effected in the way we have described.

And secondly we must consider, each for himself, what we are most prone to—for different natures are inclined to different things—which we may learn by the pleasure or pain we feel. And then we must bend ourselves in the opposite direction; for by keeping well away from error we shall fall into the middle course, as we straighten a bent stick by bending it the other way.

But in all cases we must be especially on our guard against pleasant things, and against pleasure; for we can scarce judge her impartially. And so, in our behaviour towards her, we should imitate the behaviour of the old counsellors towards Helen,* and in all cases repeat their saying: if we dismiss her we shall be less likely to go wrong.

This then, in outline, is the course by which we shall best be able to hit the mean.

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But it is a hard task, we must admit, especially in a particular case. It is not easy to determine, for instance, how and with whom one ought to be angry, and upon what grounds, and for how long; for public opinion sometimes praises those who fall short, and calls them gentle, and sometimes applies the term manly to those who show a harsh temper.

In fact, a slight error, whether on the side of excess or deficiency, is not blamed, but only a considerable error; for then there can be no mistake. But it is hardly possible to determine by reasoning how far or to what extent a man must err in order to incur blame; and indeed matters that fall within the scope of perception never can be so determined. Such matters lie within the region of particulars, and can only be determined by perception.

So much then is plain, that the middle character is in all cases to be praised, but that we ought to incline sometimes towards excess, sometimes towards deficiency; for in this way we shall most easily hit the mean and attain to right doing.

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BOOK III.

CHAPTERS 1–5.

THE WILL.

1.

An Act Is Involuntary When Done (A) Under Compulsion, Or (B) Through Ignorance: (A) Means Not Originated By Doer, (B) Means Through Ignorance Of The Circumstances: Voluntary Then Means Originated With Knowledge Of Circumstances.

Virtue, as we have seen, has to do with feelings and actions. Now, praise* or blame is given only to what is voluntary; that which is involuntary receives pardon, and sometimes even pity.

It seems, therefore, that a clear distinction between the voluntary and the involuntary is necessary for those who are investigating the nature of virtue, and will also help legislators in assigning rewards and punishments.

That is generally held to be involuntary which is done under compulsion or through ignorance.

“Done under compulsion” means that the cause is external, the agent or patient contributing nothing towards it; as, for instance, if he were carried somewhere by a whirlwind or by men whom he could not resist.

But there is some question about acts done in order to avoid a greater evil, or to obtain some noble end; e.g. if a tyrant were to order you to do something disgraceful, having your parents or children in his power, who were to live if you did it, but to die if you did not—it is a matter of dispute whether such acts are involuntary or voluntary.

Throwing a cargo overboard in a storm is a somewhat analogous case. No one voluntarily throws away his property if nothing is to come of it,* but any sensible person would do so to save the life of himself and the crew.

Acts of this kind, then, are of a mixed nature, but they more nearly resemble voluntary acts. For they are desired or chosen at the time when they are done, and the end or motive of an act is that which is in view at the time. In applying the terms voluntary and involuntary, therefore, we must consider the state of the agent’s mind at the time. Now, he wills the act at the time; for the cause which sets the limbs going lies in the

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agent in such cases, and where the cause lies in the agent, it rests with him to do or not to do.

Such acts, then, are voluntary, though in themselves [or apart from these qualifying circumstances] we may allow them to be involuntary; for no one would choose anything of this kind on its own account.

And, in fact, for actions of this sort men are sometimes praised,†e.g. when they endure something disgraceful or painful in order to secure some great and noble result: but in the contrary case they are blamed; for no worthy person would endure the extremity of disgrace when there was no noble result in view, or but a trifling one.

But in some cases we do not praise, but pardon, i.e. when a man is induced to do a wrong act by pressure which is too strong for human nature and which no one could bear. Though there are some cases of this kind, I think, where the plea of compulsion is inadmissible,* and where, rather than do the act, a man ought to suffer death in its most painful form; for instance, the circumstances which “compelled” Alcmæon in Euripides† to kill his mother seem absurd.

It is sometimes hard to decide whether we ought to do this deed to avoid this evil, or whether we ought to endure this evil rather than do this deed; but it is still harder to abide by our decisions: for generally the evil which we wish to avoid is something painful, the deed we are pressed to do is something disgraceful; and hence we are blamed or praised according as we do or do not suffer ourselves to be compelled.

What kinds of acts, then, are to be called compulsory?

I think our answer must be that, in the first place, when the cause lies outside and the agent has no part in it, the act is called, without qualification, “compulsory” [and therefore involuntary]; but that, in the second place, when an act that would not be voluntarily done for its own sake is chosen now in preference to this given alternative, the cause lying in the agent, such an act must be called “involuntary in itself,” or “in the abstract,” but “now, and in preference to this alternative, voluntary.” But an act of the latter kind is rather of the nature of a voluntary act: for acts fall within the sphere of particulars; and here the particular thing that is done is voluntary.

It is scarcely possible, however, to lay down rules for determining which of two alternatives is to be preferred; for there are many differences in the particular cases.

It might, perhaps, be urged that acts whose motive is something pleasant or something noble are compulsory, for here we are constrained by something outside us.

But if this were so,* all our acts would be compulsory; for these are the motives of every act of every man.†

Again, acting under compulsion and against one’s will is painful, but action whose motive is something pleasant or noble involves pleasure.‡ It is absurd, then, to blame things outside us instead of our own readiness to yield to their allurements, and, while

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we claim our noble acts as our own, to set down our disgraceful actions to “pleasant things outside us.”

Compulsory, then, it appears, is that of which the cause is external, the person compelled contributing nothing thereto.

