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Today’s Moral Issues, Seventh Edition, combines theoretical and practical Seventh Seventh Edition
readings on four general themes: first principles, liberty, rights and responsibilities, Edition
and justice and equality. The theoretical readings from classical philosophy, which
appear at the beginning of each of the four parts of the book, are closely related
to the contemporary readings that follow, which cover “hot button” issues of

Classic & Contemporary Perspectives

interest to today’s students.

TODAy’S
New in the Seventh Edition:
• A new section on gay marriage, one of the most contentious issues of
current politics, has been added.
• The Questions for Reflection that follow each reading have been expanded
and reworked.
• New selections are included from R. G. Frey, the World Commission on

Moral Issues
Environment and Development, Thomas Nagel, Francis Beckwith, Rosalind
Hursthouse, Stanley Kurtz, Andrew Koppelman, Maggie Gallagher, Toon
Quaghebeur, Bernadette Dierckx de Casterlé, Chris Gastmans, Carol Steiker,
Amartya Sen, Elizabeth Anderson, Robert Rector, Rachel Sheffield, and
Michael Huemer. T ODAy’S
What Instructors are Saying about Today’s Moral Issues:
“Overall, I think that the Bonevac text is an excellent choice for my course. . . .
Moral Issues

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The book strikes a good balance between the theory and the applied issues.”
—Tracie Mahaffey, Florida State University

“ I would say that you really can’t go wrong with this text. It’s an extremely
Classic & Contemporary Perspectives
versatile text for a wide range of ethics-oriented courses.”
—Stephen Carey, Virginia Commonwealth University

“The topics are framed by ‘first principles’ sections, which introduce students
to classical sources in the field. These, together with the broad range of topics
covered, make it the best on the market.”

Bonevac
—Nicholas Power, University of West Florida

Daniel Bonevac
 g
PREFACE
This book is a text for courses on contemporary
moral issues. Such courses assume that philosophy
has something important to contribute to contempo-
rary moral problems. They try to bring philosophi-
cal theories to bear on practical questions. From one
point of view, this seems difficult. Philosophy is in
many ways the most abstract of all disciplines. The
questions it addresses are very general: What is real?
How do we know? What should we do? But philoso-
phy is also the most practical of all disciplines. It aims
at wisdom. Living wisely, displaying good judgment,
understanding yourself and your surroundings—
these offer immense benefits to all, no matter who
they are, how they earn a living, or what kind of
society they inhabit. Living wisely is a key to living
well. For just that reason, Aristotle thought that phi-
losophy was the highest human activity and that the
contemplative life was the highest and happiest form
of life possible for a human being.
Nevertheless, it is not always easy to bring theory
and practice together in the classroom. Philosophical
texts can be hard to read. Philosophers often write
primarily for each other. And arguments about con-
temporary issues are rarely reflective; the underlying
principles can be hard to discern.
Contemporary moral problems textbooks often
amplify these difficulties. They contain mostly papers
by professional philosophers written for a profes-
sional audience. They tend to omit underlying theo-
retical approaches altogether or segregate them in a
separate section of the book. The first strategy leaves
students with no moral compass. Students have trou-
ble abstracting ethical principles and methods from
treatments of particular issues; even the best students
flounder when faced with issues that have not been
treated explicitly in class. The result is that students
emerge with only the vaguest idea of what ethical
thinking is. The second strategy divides courses into
two parts that are hard to unify. The theory usually
vii
bon38219_fm_i-xvi.indd vii
strikes students as dry and irrelevant, while the prac-
tical part remains confusing or, at best, an exercise in
applying theory.
This book tries to resolve the dilemma by tying
theoretical and practical considerations together.
Today’s Moral Issues combines theoretical and practi-
cal readings on four general themes: first principles,
liberty, rights and responsibilities, and justice and
equality. The theoretical readings are closely related
to the contemporary readings that follow. I have
found that using philosophical texts helps students
connect theory and practice, for writers such as
Locke and Mill tend to be more concrete and practi-
cal in outlook than most secondary discussions of
their thought. Their motivations are not difficult for
most students to understand. And I have edited the
theoretical texts closely to bring students into direct
contact with their chief motivations and arguments.
The classic and contemporary theoretical
approaches constitute a foundation for thinking
about contemporary issues. Combining these texts
with discussions of contemporary problems lets stu-
dents see the dialectic between theory and practice
in ethics. Faced with practical dilemmas and dis-
agreements, it is easy to see why ethical thinkers
have sought to construct theories. And contempo-
rary issues provide opportunities not only to apply
theories but also to test and evaluate them. Good
students, I have found, attain not only a rich under-
standing of the theories, the issues, and how they are
related, but also a real sense of what ethical thinking
is all about.
Today’s Moral Issues is unique in treating contem-
porary moral issues in the context of both politi-
cal philosophy and ethics. Issues such as abortion,
euthanasia, and the environment have political as
well as personal dimensions. Others, such as free-
dom of speech, capital punishment, and economic,
racial, sexual, and global equality, are almost entirely
12/28/11 4:28 PM
 viii Preface
political. To treat them adequately, one must consider
the proper ends of government and the bounds of
state action.
New Features
This edition retains the virtues of earlier editions.
It combines theoretical and practical treatments of
ethical and political issues from a wide variety of per-
spectives and sources, including court cases, journal-
ists, public figures, public policy researchers, and
scientists as well as philosophers.
This edition also has some new virtues. It differs
from earlier editions in some important ways:
1. Among the most contentious issues of current
politics is gay marriage. I have expanded the book
to include it.
2. More than 20 percent of the readings are new to
this edition.
3. In the Theoretical Approaches sections, I have
added readings from Confucius. In the sec-
tions dealing with issues, I have added pieces
by R. G. Frey, the World Commission on Envi-
ronment and Development, Thomas Nagel,
Francis Beckwith, Rosalind Hursthouse, Stan-
ley Kurtz, Andrew Koppelman, Maggie Galla-
gher, Toon Quaghebeur, Bernadete Dierckx de
Casterlé, and Chris Gastmans, Carol Steiker,
Amartya Sen, Elizabeth Anderson, Robert Rec-
tor and Rachel Sheffield, and Michael Huemer.
4. I have reworked and greatly expanded the Ques-
tions for Reflection, especially in the theoretical
sections.
5. The Web page (http://bonevac.info/tmi) that accom-
panies the book has been expanded. It includes
many features to help both students and instruc-
tors, including
a. sample course syllabi
b. extensive class notes for all sections of the book,
with links to relevant parts of philosophical
texts (where they are public domain and avail-
able online)
c. a study guide summarizing key points
d. a comprehensive glossary of terms
e. practice exams
bon38219_fm_i-xvi.indd viii
f. suggested readings
g. relevant court cases
h. Web links to other sources of information on
contemporary issues
i. a guide to writing philosophical essays
j. tips on multimedia presentations
k. PowerPoint slides for each section of the text
Acknowledgments
This book and the ideas behind it have evolved con-
siderably during the thirty years I have been teaching
contemporary moral issues courses at the University
of Pittsburgh and the University of Texas at Austin.
I am grateful to the many instructors, teaching assis-
tants, and students who have used earlier versions
and helped me refine them. I am particularly grateful
to the more than 10,000 students who have taken
my contemporary moral problems course at the Uni-
versity of Texas at Austin. They have taught me much
about what a course on moral issues ought to be.
I especially want to thank Nicholas Asher and
Stephen Phillips, who have team-taught courses
on contemporary moral problems with me. Their
ideas have found expression here in more ways than
I can distinguish. I am also grateful for the helpful
criticism and advice I have received throughout the
years from Randy Mayes, California State University,
Sacramento; Bill Myers, Birmingham Southern
College; David Bradshaw, University of Kentucky;
and Jonathan Davis, University of Texas at Austin.
I would like to thank the reviewers whose com-
ments have helped me clarify my own thinking and
decide what issues and readings to include: for the
first edition, L. E. Andrade, Illinois State Univer-
sity; Linda Bomstad, California State University,
Sacramento; Karen Hanson, Indiana University; and
Anita Silvers, San Francisco State University; for
the second edition, Stephanie Beardman, Rutgers
University; Ray Cebik, University of Tennessee,
Knoxville; Deirdre Golash, American University;
Patrick Lee, Franciscan University of Steubenville;
Aaron Meskin, Rutgers University; Sharon Sytsma,
Northern Illinois University; and Nathan Tierney,
California Lutheran University; for the third edition,
Naomi Azck, University of Albany, State University
12/28/11 4:28 PM

