The Nature of Goodness | Page 3

that frequently the

authors of these treatises themselves do not, and that a hazy condition
of mind on this central subject is the cause of much loose talk
afterwards. At any rate, I feel sure that nothing can more justly be
demanded of a writer on ethics at the beginning of his undertaking than
that he should attempt to unravel the subtleties of this all-important
conception. Having already in a previous volume marked out the Field
of Ethics, I believe I cannot wisely go on discussing the science that I
love, until I have made clear what meaning I everywhere attach to the
obscure and familiar word good. This word being the ethical writer's
chief tool, both he and his readers must learn its construction before
they proceed to use it. To the study of that curious nature I dedicate this
volume.

II
To those who join in the investigation I cannot promise hours of ease.
The task is an arduous one, calling for critical discernment and a kind
of disinterested delight in studying the high intricacies of our personal
structure. My readers must follow me with care, and indeed do much of
the work themselves, I being but a guide. For my purpose is not so
much to impart as to reveal. Wishing merely to make people aware of
what has always been in their minds, I think at the end of my book I
shall be able to say, "These readers of mine know now no more than
they did at, the beginning." Yet if I say that, I hope to be able to add,
"but they see vastly more significance in it than they once did, and
henceforth will find the world interesting in a degree they never knew
before." In attaining this new interest they will have experienced too
that highest of human pleasures,--the joy of clear, continuous, and
energetic thinking. Few human beings are so inert that they are not
ready to look into the dark places of their minds if, by doing so, they
can throw light on obscurities there.
I ought, however, to say that I cannot promise one gain which some of
my readers may be seeking. In no large degree can I induce in them that
goodness of which we talk. Some may come to me in conscious
weakness, desiring to be made better. But this I do not undertake. My
aim is a scientific one. I am an ethical teacher. I want to lead men to
understand what goodness is, and I must leave the more important work
of attracting them to pursue it to preacher and moralist. Still, indirectly

there is moral gain to be had here. One cannot contemplate long such
exalted themes without receiving an impulse, and being lifted into a
region where doing wrong becomes a little strange. When, too, we
reflect how many human ills spring from misunderstanding and
intellectual obscurity, we see that whatever tends to illuminate mental
problems is of large consequence in the practical issues of life.
In considering what we mean by goodness, we are apt to imagine that
the term applies especially, possibly entirely, to persons. It seems as if
persons alone are entitled to be called good. But a little reflection
shows that this is by no means the case. There are about as many good
things in the world as good persons, and we are obliged to speak of
them about as often. The goodness which we see in things is, however,
far simpler and more easily analyzed than that which appears in persons.
It may accordingly be well in these first two chapters to say nothing
whatever about such goodness as is peculiar to persons, but to confine
our attention to those phases of it which are shared alike by persons and
things.

III
How then do we employ the word "good"? I do not ask how we ought
to employ it, but how we do. For the present we shall be engaged in a
psychological inquiry, not an ethical one. We need to get at the plain
facts of usage. I will therefore ask each reader to look into his own
mind, see on what occasions he uses the word, and decide what
meaning he attaches to it. Taking up a few of the simplest possible
examples, we will through them inquire when and why we call things
good.
Here is a knife. When is it a good knife? Why, a knife is made for
something, for cutting. Whenever the knife slides evenly through a
piece of wood, unimpeded by anything in its own structure, and with a
minimum of effort on the part of him who steers it, when there is no
disposition of its edge to bend or break, but only to do its