What is done through ignorance is always “not-voluntary,” but is “involuntary”* when the agent is pained afterwards and sorry when he finds what he has done.† For when a man, who has done something through ignorance, is not vexed at what he has done, you cannot indeed say that he did it voluntarily, as he did not know what he was doing, but neither can you say that he did it involuntarily or unwillingly, since he is not sorry.

A man who has acted through ignorance, then, if he is sorry afterwards, is held to have done the deed involuntarily or unwillingly; if he is not sorry afterwards we may say (to mark the distinction) he did the deed “not-voluntarily;” for, as the case is different, it is better to have a distinct name.

Acting through ignorance, however, seems to be different from acting in ignorance. For instance, when a man is drunk or in a rage he is not thought to act through ignorance, but through intoxication or rage, and yet not knowingly, but in ignorance.

Every vicious man, indeed, is ignorant of* what ought to be done and what ought not to be done, and it is this kind of error that makes men unjust and bad generally. But the term “involuntary” is not properly applied to cases in which a man is ignorant of what is fitting.† The ignorance that makes an act involuntary is not this ignorance of the principles which should determine preference (this constitutes vice),—not, I say, this ignorance of the universal (for we blame a man for this), but ignorance of the particulars, of the persons and things affected by the act. These are the grounds of pity and pardon; for he who is ignorant of any of these particulars acts involuntarily.

It may be as well, then, to specify what these particulars are, and how many. They are—first, the doer; secondly, the deed; and, thirdly, the object or person affected by it; sometimes also that wherewith (e.g. the instrument with which) it is done, and that for the sake of which it is done (e.g. for protection), and the way in which it is done (e.g. gently or violently.)

Now, a man cannot (unless he be mad) be ignorant of all these particulars; for instance, he evidently cannot be ignorant of the doer: for how can he not know himself?

But a man may be ignorant of what he is doing; e.g. a man who has said something will sometimes plead that the words escaped him unawares, or that he did not know that the subject was forbidden (as Æschylus pleaded in the case of the Mysteries); or a man might plead that when he discharged the weapon he only intended to show the working of it, as the prisoner did in the catapult case. Again, a man might mistake his son for an enemy, as Merope does,* or a sharp spear for one with a button, or a heavy stone for a pumice-stone. Again, one might kill a man with a drug intended to save

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him, or hit him hard when one wished merely to touch him (as boxers do when they spar with open hands).

Ignorance, then, being possible with regard to all these circumstances, he who is ignorant of any of them is held to have acted involuntarily, and especially when he is ignorant of the most important particulars; and the most important seem to be the persons affected and the result.†

Besides this, however, the agent must be grieved and sorry for what he has done, if the act thus ignorantly committed is to be called involuntary [not merely not- voluntary].

But now, having found that an act is involuntary when done under compulsion or through ignorance, we may conclude that a voluntary act is one which is originated by the doer with knowledge of the particular circumstances of the act.

For I venture to think that it is incorrect to say that acts done through anger or desire are involuntary.

In the first place, if this be so we can no longer allow that any of the other animals act voluntarily, nor even children.

Again, does the saying mean that none of the acts which we do through desire or anger are voluntary, or that the noble ones are voluntary and the disgraceful ones involuntary? Interpreted in the latter sense, it is surely ridiculous, as the cause of both is the same. If we take the former interpretation, it is absurd, I think, to say that we ought to desire a thing, and also to say that its pursuit is involuntary; but, in fact, there are things at which we ought to be angry, and things which we ought to desire, e.g. health and learning.

Again, it seems that what is done unwillingly is painful, while what is done through desire is pleasant.

Again, what difference is there, in respect of involuntariness, between wrong deeds done upon calculation and wrong deeds done in anger? Both alike are to be avoided, but the unreasoning passions or feelings seem to belong to the man just as much as does the reason, so that the acts that are done under the impulse of anger or desire are also the man’s acts.* To make such actions involuntary, therefore, would be too absurd.

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2.

Purpose, A Mode Of Will, Means Choice After Deliberation.

Now that we have distinguished voluntary from involuntary acts, our next task is to discuss choice or purpose. For it seems to be most intimately connected with virtue, and to be a surer test of character than action itself.

It seems that choosing is willing, but that the two terms are not identical, willing being the wider. For children and other animals have will, but not choice or purpose; and acts done upon the spur of the moment are said to be voluntary, but not to be done with deliberate purpose.

Those who say that choice is appetite, or anger, or wish, or an opinion of some sort, do not seem to give a correct account of it.

In the first place, choice is not shared by irrational creatures, but appetite and anger are.

Again, the incontinent man acts from appetite and not from choice or purpose, the continent man from purpose and not from appetite.

Again, appetite may be contrary to purpose, but one appetite can not be contrary to another appetite.*

Again, the object of appetite [or aversion] is the pleasant or the painful, but the object of purpose [as such] is neither painful nor pleasant.

Still less can purpose be anger (θυμός); for acts done in anger seem to be least of all done of purpose or deliberate choice.

Nor yet is it wish, though it seem very like; for we cannot purpose or deliberately choose the impossible, and a man who should say that he did would be thought a fool; but we may wish for the impossible, e.g. to escape death.

Again, while we may wish what never could be effected by our own agency (e.g. the success of a particular actor or athlete), we never purpose or deliberately choose such things, but only those that we think may be effected by our own agency.

Again, we are more properly said to wish the end, to choose the means; e.g. we wish to be healthy, but we choose what will make us healthy: we wish to be happy, and confess the wish, but it would not be correct to say we purpose or deliberately choose to be happy; for we may say roundly that purpose or choice deals with what is in our power.

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Nor can it be opinion; for, in the first place, anything may be matter of opinion—what is unalterable and impossible no less than what is in our power; and, in the second place, we distinguish opinion according as it is true or false, not according as it is good or bad, as we do with purpose or choice.