of New York; Stephen Carey, Virginia Common-
wealth University; Scott Lehman, University of
Connecticut; A. P. Roark, University of Washington;
and Stewart Shapiro, Ohio State University at New-
ark; for the fourth edition, Abrol O. Fairweather,
CSU, Hayward; A. R. Molina, University of Miami;
Barbara Montero, NYU; Lawrence Pasternack,
Oklahoma State University; Janice Staab, Southern
Illinois University; Lawrence Stark, State University
of New York at Albany; for the fifth edition, Jean
Axelrod Cahan, University of Nebraska, Lincoln;
Barbara Lowe, St. John Fisher College; Joseph Pap-
pin III, University of South Carolina; and Wendy A.
Ritch, Raritan Valley Community College; for the
sixth edition, Hannah Phelps, Pacific Lutheran Uni-
versity; Diane Bowser, The Art Institute of Pittsburg;
Lawrence Stratton, Villanova University; Jack Bayne,
University of Massachusetts, Boston; Robert Pielke,
El Camino College; and Peter Marton, Salem State
College; and, for the seventh edition,
bon38219_fm_i-xvi.indd ix
Preface ix
• Nicholas Power, University of West Florida
• Stephen Carey, Virginia Commonwealth University
• Tracie Mahaffey, Florida State University
• John Messerly, Shoreline Community College
• Sean Stidd, Wayne State University
• Corine Sutherland, Golden West College
• Dan Lioy, Marylhurst University
I am grateful to all of those at McGraw-Hill who
have supported this book and worked to present my
ideas. I want especially to thank my editors. Jim Bull
was vital to the first two editions, and Ken King sim-
ilarly vital to the next two. I am also deeply grateful
to Jessica Cannavo, sponsoring editor; develop-
ment editor, Craig Leonard; marketing coordinator:
Angela R. FitzPatrick; copyeditor, Kay Mikel; project
manager, Melissa M. Leick; design coordinator,
Margarite Reynolds; and Louis Swaim, Buyer, for
their support throughout my work on this project.
12/28/11 4:28 PM
bon38219_fm_i-xvi.indd x 12/28/11 4:28 PM
 g
CONTENTS

Preface vii

INTRODUCTION MORAL ARGUMENTS 1

Arguments 1
Making Moral Arguments 2
Exceptions to Moral Principles 4

PART I FIRST PRINCIPLES 7

THEORETICAL APPROACHES 13
Confucius, from The Analects 13
Aristotle, from Nicomachean Ethics 17
St. Thomas Aquinas, from Summa Theologica 23
David Hume, from A Treatise of Human Nature 27
Immanuel Kant, from Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of
Morals 31
Jeremy Bentham, from An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and
Legislation 43
John Stuart Mill, from Utilitarianism 50
Nel Noddings, from Caring: A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral
Education 55

S E X U A L B E H AV I O R 6 0
Bertrand Russell, Our Sexual Ethics 61
Thomas A. Mappes, Sexual Morality and the
Concept of Using Another Person 66
Roger Scruton, from Sexual Desire 73

xi

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 xii Contents

S E X U A L O R I E N T AT I O N A N D G AY M A R R I A G E 7 7
Justice Byron White, Majority Opinion in Bowers v. Hardwick 79
Justice Anthony Kennedy, Majority Opinion in Lawrence et al.
v. Texas 82
Massachusetts Chief Justice Margaret H. Marshall
and Justice Robert J. Cordy, Majority and Dissenting Opinions in
Goodridge v. Department of Public Health 87
Stanley Kurtz, The Libertarian Question 102
Andrew Koppelman, from The Decline and Fall of the Case against
Same-Sex Marriage 106
Maggie Gallagher, from (How) Will Gay
Marriage Weaken Marriage as a Social Institution:
A Reply to Andrew Koppelman 112

ANIMALS 119
International League of the Rights of Animals, Universal Declaration
of the Rights of Animals 121
Peter Singer, from Animal Liberation 123
Tom Regan, The Case for Animal Rights 130
R. G. Frey, Moral Community and Animal Research in Medicine 134

THE ENVIRONMENT 143

Garrett Hardin, from The Tragedy of the Commons 146
World Commission on Environment and Development, from Our
Common Future: Report of the World Commission on Environment and
Development 149
Daniel Bonevac, Is Sustainability Sustainable? 154

PART II LIBERT Y 163

THEORETICAL APPROACHES 165

Aristotle, from Nicomachean Ethics 165
John Stuart Mill, from On Liberty 168

D R U G L E G A L I Z AT I O N 1 7 7
Milton Friedman, An Open Letter to Bill Bennett 178

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 Contents xiii

William J. Bennett, A Response to Milton Friedman 181

Ethan A. Nadelmann, The Case for Legalization 184
James Q. Wilson, Against the Legalization of Drugs 190

PORNOGRAPHY 197
Chief Justice Warren Burger and Justice William O. Douglas,
Majority and Dissenting Opinions in Miller v. California 199
Catharine MacKinnon, Pornography, Civil Rights, and Speech 205
The Attorney General’s Commission on Pornography, The Question
of Harm 209
Wendy MCElroy, from Sexual Correctness 216

O F F E N S I V E S P E E C H A N D B E H AV I O R 2 2 3
Plato, from The Republic 226
John Stuart Mill, from On Liberty 232
Stanley Fish, from There’s No Such Thing as Free Speech, and It’s a Good
Thing, Too 237
Thomas Nagel, Personal Rights and Public Space 243
Chief Justice John Roberts and Justice Paul Stevens, Majority and
Dissenting Opinions in Morse v. Frederick 248

PART III RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES 259

THEORETICAL APPROACHES 261

Thomas Hobbes, from Leviathan 261
John Locke, from Second Treatise of Government 266
Edmund Burke, from Reflections on the Revolution in
France 273
John Stuart Mill, from Utilitarianism 282
United Nations, Universal Declaration of Human Rights 286

A B O RT I O N 2 9 0
Justice Harry Blackmun, Majority Opinion in Roe v. Wade 292
Judith Jarvis Thomson, A Defense of Abortion 297
Mary Anne Warren, On the Moral and Legal Status of Abortion 307

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 xiv Contents

Don Marquis, Why Abortion Is Immoral 318

Rosalind Hursthouse, Virtue Theory and Abortion 327
Francis J. Beckwith, Personal Bodily Rights, Abortion,
and Unplugging the Violinist 333
Alexander R. Pruss, I Was Once a Fetus: That Is Why Abortion Is
Wrong 342

EUTHANASIA AND PHYSICIAN-ASSISTED

SUICIDE 350
Supreme Court of New Jersey, Matter of Quinlan 352
J. Gay-Williams, The Wrongfulness of Euthanasia 357
Ronald Dworkin, Thomas Nagel, Robert Nozick, John Rawls,
Thomas Scanlon, and Judith Jarvis Thomson, The Brief of the
Amici Curiae 360
Chief Justice William Rehnquist, Majority Opinion in Washington
et al. v. Glucksberg et al. 366
Toon Quaghebeur, Bernadette Dierckx de Casterlé,
and Chris Gastmans, Nursing and Euthanasia: A Review of Argument-
Based Ethics Literature 372