We may say, then, that purpose is not the same as opinion in general; nor, indeed, does any one maintain this.

But, further, it is not identical with a particular kind of opinion. For our choice of good or evil makes us morally good or bad, holding certain opinions does not.

Again, we choose to take or to avoid a good or evil thing; we opine what its nature is, or what it is good for, or in what way; but we cannot opine to take or to avoid.

Again, we commend a purpose for its rightness or correctness, an opinion for its truth.

Again, we choose a thing when we know well that it is good; we may have an opinion about a thing of which we know nothing.

Again, it seems that those who are best at choosing are not always the best at forming opinions, but that some who have an excellent judgment fail, through depravity, to choose what they ought.

It may be said that choice or purpose must be preceded or accompanied by an opinion or judgment; but this makes no difference: our question is not that, but whether they are identical.

What, then, is choice or purpose, since it is none of these?

It seems, as we said, that what is chosen or purposed is willed, but that what is willed is not always chosen or purposed.

The required differentia, I think, is “after previous deliberation.” For choice or purpose implies calculation and reasoning. The name itself, too, seems to indicate this, implying that something is chosen before or in preference to other things.*

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3.

We Deliberate On What We Can Do—Not On Ends, But Means.

Now, as to deliberation, do we deliberate about everything, and may anything whatever be matter for deliberation, or are there some things about which deliberation is impossible?

By “matter for deliberation” we should understand, I think, not what a fool or a maniac, but what a rational being would deliberate about.

Now, no one deliberates about eternal or unalterable things, e.g. the system of the heavenly bodies, or the incommensurability of the side and the diagonal of a square.

Again, no one deliberates about things which change, but always change in the same way (whether the cause of change be necessity, or nature, or any other agency), e.g. the solstices and the sunrise;* nor about things that are quite irregular, like drought and wet; nor about matters of chance, like the finding of a treasure.

Again, even human affairs are not always matter of deliberation; e.g. what would be the best constitution for Scythia is a question that no Spartan would deliberate about.

The reason why we do not deliberate about these things is that none of them are things that we can ourselves effect.

But the things that we do deliberate about are matters of conduct that are within our control. And these are the only things that remain; for besides nature and necessity and chance, the only remaining cause of change is reason and human agency in general. Though we must add that men severally deliberate about what they can themselves do.

A further limitation is that where there is exact and absolute knowledge, there is no room for deliberation; e.g. writing: for there is no doubt how the letters should be formed.

We deliberate, then, about things that are brought about by our own agency, but not always in the same way; e.g. about medicine and money-making, and about navigation more than about gymnastic, inasmuch as it is not yet reduced to so perfect a system, and so on; but more about matters of art than matters of science, as there is more doubt about them.

Matters of deliberation, then, are matters in which there are rules that generally hold good, but in which the result cannot be predicted, i.e. in which there is an element of

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uncertainty. In important matters we call in advisers, distrusting our own powers of judgment.

It is not about ends, but about means that we deliberate. A physician does not deliberate whether he shall heal, nor an orator whether he shall persuade, nor a statesman whether he shall make a good system of laws, nor a man in any other profession about his end; but, having the proposed end in view, we consider how and by what means this end can be attained; and if it appear that it can be attained by various means, we further consider which is the easiest and best; but if it can only be attained by one means, we consider how it is to be attained by this means, and how this means itself is to be secured, and so on, until we come to the first link in the chain of causes, which is last in the order of discovery.

For in deliberation we seem to inquire and to analyze in the way described, just as we analyze a geometrical figure in order to learn how to construct it* (and though inquiry is not always deliberation—mathematical inquiry, for instance, is not—deliberation is always inquiry); that which is last in the analysis coming first in the order of construction.

If we come upon something impossible, we give up the plan; e.g. if it needs money, and money cannot be got: but if it appear possible, we set to work. By possible I mean something that can be done by us; and what can be done by our friends can in a manner be done by us; for it is we who set our friends to work.

Sometimes we have to find out instruments, sometimes how to use them; and so on with the rest: sometimes we have to find out what agency will produce the desired effect, sometimes how or through whom this agency is to be set at work.

It appears, then, that a man, as we have already said, originates his acts; but that he deliberates about that which he can do himself, and that what he does is done for the sake of something else.† For he cannot deliberate about the end, but about the means to the end; nor, again, can he deliberate about particular facts, e.g. whether this be a loaf, or whether it be properly backed: these are matters of immediate perception. And if he goes on deliberating for ever he will never come to a conclusion.

But the object of deliberation and the object of choice or purpose are the same, except that the latter is already fixed and determined; when we say, “this is chosen” or “purposed,” we mean that it has been selected after deliberation. For we always stop in our inquiry how to do a thing when we have traced back the chain of causes to ourselves, and to the commanding part of ourselves; for this is the part that chooses.

This may be illustrated by the ancient constitutions which Homer describes; for there the kings announce to the people what they have chosen.

Since, then, a thing is said to be chosen or purposed when, being in our power, it is desired after deliberation, choice or purpose may be defined as deliberate desire for something in our power; for we first deliberate, and then, having made our decision thereupon, we desire in accordance with deliberation.

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Let this stand, then, for an account in outline of choice or purpose, and of what it deals with, viz. means to ends.

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4.

We Wish For

Wish, we have already said, is for the end; but whereas some hold that the object of wish is the good others hold that it is what seems good.

Those who maintain that the object of wish* is the good have to admit that what those wish for who choose wrongly is not object of wish (for if so it would be good; but it may so happen that it was bad); on the other hand, those who maintain that the object of wish is what seems good have to admit that there is nothing which is naturally object of wish, but that each wishes for what seems good to him—different and even contrary things seeming good to different people.

As neither of these alternatives quite satisfies us, perhaps we had better say that the good is the real object of wish (without any qualifying epithet), but that what seems good is object of wish to each man. The good man, then, wishes for the real object of wish; but what the bad man wishes for may be anything whatever; just as, with regard to the body, those who are in good condition find those things healthy that are really healthy, while those who are diseased find other things healthy (and it is just the same with things bitter, sweet, hot, heavy, etc.): for the good or ideal man judges each case correctly, and in each case what is true seems true to him.

For, corresponding to each of our trained faculties, there is a special form of the noble and the pleasant, and perhaps there is nothing so distinctive of the good or ideal man as the power he has of discerning these special forms in each case, being himself, as it were, their standard and measure.

What misleads people seems to be in most cases pleasure; it seems to be a good thing, even when it is not. So they choose what is pleasant as good, and shun pain as evil.

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5.

Virtue And Vice Are Alike Voluntary, Our Acts Are Our Own; For We Are Punished For Them; If This Be Our Character, We Have Made It By Repeated Acts; Even Bodily Vices Are Blamable When Thus Formed. We Cannot Plead That Our Notion Of Good Depends On Our Nature; For (1) Vice Would Still Be As Voluntary As Virtue, (2) We Help To Make Ourselves What We Are.

We have seen that, while we wish for the end, we deliberate upon and choose the means thereto.

Actions that are concerned with means, then, will be guided by choice, and so will be voluntary.

But the acts in which the virtues are manifested are concerned with means.*

Therefore virtue depends upon ourselves: and vice likewise. For where it lies with us to do, it lies with us not to do. Where we can say no, we can say yes. If then the doing a deed, which is noble, lies with us, the not doing it, which is disgraceful, lies with us; and if the not doing, which is noble, lies with us, the doing, which is disgraceful, also lies with us. But if the doing and likewise the not doing of noble or base deeds lies with us, and if this is, as we found, identical with being good or bad, then it follows that it lies with us to be worthy or worthless men.

And so the saying—

“None would be wicked, none would not be blessed,”

seems partly false and partly true: no one indeed is blessed against his will; but vice is voluntary.

If we deny this, we must dispute the statements made just now, and must contend that man is not the originator and the parent of his actions, as of his children.

But if those statements commend themselves to us, and if we are unable to trace our acts to any other sources than those that depend upon ourselves, then that whose source is within us must itself depend upon us and be voluntary.

This seems to be attested, moreover, by each one of us in private life, and also by the legislators; for they correct and punish those that do evil (except when it is done under compulsion, or through ignorance for which the agent is not responsible), and honour those that do noble deeds, evidently intending to encourage the one sort and

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discourage the other. But no one encourages us to do that which does not depend on ourselves, and which is not voluntary: it would be useless to be persuaded not to feel heat or pain or hunger and so on, as we should feel them all the same.

I say “ignorance for which the agent is not responsible,” for the ignorance itself is punished by the law, if the agent appear to be responsible for his ignorance, e.g. for an offence committed in a fit of drunkenness the penalty is doubled: for the origin of the offence lies in the man himself; he might have avoided the intoxication, which was the cause of his ignorance. Again, ignorance of any of the ordinances of the law, which a man ought to know and easily can know, does not avert punishment. And so in other cases, where ignorance seems to be the result of negligence, the offender is punished, since it lay with him to remove this ignorance; for he might have taken the requisite trouble.

It may be objected that it was the man’s character not to take the trouble.

We reply that men are themselves responsible for acquiring such a character by a dissolute life, and for being unjust or profligate in consequence of repeated acts of wrong, or of spending their time in drinking and so on. For it is repeated acts of a particular kind that give a man a particular character.

This is shown by the way in which men train themselves for any kind of contest or performance: they practise continually.

Not to know, then, that repeated acts of this or that kind produce a corresponding character or habit, shows an utter want of sense.

Moreover, it is absurd to say that he who acts unjustly does not wish to be unjust, or that he who behaves profligately does not wish to be profligate.

But if a man knowingly does acts which must make him unjust, he will be voluntarily unjust; though it does not follow that, if he wishes it, he can cease to be unjust and be just, any more than he who is sick can, if he wishes it, be whole. And it may be that he is voluntarily sick, through living incontinently and disobeying the doctor. At one time, then, he had the option not to be sick, but he no longer has it now that he has thrown away his health. When you have discharged a stone it is no longer in your power to call it back; but nevertheless the throwing and casting away of that stone rests with you; for the beginning of its flight depended upon you.*

Just so the unjust or the profligate man at the beginning was free not to acquire this character, and therefore he is voluntarily unjust or profligate; but now that he has acquired it, he is no longer free to put it off.

But it is not only our mental or moral vices that are voluntary; bodily vices also are sometimes voluntary, and then are censured. We do not censure natural ugliness, but we do censure that which is due to negligence and want of exercise. And so with weakness and infirmity: we should never reproach a man who was born blind, or had lost his sight in an illness or by a blow—we should rather pity him; but we should all

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censure a man who had blinded himself by excessive drinking or any other kind of profligacy.

We see, then, that of the vices of the body it is those that depend on ourselves that are censured, while those that do not depend on ourselves are not censured. And if this be so, then in other fields also those vices that are blamed must depend upon ourselves.

Some people may perhaps object to this.

“All men,” they may say, “desire that which appears good to them, but cannot control this appearance; a man’s character, whatever it be, decides what shall appear to him to be the end.”

If, I answer, each man be in some way responsible for his habits or character, then in some way he must be responsible for this appearance also.