C A P I TA L P U N I S H M E N T 3 7 9
Cesare Beccaria, from On Crimes and Punishments 381
Justice William Brennan, Concurring Opinion in Furman v.
Georgia 386
Justices Stewart, Powell, and Stevens, Majority Opinion in Gregg v.
Georgia 388
Ernest van den Haag, from The Death Penalty: A Debate 392
Hugo Adam Bedau, The Case against the Death Penalty 396
Cass R. Sunstein and Adrian Vermeule, Is Capital Punishment Morally
Required? The Relevance of Life-Life Tradeoffs 403
Carol S. Steiker, No, Capital Punishment Is Not Morally Required:
Deterrence, Deontology, and the Death Penalty 415

WA R 4 2 5
St. Thomas Aquinas, Whether It Is Always Sinful to Wage War? 427
Francisco de Vitoria, from The Law of War on Indians 429
Hugo Grotius, from On the Law of War and Peace 432

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 Contents xv

Carl von Clausewitz, On the Nature of War 438

Mahatma Gandhi, Non-Violence in Various Aspects 442
Richard A. Posner and Gary S. Becker, Preventive War 446

PART IV JUSTICE AND EQUALITY 449

THEORETICAL APPROACHES 451

Aristotle, from Nicomachean Ethics 451
Aristotle, from Politics 453
John Locke, from Second Treatise of Government 455
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, from Discourse on the Origin of Inequality 466
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, from On the Social Contract 474
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, from Manifesto of the Communist
Party 478
Karl Marx, from Estranged Labour, Economic and Philosophical
Manuscripts of 1844 484
Karl Marx, from Critique of the Gotha Program 489
John Rawls, Justice as Fairness 492
Robert Nozick, from Anarchy, State, and Utopia 497

ECONOMIC EQUALITY 505

John Stuart Mill, from Principles of Political Economy 507
John Hospers, What Libertarianism Is 510
Amartya Sen, Equality of What? 516
Charles Murray, from Losing Ground: American Social Policy,
1950–1980 520
Elizabeth S. Anderson, What Is the Point of Equality? 529
Robert Rector and Rachel Sheffield, Air Conditioning, Cable TV, and an
Xbox: What Is Poverty in the United States Today? 540

A F F I R M AT I V E A C T I O N 5 5 4
Chief Justice Earl Warren, Majority Opinion in Brown v. Board of
Education 556
Justice Lewis Powell, Majority Opinion in Regents of the University of
California v. Bakke 559

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 xvi Contents

Antonin Scalia, The Disease as a Cure 567

Bernard R. Boxill, from Blacks and Social Justice 573
Thomas Sowell, “Affirmative Action”: A Worldwide Disaster 579
Chief Justice William Rehnquist, Majority Opinion in Gratz et al. v.
Bollinger et al. 595
Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, Majority Opinion in Grutter v. Bollinger
et al. 600

I M M I G R AT I O N 6 0 9
Immanuel Kant, from Perpetual Peace 611
Garrett Hardin, Living on a Lifeboat 616
Robert D. Putnam, E Pluribus Unum: Diversity and Community in the
Twenty-First Century The 2006 Johan Skytte Prize Lecture 621
Michael Huemer, Is There a Right to Immigrate? 631

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 INTRODUCTION
g
MORAL ARGUMENTS

This is a book about moral issues. What are moral Components of Arguments
issues? To answer this question, we need to consider
The initial assertions of an argument are its premises;
the definition of philosophy. If the word itself is any
the thesis that the argument tries to justify is its con-
guide, philosophy is the love of wisdom. A simple
clusion. Arguments consist of statements, sentences
definition of wisdom, in turn, is good judgment. Phi-
that can be true or false. Almost every sentence in this
losophy, then, is the love or pursuit of good judg-
book falls into this category. Statements are declara-
ment. Moral philosophy, or ethics, is the pursuit of
tive, in the indicative mood; they say something about
good judgment about character and action—about
the way the world is, correctly or incorrectly.
what kind of person to be and about what to do. Eth-
Here, for example, is a simple argument:
ics addresses questions about virtue and vice, good
and bad, right and wrong. (1) Stealing is wrong.
Such questions, clearly, have varied answers; they ∴ Stealing this book is wrong.
are often the subject of controversy and debate. The
(This format lists the premises in the order in which
moral issues considered in this book—abortion,
they are given and then gives the conclusion. The
euthanasia, pornography, capital punishment, affir-
symbol ∴ means “therefore.”)
mative action, and many others—are among the
How can we recognize arguments? The premises
most controversial our society faces. Most of this
of an argument are meant to support the conclusion.
book consists of moral arguments, in which a moral
We can recognize arguments, then, by recognizing
issue is considered and a particular position is sup-
when some statements are offered in support of oth-
ported or a particular conclusion is reached through
ers. We can do this most easily, in turn, if we can dis-
reasoning.
tinguish premises from conclusions. But how can we
How can we think through moral issues carefully
pick out the conclusion of an argument? In English,
and systematically? How do we develop arguments
various words and phrases can signal the premises or
for ethical conclusions? These are questions that I
the conclusion of an argument.
attempt to answer in this introduction.
• Conclusion Indicators: therefore, thus, hence,
consequently, it follows that, in conclusion, as a
Arguments result, then, must, accordingly, this implies that,
this entails that, we may infer that
Arguments are bits of reasoning in language. Fre-
• Premise Indicators: because, as, for, since, given
quently, we think of arguments as conflicts. In that
that, for the reason that
sense, this book presents a series of arguments about
issues such as abortion, euthanasia, and affirmative Beware: These words and phrases have other uses as
action. But philosophers and logicians primarily use well.
“argument” in the sense that one argues for a conclu- Extended or complex arguments contain other argu-
sion. An argument starts with some assertions and ments. Simple arguments do not. Because extended
tries to justify a thesis. arguments are good only if the simple arguments

bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 1 12/22/11 11:04 AM

 2 Introduction
within them are good, it is best to break extended
arguments down into their simple components and
analyze them separately.
Validity and Soundness
To evaluate arguments, we need to ask, What dis-
tinguishes good from bad arguments? What makes a
good argument good?
A good argument links its premises to its conclusion
in the right way. In a (deductively) valid argument, the
truth of the premises guarantees the truth of the con-
clusion. If the premises are all true, then the conclusion
has to be true. Or, equivalently, if the conclusion of a
valid argument is false, at least one premise must also
be false. Consider, for example, the argument
(2) All promises ought to be kept.
Your promise to Joe is a promise.
∴ You ought to keep your promise to Joe.
In any circumstance in which the premises of this
argument are true, the conclusion must be true as
well. It is impossible to conceive of a state of affairs in
which, while all promises ought to be kept, and your
promise to Joe is a promise, you nevertheless should
not keep your promise to Joe. If it is false that you
should keep your promise to Joe, then either there
are promises that shouldn’t be kept, or your “prom-
ise” wasn’t a real promise.
Valid arguments are only one species of good
argument. Others are inductively strong (or reliable).
The truth of the premises of such an argument does
not guarantee the truth of its conclusion, but it does
make the truth of the conclusion probable. Consider,
for example, this argument:
(3) Every generous person I’ve ever known has also
been kind.
∴ All generous people are kind.
It is possible for the premise to be true while the
conclusion is false. There may be generous but nasty
people I’ve never met. So the argument is invalid.
Nevertheless, the premise lends some support to the
conclusion. The argument is inductively strong; how
strong depends on how many generous people I’ve
known, among other things.
In general, good arguments not only are valid
or inductively strong but also have true premises.
bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 2
A sound argument is a valid argument with true
premises. In any valid argument, the truth of the
premises guarantees the truth of the conclusion, so a
sound argument also has a true conclusion. A cogent
argument is an inductively strong argument with
true premises. In a cogent argument, the truth of the
conclusion is likely but not guaranteed.
Logic develops precise ways of determining
whether arguments are valid (although the most
powerful ways of evaluating arguments are intui-
tive). An argument is valid if the truth of the prem-
ises guarantees the truth of the conclusion. To show
that an argument is invalid, therefore, one needs to
show that the premises could all be true while the
conclusion is false.
There are two ways of showing that an argument
is invalid. The first, the direct method, is simply to
describe such a situation; that is, we can show an
argument to be invalid by depicting a possible cir-
cumstance in which the premises were all true but
the conclusion was false.
The second way to show that an argument is
invalid, devised by Aristotle, is based on the idea of
form and is known as the method of counterexam-
ples. To show that an argument is invalid using this
method, we must produce another argument of the
same form with true premises and a false conclusion.
This introduction is too short to present a detailed
discussion of form. But Aristotle’s insight was that
validity is formal in the sense that arguments can be
classified into certain general patterns, or forms, of
which individual arguments are instances. An argu-
ment form is valid if and only if every instance of
it is valid. More to the point, an argument form is
invalid if and only if some instance of it is invalid.
To show that an argument form is invalid, then, find
an instance with true premises and a false conclu-
sion. To show that an individual argument is invalid,
find an argument with true premises and a false con-
clusion that shares the specific form of the original
argument: the most explicit form we can devise, dis-
playing the most structure.
Making Moral Arguments
As we have seen, it is possible to attack an argument
by showing that one of its premises is false. Even
12/22/11 11:04 AM