But if this be not the case, then a man is not responsible for, or is not the cause of, his own evil doing, but it is through ignorance of the end that he does evil, fancying that thereby he will secure the greatest good: and the striving towards the true end does not depend on our own choice, but a man must be born with a gift of sight, so to speak, if he is to discriminate rightly and to choose what is really good: and he is truly well-born who is by nature richly endowed with this gift; for, as it is the greatest and the fairest gift, which we cannot acquire or learn from another, but must keep all our lives just as nature gave it to us, to be well and nobly born in this respect is to be well- born in the truest and completest sense.

Now, granting this to be true, how will virtue be any more voluntary than vice?

For whether it be nature or anything else that determines what shall appear to be the end, it is determined in the same way for both alike, for the good man as for the bad, and both alike refer all their acts of whatever kind to it.

And so whether we hold that it is not merely nature that decides what appears to each to be the end (whatever that be), but that the man himself contributes something; or whether we hold that the end is fixed by nature, but that virtue is voluntary, inasmuch as the good man voluntarily takes the steps to that end—in either case vice will be just as voluntary as virtue; for self is active in the bad man just as much as in the good man, in choosing the particular acts at least, if not in determining the end.

If then, as is generally allowed, the virtues are voluntary (for we do, in fact, in some way help to make our character, and, by being of a certain character, give a certain complexion to our idea of the end), the vices also must be voluntary; for all this applies equally to them.

We have thus described in outline the nature of the virtues in general, and have said that they are forms of moderation or modes of observing the mean, and that they are habits or trained faculties, and that they show themselves in the performance of the same acts which produce them, and that they depend on ourselves and are voluntary, and that they follow the guidance of right reason. But our particular acts are not

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voluntary in the same sense as our habits: for we are masters of our acts from beginning to end when we know the particular circumstances; but we are masters of the beginnings only of our habits or characters, while their growth by gradual steps is imperceptible, like the growth of disease. Inasmuch, however, as it lay with us to employ or not to employ our faculties in this way, the resulting characters are on that account voluntary.

Now let us take up each of the virtues again in turn, and say what it is, and what its subject is, and how it deals with it; and in doing this, we shall at the same time see how many they are. And, first of all, let us take courage.

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CHAPTER 6.—

THE SEVERAL MORAL VIRTUES AND VICES.

6.

Of Courage And The Opposite Vices.

We have already said that courage is moderation or observance of the mean with respect to feelings of fear and confidence.

Now, fear evidently is excited by fearful things, and these are, roughly speaking, evil things; and so fear is sometimes defined as “expectation of evil.”

Fear, then, is excited by evil of any kind, e g by disgrace, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death; but it does not appear that every kind gives scope for courage. There are things which we actually ought to fear, which it is noble to fear and base not to fear, e.g. disgrace. He who fears disgrace is an honourable man, with a due sense of shame, while he who fears it not is shameless (though some people stretch the word courageous so far as to apply it to him; for he has a certain resemblance to the courageous man, courage also being a kind of fearlessness). Poverty, perhaps, we ought not to fear, nor disease, nor generally those things that are not the result of vice, and do not depend upon ourselves. But still to be fearless in regard to these things is not strictly courage; though here also the term is sometimes applied in virtue of a certain resemblance. There are people, for instance, who, though cowardly in the presence of the dangers of war, are yet liberal and bold in the spending of money.

On the other hand, a man is not to be called cowardly for fearing outrage to his children or his wife, or for dreading envy and things of that kind, nor courageous for being unmoved by the prospect of a whipping.

In what kind of terrors, then, does the courageous man display his quality? Surely in the greatest; for no one is more able to endure what is terrible. But of all things the most terrible is death; for death is our limit, and when a man is once dead it seems that there is no longer either good or evil for him.

It would seem, however, that even death does not on all occasions give scope for courage, e.g. death by water or by disease.

On what occasions then? Surely on the noblest occasions: and those are the occasions which occur in war; for they involve the greatest and the noblest danger.

This is confirmed by the honours which courage receives in free states and at the hands of princes.

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The term courageous, then, in the strict sense, will be applied to him who fearlessly faces an honourable death and all sudden emergencies which involve death; and such emergencies mostly occur in war.

Of course the courageous man is fearless in the presence of illness also, and at sea, but in a different way from the sailors; for the sailors, because of their experience, are full of hope when the landsmen are already despairing of their lives and filled with aversion at the thought of such a death.

Moreover, the circumstances which especially call out courage are those in which prowess may be displayed, or in which death is noble; but in these forms of death there is neither nobility nor room for prowess.

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7.

Fear is not excited in all men by the same things, but yet we commonly speak of fearful things that surpass man’s power to face. Such things, then, inspire fear in every rational man. But the fearful things that a man may face differ in importance and in being more or less fearful (and so with the things that inspire confidence). Now, the courageous man always keeps his presence of mind (so far as a man can). So though he will fear these fearful things, he will endure them as he ought and as reason bids him, for the sake of that which is noble;* for this is the end or aim of virtue.

But it is possible to fear these things too much or too little, and again to take as fearful what is not really so. And thus men err sometimes by fearing the wrong things, sometimes by fearing in the wrong manner or at the wrong time, and so on.

And all this applies equally to things that inspire confidence.

He, then, that endures and fears what he ought from the right motive, and in the right manner, and at the right time, and similarly feels confidence, is courageous.

For the courageous man regulates both his feeling and his action according to the merits of each case and as reason bids him.

But the end or motive of every manifestation of a habit or exercise of a trained faculty is the end or motive of the habit or trained faculty itself.

Now, to the courageous man courage is essentially a fair or noble thing.

Therefore the end or motive of his courage is also noble; for everything takes its character from its end.