if the argument is valid or strong, such an attack
shows that it is not sound or cogent and undercuts
its conclusion.
Moral arguments typically have both moral and
factual premises. Some statements are factual or
descriptive. They say how the world is. Other state-
ments are evaluative, prescriptive, or normative. They
say how the world ought to be; more generally, they
evaluate how the world is, characterizing it as right
or wrong, acceptable or unacceptable, delightful or
dismal. They include specifically evaluative terms.
A moral argument is an argument with an evaluative
conclusion. People who reach opposite conclusions
may differ in moral principles, but they may also dif-
fer in factual assumptions. One of the chief purposes
of a contemporary moral problems course is to teach
people how to disentangle moral from factual issues.
The distinction matters, because factual and moral
conclusions require different kinds of support.
Consider a simple example:
(4) You promised to sublet the apartment.
You should keep your promises.
∴ You should sublet the apartment.
The first premise is factual. Whether you promised
to sublet the apartment is a matter of fact. If it is
disputed, we may ask about the facts: What exactly
did you say? Is there any agreement in writing? Did
you sign anything? Was it really this apartment?
The second premise, in contrast, is evaluative. It
speaks of how things ought to be, not how they
are. Consequently, no amount of inquiry into the
facts can help us determine its truth or falsehood.
To justify it, we must appeal to more general moral
principles.
The general pattern of moral arguments for par-
ticular conclusions is thus:
(5) Factual premise(s)
Moral premise(s)
∴ Moral conclusion
This is utterly familiar. You ought to return those
books to the library. Why? You borrowed them (fac-
tual premise), they are due (factual premise), and
you ought to return what you borrow when it is due
(moral premise). Or, you may take vacation the last
week of April. Why? It won’t cause your coworkers
any inconvenience (factual premise), and you may
bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 3
Introduction 3
take vacation whenever it won’t cause your cowork-
ers any inconvenience (moral premise).
Arguing for a Moral Principle
(5) is a pattern for arguing to a particular moral con-
clusion. But how can one argue for general moral
conclusions, such as the moral principles on which
such arguments rely? How, in other words, does one
support moral premises such as You ought to keep
your promises, You ought to return what you borrow
when it’s due, or You may take vacation whenever it
won’t cause your coworkers any inconvenience?
In essence, there are two ways to argue for a moral
generalization: from above and from below. To argue
from above, appeal to a more general moral prin-
ciple. John Stuart Mill, for example, would argue
as follows for the generalization, You ought to keep
your promises:
(6) You ought to follow the rules that will maximize
human happiness.
Following the rule You ought to keep your
promises will maximize human happiness.
∴ You ought to keep your promises.
Immanuel Kant would justify it differently:
(7) You ought to treat others as ends, not merely as
means.
Keeping a promise to someone treats that per-
son as an end, but breaking one treats him or
her as a means to your ends.
∴ You ought to keep your promises.
Philosophers who prefer justifications from above
tend, like Mill and Kant, to search for a single, very
general moral principle that can justify other prin-
ciples.
Moral principles may also be justified from
below, by appeal to their instances. One could
try to argue that it is wrong to break promises,
for example, by generalizing from examples of
particular situations:
(8) Say someone promises to marry you but
doesn’t show up at the altar; that would be wrong.
Say Frank borrows money from you, promis-
ing insincerely to repay it, and then absconds; that
would be wrong.
12/22/11 11:04 AM
 4 Introduction
Say the doctor makes an appointment to see you and
then goes to play golf instead; that would be wrong.
Say Joan agrees to pay you $1,000 for landscaping
her yard, you do the work, and she refuses to pay;
that would be wrong.
∴ Breaking promises is wrong.
or more specific kinds of situations:
(9) Someone who agrees to marry someone on a par-
ticular day should show up for the wedding.
Someone who borrows money ought to repay it.
Someone who makes an appointment ought to
keep it.
Someone who signs a contract ought to fulfill it.
∴ Breaking promises is wrong.
These arguments are not valid, but they are induc-
tively strong if the examples are numerous and
diverse enough.
The readings in this book contain many arguments
for moral principles, some from above, some from
below. Arguments from above are important, for they
say something about why the moral principle holds.
Kant’s argument for promise keeping, for example, not
only concludes that promises should be kept but also
indicates that they should be kept because breaking
them treats others as means to your own ends. Mill’s
argument, similarly, indicates that promise keeping is
obligatory because it maximizes human happiness.
Arguments from below are also important, for they
link principles to particular cases about which we
have strong moral intuitions. The more abstract and
general a moral principle is, the fewer intuitions we
have about whether it is correct. Moral theories there-
fore rely on both kinds of arguments.
Arguing against a Moral Principle
How does one argue against a moral principle? One
tries to find a counterexample: an instance in which
the principle seems to give the wrong result. Is it
always right to keep promises, for instance? One
can try to find examples of promises that should not
be kept. Recall that, in a valid argument, the truth
of the premises guarantees the truth of the conclu-
sion, or, equivalently, the falsehood of the conclusion
guarantees the falsehood of at least one premise. One
can construct a valid argument from the principle to
a false conclusion:
bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 4
(10) One should always keep one’s promises.
∴ If Herman promised to murder the entire
city council, he should do it.
The absurdity of the conclusion shows that there is
something wrong with the premise.
Many philosophers have objected to Kant’s opin-
ion that lying is always wrong by constructing a simi-
lar argument. Suppose that a distraught child runs to
you begging for help. A homicidal maniac is chasing
her. You hide her in a closet. The maniac bangs on
your door and asks whether you know where she is.
Surely you should not tell the truth.
Exceptions to Moral Principles
This example illustrates that most moral principles
have exceptions. Most moral principles are true other
things being equal (in Latin, ceteris paribus), but not
universally. Plato recognized this about promise
keeping and telling the truth:
. . . are we to say that justice or right is simply to speak
the truth and to pay back any debt one may have con-
tracted? Or are these same actions sometimes right
and sometimes wrong? I mean this sort of thing, for
example: everyone would surely agree that if a friend
has deposited weapons with you when he was sane,
and he asks for them when he is out of his mind, you
should not return them. The man who returns them
is not doing right, nor is one who is willing to tell the
whole truth to a man in such a state. (Republic, 331c)*
Although Keep your promises and Tell the truth are
good moral rules in general, they can be overridden
or defeated by other moral considerations. For that
reason, they are called defeasible. Normally, you
ought to keep your promises. Normally, you ought
to tell the truth. But sometimes there are good rea-
sons to break a promise or to lie, and then you have
a moral conflict.
Philosophers often analyze such situations of moral
conflict in terms of prima facie duties. W. D. Ross
defined “prima facie duty” as a “characteristic (quite
distinct from that of being a duty proper) which an
*Plato,The Republic, translated by Paul Shorey (Cambridge, Mass.:
Loeb Classical Library, 1930).
12/22/11 11:04 AM