It is from a noble motive, therefore, that the courageous man endures and acts courageously in each particular case.*

Of the characters that run to excess, he that exceeds in fearlessness has no name (and this is often the case, as we have said before); but a man would be either a maniac or quite insensible to pain who should fear nothing, not even earthquakes and breakers, as they say is the case with the Celts.

He that is over-confident in the presence of fearful things is called foolhardy. But the foolhardy man is generally thought to be really a braggart, and to pretend a courage which he has not: at least he wishes to seem what the courageous man really is in the presence of danger; so he imitates him where he can. And so your foolhardy man is generally a coward at bottom: he blusters so long as he can do so safely,* but turns tail when real danger comes.

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He who is over-fearful is a coward; for he fears what he ought not, and as he ought not, etc.

He is also deficient in confidence; but his character rather displays itself in excess of fear in the presence of pain.

The coward is also despondent, for he is frightened at everything. But it is the contrary with the courageous man; for confidence implies hopefulness.

Thus the coward and the foolhardy and the courageous man display their characters in the same circumstances, behaving differently under them: for while the former exceed or fall short, the latter behaves moderately and as he ought; and while the foolhardy are precipitate and eager before danger comes, but fall away in its presence, the courageous are keen in action, but quiet enough beforehand.

Courage then, as we have said, is observance of the mean with regard to things that excite confidence or fear, under the circumstances which we have specified, and chooses its course and sticks to its post because it is noble to do so, or because it is disgraceful not to do so.

But to seek death as a refuge from poverty, or love, or any painful thing, is not the act of a brave man, but of a coward. For it is effeminacy thus to fly from vexation; and in such a case death is accepted not because it is noble, but simply as an escape from evil.

8.

Of Courage Improperly So Called.

Courage proper, then, is something of this sort. But besides this there are five other kinds of courage so called.

First, “political courage,” which most resembles true courage.

Citizens seem often to face dangers because of legal pains and penalties on the one hand, and honours on the other. And on this account the people seem to be most courageous in those states where cowards are disgraced and brave men honoured.

This, too, is the kind of courage which inspires Homer’s characters, e.g. Diomede and Hector.

“Polydamas will then reproach me first,”*

says Hector; and so Diomede:

“Hector one day will speak among his folk And say, ‘The son of Tydeus at my hand—‘”†

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This courage is most like that which we described above, because its impulse is a virtuous one, viz-a sense of honour (α?δώς), and desire for a noble thing (glory), and aversion to reproach, which is disgraceful.

We might, perhaps, put in the same class men who are forced to fight by their officers; but they are inferior, inasmuch as what impels them is not a sense of honour, but fear, and what they shun is not disgrace, but pain. For those in authority compel them in Hector’s fashion—

“Whoso is seen to skulk and shirk the fight Shall nowise save his carcase from the dogs.”‡

And the same thing is done by commanders who order their men to stand, and flog them if they run, or draw them up with a ditch in their rear, and so on: all alike, I mean, employ compulsion.

But a man ought to be courageous, not under compulsion, but because it is noble to be so.

Secondly, experience in this or that matter is sometimes thought to be a sort of courage; and this indeed is the ground of the Socratic notion that courage is knowledge.

This sort of courage is exhibited by various persons in various matters, but notably by regular troops in military affairs; for it seems that in war there are many occasions of groundless alarm, and with these the regulars are better acquainted; so they appear to be courageous, simply because the other troops do not understand the real state of the case.

Again, the regular troops by reason of their experience are more efficient both in attack and defence; for they are skilled in the use of their weapons, and are also furnished with the best kind of arms for both purposes. So they fight with the advantage of armed over unarmed men, or of trained over untrained men; for in athletic contests also it is not the bravest men that can fight best, but those who are strongest and have their bodies in the best order.

But these regular troops turn cowards whenever the danger rises to a certain height and they find themselves inferior in numbers and equipment; then they are the first to fly, while the citizen-troops stand and are cut to pieces, as happened at the temple of Hermes.* For the citizens deem it base to fly, and hold death preferable to saving their lives on these terms; but the regulars originally met the danger only because they fancied they were stronger, and run away when they learn the truth, fearing death more than disgrace. But that is not what we mean by courageous.

Thirdly, people sometimes include rage within the meaning of the term courage.

Those who in sheer rage turn like wild beasts on those who have wounded them are taken for courageous, because the courageous man also is full of rage; for rage is above all things eager to rush on danger; so we find in Homer, “Put might into his

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rage,” and “roused his wrath and rage,” and “fierce wrath breathed through his nostrils,” and “his blood boiled.” For all these expressions seem to signify the awakening and the bursting out of rage.

The truly courageous man, then, is moved to act by what is noble, rage helping him: but beasts are moved by pain, i.e. by blows or by fear; for in a wood or a marsh they do not attack man. And so beasts are not courageous, since it is pain and rage that drives them to rush on danger, without foreseeing any of the terrible consequences. If this be courage, then asses must be called courageous when they are hungry; for though you beat them they will not leave off eating. Adulterers also are moved to do many bold deeds by their lust.

Being driven to face danger by pain or rage, then, is not courage proper. However, this kind of courage, whose impulse is rage, seems to be the most natural, and, when deliberate purpose and the right motive are added to it, to become real courage.

Again, anger is a painful state, the act of revenge is pleasant; but those who fight from these motives [i.e. to avoid the pain or gain the pleasure] may fight well, but are not courageous: for they do not act because it is noble to act so, or as reason bids, but are driven by their passions; though they bear some resemblance to the courageous man.