act has, in virtue of being of a certain kind (e.g., the
keeping of a promise), of being an act which would
be a duty proper if it were not at the same time of
another kind which is morally significant.”* A prima
facie obligation, that is, holds under normal circum-
stances; it holds all other things being equal, becom-
ing actual—an obligation all things considered, or,
in Ross’s terms, “a duty proper”—unless some other
moral consideration intervenes.
Prima facie obligations offer a way to explain the
force of rules while allowing for exceptions. The idea,
in essence, is that a prima facie rule applies unless
some other rule conflicts with it. John Stuart Mill’s
secondary principles are paradigms of prima facie
principles: They dictate obligations unless they come
into conflict. In that case, Mill stipulates, the prin-
ciple of utility, the sole rule in his system that has an
absolute rather than prima facie character, resolves
the conflict. This indicates a key difference between
actual and prima facie obligation: Prima facie obliga-
tions can conflict, whereas actual obligations cannot.
If a homicidal maniac asks whether you know where
an innocent child is hiding, there is a moral conflict:
You have a prima facie obligation to tell the truth and
another to tell a lie. Only one can be actual—what
you ought actually to do in that situation, all things
considered. Saving a life is more important than
never telling a lie, so your obligation to lie is actual,
overriding your obligation to tell the truth.
Let’s revisit Plato’s puzzle about returning weapons
to a friend who is out of his mind. Because uncondi-
tional statements of actual obligation cannot conflict,
this pair is inconsistent:
(11) You have an actual obligation to return the
weapons.
*W.D. Ross, The Right and the Good (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1930), 19.
bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 5
Introduction 5
You have an actual obligation not to return the
weapons.
You cannot be obliged, actually, all things con-
sidered, both to return the weapons and not
to return them.
Because conditional prima facie obligations can
conflict, this pair of statements is consistent:
(12) You have a prima facie obligation to return the
weapons.
You have a prima facie obligation not to return
the weapons.
In general, you have a prima facie obligation to
do something whenever the circumstances trigger a
defeasible moral rule. In Plato’s case, there are defea-
sible rules that you ought to keep your promises and
that you ought to prevent harm. Your promise gives
rise to the prima facie obligation to return the weap-
ons; your friend’s madness gives rise to the prima
facie obligation not to return them.
Moral conflicts such as those Plato describes have
spurred philosophers to devise moral theories to
help us compare different kinds of moral consider-
ations and resolve conflicts generated by them.
Seeing that moral considerations can come into
conflict helps to dissolve some of the motivation for
relativism. In morality, it is often true that one per-
son or culture sees things one way and another sees
them quite differently. But even within the view of a
single person and culture, there are many different
perspectives, which it is the task of morality to relate,
evaluate, and, in particular situations, reconcile. Rea-
sonable people can differ on how to reconcile them.
That is what makes a book like this both possible
and important.
12/22/11 11:04 AM
bon38219_intro_01-06.indd 6 12/22/11 11:04 AM
 PART I
g
FIRST PRINCIPLES
Most of our moral judgments concern particular things.
We judge certain actions and certain people good or
bad. There are many gradations: Acts or people may
be heroic, splendid, admirable, acceptable, indifferent,
unsatisfactory, despicable, or horrible, to mention just
a few moral adjectives. There are also many dimen-
sions of moral consideration: Acts or people may be
honest, kind, loyal, trustworthy, noble, brave, gener-
ous, self-controlled, gentle, friendly, witty, pleasant,
helpful, effective, efficient, or considerate, to mention
just a few positive attributes. Usually, we apply these
to particular actions or to particular people.
When people disagree about a moral judgment,
they try to justify their views. They do this by con-
structing an argument that appeals to moral prin-
ciples. Suppose, for example, that Jennifer killed
Michael by breaking a baseball bat over his head.
And say that you and I disagree about the morality of
the act. I think it was wrong; you think it was justifi-
able. I might try to justify my judgment by construct-
ing a simple argument:
1. Jennifer’s killing Michael was murder. (Fact)
2. Murder is always wrong. (Moral principle)
3. Therefore, Jennifer’s killing Michael was wrong.
(Moral conclusion)
An argument for a particular moral conclusion gen-
erally contains both factual and moral premises, just
as this one does. The first premise is factual; it pur-
ports to describe the way the world is. The second
premise, in contrast, is moral. It does not describe
the world as it is but evaluates a general category
of action. Assertions like the first premise are often
called factual or descriptive. Those like the second
premise or the conclusion are often called evaluative,
prescriptive, or normative.
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 7
The distinction between these kinds of assertions
matters, for we resolve disagreements about them in
very different ways. Suppose, for example, that you
challenge my first premise. You deny, in other words,
that Jennifer committed a murder. We might resolve
our disagreement by clarifying our use of words and
investigating the facts. If I defend my premise with
further premises:
4. Murder is killing a human being with malice
aforethought.
5. Jennifer killed Michael.
6. Michael was human.
7. Jennifer intended to do Michael harm.
you might challenge my definition of murder (4) or
my description of the facts (5, 6, and 7). We might
proceed to investigate whether Jennifer was really the
killer and Michael really the victim; whether Jennifer
intended to harm Michael or killed him accidentally;
whether Michael was human or a robot; and whether
my definition of murder is correct. All these issues
concern definitions or matters of fact.
If you challenge my second premise, however,
investigating matters of fact cannot resolve our dis-
agreement. We differ not on how the world is but
on how it ought to be. And, as David Hume stresses,
there is no way to derive ought from is; no amount
of factual information can determine how the world
ought to be. To justify my premise, I must appeal
to some broader moral principle—and ultimately,
many philosophers have thought, to a first, most
fundamental moral principle from which all others
follow. The thinkers of the Enlightenment, espe-
cially, saw that if we could establish and agree upon
a first principle of morality, all our disagreements
would concern definitions and matters of fact and
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 8 First Principles
thus would be resolvable by investigation. Morality
would lend itself to scientific inquiry as much as
anything else.
The search for a first principle of morality has
other sources. One stems from the great variety of
things we call good. We say that certain actions, peo-
ple, and even qualities (such as honesty) are good.
What makes them all good? What do they have
in common? Similarly, we call things as diverse as
September 11, Hitler, deception, and cruelty wrong.
What makes them all wrong? What do they have
in common? To answer would be to give the first
principle of morality. Why couldn’t there be several
such principles? Because we could raise the question,
What makes them fundamental principles of moral-
ity? What do they all have in common?
To try to justify moral principles as well as partic-
ular moral judgments is to construct a moral theory.
Moral theories are systematic attempts to provide
and justify answers to questions such as What
should I do? and What kind of person should I be?
Confucius distinguishes these questions and devel-
ops two independent answers to them. The person
who does the right thing follows the Way, observing
the rules of propriety. The person of superior char-
acter is sincere, generous, kind, diligent, and serious,
doing the right thing for the right reason. Most mod-
ern moral theories take the former question as basic.
They focus on action and try to distinguish right
from wrong in principled ways. But some theories
focus instead on the latter question and try to distin-
guish good character traits from bad. Good traits are
virtues; bad traits, vices.
Aristotle develops the classic theory of virtue.
He distinguishes intrinsic goods, which are desired
for their own sake, from instrumental goods, which
are desired as means to other things. To justify any
answers to the above questions, we must appeal to
intrinsic goods. Suppose that someone asks why
you are reading this book. “Because it’s required for
my ethics course,” you answer. “But why do what’s
required?” “I want to get a good grade.” “Why do
you want a good grade?” “I want to have a good
GPA.” “Why?” “It will help me get a job.” “Why do
you want a job?” “I want money.” “Why?” “I want
things money can buy!” “Why do you want them?”
To stop the chain of questions, you must appeal to
something that is intrinsically good. Every time you
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 8
appeal to an instrumental good, the questioner can
ask in turn why you want it.
Aristotle contends that people desire only one
thing for its own sake and never for the sake of some-
thing else: happiness. Any series of requests for jus-
tification leads eventually to the response, “Because
I want to be happy!” If someone persists in asking
why, there is nothing more to say; happiness is desir-
able for its own sake.
What is happiness? What is it to live well?
Aristotle’s answer relies on the idea that human
beings have a function. Just as a good knife cuts well
and a good teacher teaches well, a good person fulfills
the function of a human being well. But what is the
function of a person? It is what is most distinctive of
human beings: to act rationally. A good person acts in
accordance with virtue, and to act virtuously is to act
rationally. A good person does the right thing at the
right time, and in the right way, for the right reason.
Virtue is thus a mean between extremes. The ability
to find that mean Aristotle calls practical wisdom. To
fear too much is cowardly, but to fear too little is rash.
Courage is fearing what ought to be feared, when it
ought to be feared, to the extent that it ought to be
feared, and for the appropriate reason.
How does a person become virtuous? How, in other
words, can someone become practically wise? Not by
abstract thought, Aristotle says, but by doing virtu-
ous things. Shakespeare’s Polonius advised, “Assume
a virtue if you have it not”; Aristotle agrees. If you
do brave things, for example—initially, by forcing
yourself to do them, by pretending to be brave—you
gradually develop the habit of doing brave things.
When the habit is ingrained and automatic, to the
point of being “second nature,” you are brave. In
general, people become good by doing good things.
There is no rule for becoming good or for distinguish-
ing good from bad, right from wrong; a person of
practical wisdom has a highly refined ability to draw
the right distinctions and tell right from wrong.
St. Thomas Aquinas bases his views on ethics and
political philosophy on those of Aristotle. But he adds
many innovations, blending Aristotelian insights into
a Christian worldview. He develops a comprehensive
theory of natural law that remains influential today.
Aquinas begins with Aristotle’s idea that human good
depends on human nature. To live well—to excel or
flourish—is to fulfill one’s function well. Just as an
12/28/11 8:14 PM