Fourthly, the sanguine man is not properly called courageous: he is confident in danger because he has often won and has defeated many adversaries. The two resemble one another, since both are confident; but whereas the courageous man is confident for the reasons specified above, the sanguine man is confident because he thinks he is superior and will win without receiving a scratch. (People behave in the same sort of way when they get drunk; for then they become sanguine.) But when he finds that this is not the case, he runs away; while it is the character of the courageous man, as we saw, to face that which is terrible to a man even when he sees the danger, because it is noble to do so and base not to do so.

And so (it is thought) it needs greater courage to be fearless and cool in sudden danger than in danger that has been foreseen; for behaviour in the former case must be more directly the outcome of formed character, since it is less dependent on preparation. When we see what is coming we may choose to meet it, as the result of calculation and reasoning, but when it comes upon us suddenly we must choose according to our character.

Fifthly, those who are unaware of their danger sometimes appear to be courageous, and in fact are not very far removed from the sanguine persons we last spoke of, only they are inferior in that they have not necessarily any opinion of themselves, which the sanguine must have. And so while the latter hold their ground for some time, the former, whose courage was due to a false belief, run away the moment they perceive or suspect that the case is different; as the Argives did when they engaged the Spartans under the idea that they were Sicyonians.*

Thus we have described the character of the courageous man, and of those who are taken for courageous.

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But there is another point to notice.

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9.

How Courage Involves Both Pain And Pleasure.

Courage is concerned, as we said, with feelings both of confidence and of fear, yet it is not equally concerned with both, but more with occasions of fear: it is the man who is cool and behaves as he ought on such occasions that is called courageous, rather than he who behaves thus on occasions that inspire confidence.

And so, as we said, men are called courageous for enduring painful things.

Courage, therefore, brings pain, and is justly praised; for it is harder to endure what is painful than to abstain from what is pleasant.

I do not, of course, mean to say that the end of courage is not pleasant, but that it seems to be hidden from view by the attendant circumstances, as is the case in gymnastic contests also. Boxers, for instance, have a pleasant end in view, that for which they strive, the crown and the honours; but the blows they receive are grievous to flesh and blood, and painful, and so are all the labours they undergo; and as the latter are many, while the end is small, the pleasantness of the end is hardly apparent.

If, then, the case of courage is analogous, death and wounds will be painful to the courageous man and against his will, but he endures them because it is noble to do so or base not to do so.

And the more he is endowed with every virtue, and the happier he is, the more grievous will death be to him; for life is more worth living to a man of his sort than to any one else, and he deprives himself knowingly of the very best things; and it is painful to do that. But he is no less courageous because he feels this pain; nay, we may say he is even more courageous, because in spite of it he chooses noble conduct in battle in preference to those good things.

Thus we see that the rule that the exercise of a virtue is pleasant* does not apply to all the virtues, except in so far as the end is attained.

Still there is, perhaps, no reason why men of this character should not be less efficient as soldiers than those who are not so courageous, but have nothing good to lose; for such men are reckless of risk, and will sell their lives for a small price.

Here let us close our account of courage; it will not be hard to gather an outline of its nature from what we have said.

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10.

Of Temperance.

After courage, let us speak of temperance, for these two seem to be the virtues of the irrational parts of our nature.

We have already said that temperance is moderation or observance of the mean with regard to pleasures (for it is not concerned with pains so much, nor in the same manner); profligacy also manifests itself in the same field.

Let us now determine what kind of pleasures these are.

First, let us accept as established the distinction between the pleasures of the body and the pleasures of the soul, such as the pleasures of gratified ambition or love of learning.

When he who loves honour or learning is delighted by that which he loves, it is not his body that is affected, but his mind. But men are not called either temperate or profligate for their behaviour with regard to these pleasures; nor for their behaviour with regard to any other pleasures that are not of the body. For instance, those who are fond of gossip and of telling stories, and spend their days in trifles, are called babblers, but not profligate; nor do we apply this term to those who are pained beyond measure at the loss of money or friends.

Temperance, then, will be concerned with the pleasures of the body, but not with all of these even: for those who delight in the use of their eyesight, in colours and forms and painting, are not called either temperate or profligate; and yet it would seem that it is possible to take delight in these things too as one ought, and also more or less than one ought.

And so with the sense of hearing: a man is never called profligate for taking an excessive delight in music or in acting, nor temperate for taking a proper delight in them.

Nor are these terms applied to those who delight (unless it be accidentally) in smells. We do not say that those who delight in the smell of fruit or roses or incense are profligate, but rather those who delight in the smell of unguents and savoury dishes; for the profligate delights in these smells because they remind him of the things that he lusts after.

You may, indeed, see other people taking delight in the smell of food when they are hungry; but only a profligate takes delight in such smells [constantly], as he alone is [constantly] lusting after such things.

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The lower animals, moreover, do not get pleasure through these senses, except accidentally. It is not the scent of a hare that delights a dog, but the eating of it; only the announcement comes through his sense of smell. The lion rejoices not in the lowing of the ox, but in the devouring of him; but as the lowing announces that the ox is near, the lion appears to delight in the sound itself. So also, it is not seeing a stag or a wild goat that pleases him, but the anticipation of a meal.

Temperance and profligacy, then, have to do with those kinds of pleasure which are common to the lower animals, for which reason they seem to be slavish and brutal; I mean the pleasures of touch and taste.

Taste, however, seems to play but a small part here, or perhaps no part at all. For it is the function of taste to distinguish flavours, as is done by winetasters and by those who season dishes; but it is by no means this discrimination of objects that gives delight (to profligates, at any rate), but the actual enjoyment of them, the medium of which is always the sense of touch, alike in the pleasures of eating, of drinking, and of sexual intercourse.

And hence a certain gourmand wished that his throat were longer than a crane’s, thereby implying that his pleasure was derived from the sense of touch.

That sense, then, with which profligacy is concerned is of all senses the commonest or most widespread; and so profligacy would seem to be deservedly of all vices the most censured, inasmuch as it attaches not to our human, but to our animal nature.

To set one’s delight in things of this kind, then, and to love them more than all things, is brutish.

And further, the more manly sort even of the pleasures of touch are excluded from the sphere of profligacy, such as the pleasures which the gymnast finds in rubbing and the warm bath; for the profligate does not cultivate the sense of touch over his whole body, but in certain parts only.

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11.

Now, of our desires or appetites some appear to be common to the race, others to be individual and acquired.

Thus the desire of food is natural [or common to the race]; every man when he is in want desires meat or drink, or sometimes both, and sexual intercourse, as Homer says, when he is young and vigorous.

But not all men desire to satisfy their wants in this or that particular way, nor do all desire the same things; and therefore such desire appears to be peculiar to ourselves, or individual.

Of course it is also partly natural: different people are pleased by different things, and yet there are some things which all men like better than others.

Firstly, then, in the matter of our natural or common desires but few err, and that only on one side, viz. on the side of excess; e.g. to eat or drink of whatever is set before you till you can hold no more is to exceed what is natural in point of quantity, for natural desire or appetite is for the filling of our want simply. And so such people are called “belly-mad,” implying that they fill their bellies too full.

It is only utterly slavish natures that acquire this vice.

Secondly, with regard to those pleasures that are individual [i.e. which attend the gratification of our individual desires] many people err in various ways.

Whereas people are called fond of this or that because they delight either in wrong things, or to an unusual degree, or in a wrong fashion, profligates exceed in all these ways. For they delight in some things in which they ought not to delight (since they are hateful things), and if it be right to delight in any of these things they delight in them more than is right and more than is usual.

It is plain, then, that excess in these pleasures is profligacy, and is a thing to be blamed.

But in respect of the corresponding pains the case is not the same here as it was with regard to courage: a man is not called temperate for bearing them, and profligate for not bearing them; but the profligate man is called profligate for being more pained than he ought at not getting certain pleasant things (his pain being caused by his pleasure* ), and the temperate man is called temperate because the absence of these pleasant things or the abstinence from them is not painful to him.

The profligate, then, desires all pleasant things or those that are most intensely pleasant, and is led by his desire so as to choose these in preference to all other things. And so he is constantly pained by failing to get them and by lusting after them: for all

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appetite involves pain; but it seems a strange thing to be pained for the sake of pleasure.

People who fall short in the matter of pleasure, and take less delight than they ought in these things, are hardly found at all; for this sort of insensibility is scarcely in human nature. And indeed even the lower animals discriminate kinds of food, and delight in some and not in others; and a being to whom nothing was pleasant, and who found no difference between one thing and another, would be very far removed from being a man. We have no name for such a being, because he does not exist.

But the temperate man observes the mean in these things. He takes no pleasure in those things that the profligate most delights in (but rather disdains them), nor generally in the wrong things, nor very much in any of these things,* and when they are absent he is not pained, nor does he desire them, or desires them but moderately, not more than he ought, nor at the wrong time, etc.; but those things which, being pleasant, at the same time conduce to health and good condition, he will desire moderately and in the right manner, and other pleasant things also, provided they are not injurious, or incompatible with what is noble, or beyond his means; for he who cares for them then, cares for them more than is fitting, and the temperate man is not apt to do that, but rather to be guided by right reason.

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12.

How Profligacy Is More Voluntary Than Cowardice.

Profligacy seems to be more voluntary than cowardice.

For a man is impelled to the former by pleasure, to the latter by pain; but pleasure is a thing we choose, while pain is a thing we avoid. Pain puts us beside ourselves and upsets the nature of the sufferer, while pleasure has no such effect. Profligacy, therefore, is more voluntary.

Profligacy is for these reasons more to be blamed than cowardice, and for another reason too, viz. that it is easier to train one’s self to behave rightly on these occasions [i.e. those in which profligacy is displayed]; for such occasions are constantly occurring in our lives, and the training involves no risk; but with occasions of fear the contrary is the case.

Again, it would seem that the habit of mind or character called cowardice is more voluntary than the particular acts in which it is exhibited. It is not painful to be a coward, but the occasions which exhibit cowardice put men beside themselves through fear of pain, so that they throw away their arms and altogether disgrace themselves; and hence these particular acts are even thought to be compulsory.

In the case of the profligate, on the contrary, the particular acts are voluntary (for they are done with appetite and desire), but the character itself less so; for no one desires to be a profligate.

The term “profligacy” we apply also to childish faults,* for they have some sort of resemblance. It makes no difference for our present purpose which of the two is named after the other, but it is plain that the later is named after the earlier.

And the metaphor, I think, is not a bad one: what needs “chastening” or “correction”† is that which inclines to base things and which has great powers of expansion. Now, these characteristics are nowhere so strongly marked as in appetite and in childhood; children too [as well as the profligate] live according to their appetites, and the desire for pleasant things is most pronounced in them. If then this element be not submissive and obedient to the governing principle, it will make great head: for in an irrational being the desire for pleasant things is insatiable and ready to gratify itself in any way, and the gratification of the appetite increases the natural tendency, and if the gratifications are great and intense they even thrust out reason altogether. The gratifications of appetite, therefore, should be moderate and few, and appetite should be in no respect opposed to reason (this is what we mean by submissive and “chastened”), but subject to reason as a child should be subject to his tutor.

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And so the appetites of the temperate man should be in harmony with his reason; for the aim of both is that which is noble: the temperate man desires what he ought, and as he ought, and when he ought; and this again is what reason prescribes.

This, then, may be taken as an account of temperance.

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