excellent knife cuts well and an excellent eye sees
well, an excellent human being displays excellence
in rational activity. As these examples suggest, dif-
ferent things have different functions. In general, the
function of a thing depends on its nature. So, what
something ought to do and be depends on its func-
tion, which in turn depends on its nature.
Aquinas adds God to this Aristotelian picture.
God establishes the order of nature, determining the
natures of things and their functions and their excel-
lences. God thus indirectly establishes not only the
physical laws that constitute the order of nature but
also the natural laws that free beings ought to obey.
Since human nature is distinctively rational, law itself
is essentially a matter of reason.
Aquinas distinguishes several different kinds of
law. Eternal law is the law of nature, established by
God, that governs the entire universe. Everything in
the universe obeys eternal law and does so neces-
sarily. Science investigates eternal law and tries to
describe it. Natural law is normative; it prescribes
what things should do and be. Since a thing’s nature
determines its function and thus its virtue—what it
ought to do and be—eternal law determines natural
law. Natural law is the manifestation of eternal law
in creatures capable of rational choice and activity.
Natural law manifests the eternal law by way of “the
light of natural reason.” God imprints on us the natu-
ral ability to tell right from wrong.
Aquinas also distinguishes natural law from
human law. Natural law is fully general and uni-
versal, but human law must apply to particular cir-
cumstances in specific ways. Natural law relates to
human law as principles relate to conclusions drawn
from them. One can think of natural law, then, as
comprising the axioms of the moral law in general.
Because natural law serves as an axiom of the moral
law, it must be self-evident; it cannot be a conclu-
sion from some other premise. Precepts of natural
law must be both general and obvious. That might
make it seem that natural law has little content. Pur-
sue good; avoid evil. Everyone can agree to that. But
what is good? What is evil?
Here, Aquinas appeals to human nature. As
Aristotle argued, human excellence depends on our
characteristic function, which depends in turn on
our nature. This is true in two senses. What we are
determines what we ought to do and be. And what
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 9
First Principles 9
we are tells us what we ought to do and be. The uni-
verse is ordered so that we naturally tend to pursue
good and avoid evil. Our own dispositions thus pro-
vide a test. We are naturally disposed to pursue good
and avoid evil. We have a natural tendency not only
to have certain inclinations (toward food, drink, and
sex, for example), but also to control them through
the exercise of reason. If lust is natural, so are ratio-
nality, shame, and self-restraint.
Aquinas classifies the precepts of natural law into
three groups: (1) laws of self-preservation, (2) laws
of biological welfare, and (3) laws of reason.
Aquinas does not develop his theory of natural
law into a comprehensive political philosophy. Nev-
ertheless, several important theses follow from it.
First, human law aims at the common good. Sec-
ond, the purpose of human law is to help people
follow natural law—that is, to make them virtuous.
Law is essentially paternalistic, restricting people’s
freedom for their own good. The law accomplishes
this by training people to recognize right and wrong.
Third, human law must be flexible. As Aristotle said,
virtue is a mean; there is no strict rule for finding it.
Human laws cannot take into account the full com-
plexity of the world; they inevitably oversimplify.
We must create law to regulate our behavior but also
must allow for exceptions in those cases in which
the law does not make sense. One might think that
we may solve this problem by making law more
specific. We might, for example, require people to
return goods held in trust unless such return poses
a risk to national security. But this only makes the
problem worse. We are better off with general laws
flexibly applied. Fourth, a law that is unjust or fails
to promote the common good, in general or in a
particular case, has no authority as law. It should not
be obeyed.
Finally, just as people have a natural inclination
to virtue, they have a natural inclination to live in
certain social structures: in families, in communities,
and in states. These social institutions are natural, not
conventional; they thus have moral force. People are
inherently social, as Aristotle observed. More specifi-
cally, they are naturally family members, members
of communities, and citizens. Law, therefore, should
serve to strengthen these natural institutions.
The Enlightenment produced a great challenge
to morality in the thought of David Hume. Aristotle
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 10 First Principles
and Aquinas hold that ethics rests on right reason.
The function of a human being is to act rationally;
human excellence consists in doing so well. Acting
ethically requires using practical wisdom, reasoning
on the basis of the natural law. Hume argues that rea-
son can lead us only to conclusions; it cannot lead us
to action. There is a gap between is and ought; there is
likewise a gap between ought and does. Acting ratio-
nally has a source in something other than reason.
That source, Hume maintains, is passion. We
have a moral sense that leads us to act by generating
within us feelings of approval or disapproval, sat-
isfaction or uneasiness, pleasure or pain. If we wit-
ness one person harming another, for example, we
not only reach the conclusion that the act is wrong
but also feel revulsion toward the act and the person
committing it. That revulsion is what leads us to act.
In fact, it may also underlie our conclusion: “Reason
is, and ought to be, the slave of the passions.”
The Enlightenment produced two great and
competing accounts of the foundations of morality.
Immanuel Kant maintains that all of ethics reduces to
a single principle, the categorical imperative. He artic-
ulates five versions of the principle, but he takes all to
be equivalent. The two most important versions are
I. Act so that the maxim of your action might be
willed as universal law.
II. Treat everyone as a end, not merely as a means.
The first means that you must act on the basis of
principle; you cannot make an exception for your-
self. You must act, in other words, in such a way
that everyone could act on your principles. The
second means that every human being deserves to
be treated with respect, as an independent moral
agent; you must not use people as means to your
own ends.
Kant derives the categorical imperative from gen-
eral considerations about morality. A first principle, he
warns, must be necessarily true; it must hold no matter
what the world is like, for as a moral assertion, it does not
describe the world. It must be something we can know
a priori, independently of experience. It must therefore
be universal, applying to all rational agents capable of
thinking and acting morally. And it must be categorical,
of the form “Everyone always ought to . . . ,” rather than
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 10
hypothetical (of the form “If you want . . . , you ought
to . . . ”), for it must not depend on the goals we adopt
for ourselves, even general goals such as happiness.
What all hypothetical imperatives have in common is
simply the form of law, that is, the idea of acting on prin-
ciple as a moral agent. That leads to Kant’s formulations
of the categorical imperative. You must act on principle;
you must respect yourself and others as moral agents.
The second great Enlightenment account of the
foundations of morality rejects Kant’s picture com-
pletely. Utilitarianism, a moral theory mentioned
in Plato’s dialogues, first advocated by Francis
Hutcheson, and brought to full development by
Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, can be summa-
rized in two words: Maximize good. Utilitarians hold
that all of ethics and political philosophy reduces to
that one maxim, the principle of utility.
The principle seems simple but has a number of
far-reaching consequences. First, utilitarians evaluate
actions by the extent to which they maximize good.
They evaluate actions, therefore, solely by examin-
ing their consequences. In determining whether an
action or kind of action is right or wrong, we need
to ask, Is it for the best? What effect does it have on
the amount of good in the universe? Utilitarianism is
thus a version of consequentialism, the view that the
moral value of an action depends completely on its
consequences.
Other moral philosophers contend that other fea-
tures of actions are relevant to their moral value. Kill-
ing, for example, is generally a bad thing. But our
judgment of a killer depends on other factors. Was
the killing purely accidental, or did it result from
negligence? Did it stem from a fit of rage, or was it
premeditated? The prior actions, motives, intentions,
and general state of mind of the agent, we think,
make a moral difference. Utilitarians are committed
to saying that all these things are irrelevant to evalu-
ating the killing itself—but, they would say, they are
highly relevant to evaluating the killer. Utilitarians
need not banish motives, intentions, states of mind,
and circumstances from ethics. But they must define
their moral values ultimately in terms of the moral
value of actions. We might say, for example, that an
intention is good to the extent that it results in good
actions, that a motive is good to the extent that it
results in good intentions, that a character trait is
12/28/11 8:14 PM

good to the extent that it results in good motives,
and so on.
Second, utilitarianism is a universalist theory:
We must judge whether an action or kind of action
maximizes the total amount of good in the universe.
Thus, we must consider the consequences of the
action for everyone it affects. We cannot consider
ourselves alone, or just people in our community, or
our fellow citizens; we must consider everyone. Most
actions affect only a few people in any significant,
identifiable way. Political decisions, however, often
affect millions. In either case, we must be prepared
to consider the effects on everyone affected.
Third, utilitarianism requires an independent
theory of the good. The principle of utility tells us
to maximize good, but it does not tell us what the
good is. What, exactly, must we maximize? Ben-
tham and Mill are hedonists: They believe that plea-
sure and pain are the only sources of value. The
good, for both, is pleasure and the absence of pain.
In the view of these philosophers, then, the prin-
ciple of utility directs us to maximize the balance
of pleasure over pain. Other utilitarians hold other
theories of the good. Some, for example, identify
the good with the satisfaction of desire. Some main-
tain that the good is indefinable and cannot be
identified with anything else.
Whatever theory of the good a utilitarian holds,
however, that theory must treat the good as a quantity
to be maximized. The principle requires us to maxi-
mize good; good, therefore, must be the kind of thing
that can be maximized. Certainly this means that we
must be able to judge whether one circumstance con-
tains more good than another. It probably also means
that we must be able to quantify the amount of good
in any given circumstance; that is, that we must
be able to say how much good that circumstance
contains—ideally, by assigning it a number.
Utilitarians tend to fall into two main categories.
Some, called act-utilitarians, take the evaluation of
individual actions as primary. They judge an action
by the effects it has on the amount of good. Oth-
ers, rule-utilitarians, take the evaluation of kinds of
actions as primary. They judge rules by the effects
of following them and then judge individual actions
by appealing to the recommended rules. Ben-
tham is an act-utilitarian; Mill often sounds like a
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 11
First Principles 11
rule-utilitarian, although it is possible to interpret
him as an act-utilitarian or even a character-utilitar-
ian, one who takes the evaluation of character traits
as primary and holds that one should develop the
virtues that tend to maximize everyone’s happiness.
In most cases, act- and rule-utilitarians agree in
their moral evaluations of individual actions. They
disagree, however, (a) when an action maximizes
good while violating rules that usually—but not in
a particular case—maximize good, and (b) when an
action does not maximize good in a particular case
but does follow those rules. Both situations involve
a conflict between the principle of utility and a rule
designed to maximize good in general. Act-utilitarians
consider it bizarre to say that we should follow the
rule instead of the principle of utility; according to
rule-utilitarianism itself, the rule derives its force
solely from the principle in the first place. But rule-
utilitarians believe that rules are indispensable to
moral thinking. We cannot calculate what to do in
every individual case; we must think about kinds of
actions, formulate rules that, if followed, maximize
good, and then follow those rules.
Rule-utilitarians encounter a special difficulty:
the rules justified by the principle of utility may
come into conflict with each other. Among the
good-maximizing rules, for example, are some
commanding us to avoid murder and to save inno-
cent lives. But there may be cases in which we can
save lives only by committing a murder. Which rule
takes precedence? Mill suggests that, in such cases,
we appeal to the principle of utility itself. In his the-
ory, then, the principle has two roles. It determines
which rules we should adopt and resolves conflicts
between them.
Nel Noddings argues for an ethics of caring.
Kant begins his ethical reflections by affirming that
only one thing is good unconditionally, without
qualification—a good will. But what is it to have a
good will? Kant gives two answers: to act on the basis
of principle, and to respect others as ends in them-
selves. He doesn’t explore a more obvious, common-
sense answer: to care about others. A good-hearted
person cares about other people, values them, and
tries to help them. That, Noddings argues, is the
basis for ethics. We have natural feelings of caring; a
mother, for example, naturally cares about her child.
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 12 First Principles
As we grow, morally speaking, we learn to extend
these feelings to others even when they don’t arise
naturally.
Caring, Noddings contends, makes the difference
between “Something must be done” and “I must do
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 12
something.” It takes us from moral evaluation to
action. Caring, in short, solves Hume’s problem.
Reason doesn’t impel us to do anything. Caring
pushes us beyond the conclusions of reason to
acting morally.
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 g
CONFUCIUS
from The Analects

Kong Fuzi (K’ung Fu-Tzu)—Grand Master Kong, or, as he became known in the West,
Confucius (551–479 B.C.E.)—was a contemporary of Lao Tzu and the Buddha. Born into a poor
family in Lu (now Shandong Province in northeastern China), he was completely self-educated.
His father died when he was three. At nineteen, he married, and had a son and two daughters.
He got a government job, first managing a state granary and then managing herds of cattle
and sheep. But at twenty-two he quit his job and opened up a school. He rose from poverty and
obscurity to become the most influential and revered person in the history of China.
Confucius begins with the question “What kind of person should I try to become?”, and
centers his answer on the concept of virtue (ren). He contrasts selfishness, a desire for personal
gain, with righteousness (yi or i), a desire to do what is right just because it is right. The superior
person does the right thing for the right reason—because it is the right thing to do—not in order
to get something else.
Confucius holds that different virtues pertain to different relationships. There are virtues to
be displayed toward other people in general, virtues to be displayed to friends and family, and
virtues to exhibit to oneself. All are important, but all rest on the virtues of the self, which are
central to virtue in general.
The basic virtues toward others are faithfulness and the five key components of ren:
seriousness, generosity, sincerity, diligence, and kindness. The chief principle for dealing with
other people is zhong, reciprocity (sometimes translated “altruism” or “likening to oneself”):
“What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others” (5:11, 12:2, 15:23). This so-called
Silver Rule is a logically weaker cousin of the Golden Rule: “What you would have others do
unto you, do so unto them.” There are also virtues special to relationships with family and
friends: filial piety—obedience, reverence, and service to one’s parents and elders—and fraternal
submission, service and trustworthiness to one’s equals. These virtues are roots of ren. We learn
how to treat others by learning how to interact with those closest to us. Most fundamental of all
are the virtues of the self. Knowledge leads to virtuous thought, which leads to virtuous feelings,
which leads in turn to virtuous action.
Confucius, like Aristotle, thinks of virtue as a mean between extremes; the properly generous
person, for example, gives appropriately, neither too much nor too little, to the right person in
the right circumstances. The best way to find the mean is to follow the rules of propriety, the
traditional social rules intended to regulate action and craft character. (Source: From Confucius,
The Analects. Translated by James Legge. The translation has been revised for readability and
similarity of style to the Chinese.)

13

bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 13 12/28/11 8:14 PM

 14 First Principles • Theoretical Approaches
1:1. The Master said, “Isn’t it pleasant to learn and
to apply what you’ve learned? Isn’t it delightful to
have friends coming from far away? Isn’t he a person
of complete virtue who doesn’t get angry that others
don’t appreciate him?”
1:2. Yu said, “Few filial and fraternal people like
to offend their superiors, and nobody who doesn’t
like to offend superiors likes to stir up rebellion. The
superior person attends to the root of things. From
the root grows the Way [dao]. Filial piety and frater-
nal submission are the root of virtue [ren].”
1:4. Zeng said, “Every day I examine myself on
three points: whether, with others, I may have been
unfaithful; whether, with friends, I may have been
untrustworthy; whether I may have failed to master
and practice the instructions of my teacher.”
1:6. The Master said, “A youth at home should
be filial; abroad, respectful to elders. He should be
earnest and truthful. He should overflow with love
to all and cultivate the friendship of the good. When
he has time and opportunity after doing these things,
he should study.”
1:7. Zi Xia said, “If someone turns from the love
of beauty to a sincere love of virtue; if he can serve
his parents with all his strength; if he can serve his
prince with his life; if his words to his friends are sin-
cere; although people say he has not learned, I will
certainly say that he has.”
1:8. The Master said, “A scholar who is not seri-
ous will not be venerated, and his learning will not
be solid. Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first
principles. Have no friends not equal to yourself.
When you have faults, do not be afraid to abandon
them.”
1:12. Yu said, “In practicing propriety, a natu-
ral ease is best. This is the excellence of the ancient
kings, and in things small and great we follow them.
Yet it is not to be observed in all cases. Anyone who
knows and manifests such ease must regulate it by
propriety.”
1:14. The Master said, “A superior person doesn’t
seek gratification or comfort. He’s earnest in what he
does; he’s careful in speech. He associates with peo-
ple of principle to set himself right. Such a person
truly loves to learn.”
2:3. The Master said, “If the people are led by laws
and restrained by punishments, they will try to avoid
them without any sense of shame. If they are led by
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 14
virtue and restrained by propriety, they will have a
sense of shame and become good.”
2:4. At fifteen, I had my mind bent on learning.
At thirty, I stood firm. At forty, I had no doubts. At
fifty, I knew the decrees of Heaven. At sixty, my ear
obeyed truth. At seventy, I could follow what my
heart desired without transgressing what was right.”
2:10. The Master said, “See what a person does.
Mark his motives. Examine his habits. How can any-
one conceal his character? How can anyone conceal
his character?”
2:14. The Master said, “The superior person is
open-minded and not partisan. The mean person is
partisan and not open-minded.”
2:17. The Master said, “Yu, shall I teach you
what knowledge is? When you know something, to
maintain that you know it; when you don’t know
something, to admit that you don’t know it—this is
knowledge.”
2:24. The Master said, “. . . To see what is right
and not do it is cowardice.”
4:2. The Master said, “Those without virtue can’t
abide long in a condition of poverty and hardship—
or in a condition of enjoyment. The virtuous are at
ease with virtue [ren]; the wise desire virtue.”
4:3. The Master said, “Only the truly virtuous
[ren] know what to love or hate in others.”
4:10. The Master said, “The superior person in the
world is not for anything or against anything; he fol-
lows what is right.”
4:11. The Master said, “The superior person
thinks of virtue; the small person thinks of comfort.
The superior person thinks of the law; the small per-
son thinks of favors.”
4:15. The Master said, “Shen, my doctrine is one
thread.” Zeng replied, “Yes.” The Master went out,
and the other disciples asked, “What do his words
mean?” Zeng said, “Our Master’s doctrine is to be
true to the principles of our nature and to exercise
them benevolently toward others—this and nothing
more.”
4:16. The Master said, “The superior person’s
mind is conversant with righteousness [yi]; the infe-
rior person’s mind is conversant with gain.”
4:17. The Master said, “When we see people of
worth, we should think of equaling them; when we
see people of a contrary character, we should turn
inward and examine ourselves.”
12/28/11 8:14 PM

5:11. Zi Kong said, “What I don’t want others to
do to me, I also want not to do to others.”
6:18. The Master said, “Those who know the Way
aren’t equal to those who love it, and those who love
it aren’t equal to those who delight in it.”
6:24. Zai Wu asked, “A benevolent person, told
‘Someone is in the well,’ will go in after him, I sup-
pose.” Confucius said, “Why should he? A superior
person may be made to go to the well, but not to go
down into it. One may impose upon him, but not
make a fool of him.”
6:25. The Master said, “The superior person stud-
ies all learning extensively and restrains himself by
propriety. So, he doesn’t swerve from the Way.”
6:27. The Master said, “Perfect is the virtue that
accords with the Constant Mean! For a long time, its
practice has been rare among the people.”
6:28. Zi Kong said, “What would you say about
someone who benefits people extensively and helps
everyone? May he be called perfectly virtuous [ren]?”
The Master said, “Why only virtuous? Must he not
have the qualities of a sage? Even Yao and Shun [leg-
endary rulers who lived as much as two millennia
earlier] weren’t like this. Someone of perfect virtue
[ren], wishing to establish himself, establishes oth-
ers; wishing to enlarge himself, enlarges others. To
be able to judge others by what is right in ourselves
is the art of virtue [ren].”
7:27. The Master said, “Maybe some act without
knowing why. I don’t. Hearing much, selecting what
is good, and following it, seeing much and remem-
bering it, are the second style of knowledge.”
8:2. The Master said, “Respectfulness without
propriety becomes laborious bustle. Caution without
propriety becomes timidity. Boldness without pro-
priety becomes insubordination; straightforwardness
without propriety becomes rudeness.”
12:1. Yan Yuan asked about perfect virtue [ren].
The Master said, “To subdue oneself and return to
propriety is virtue. If a man can subdue himself and
return to propriety for one day, all under heaven
will ascribe virtue to him. Is the practice of virtue
from oneself alone, or does it depend on others?”
Yan Yuan said, “I want to ask about these steps.” The
Master replied, “Don’t look at what is contrary to
propriety; don’t listen to what is contrary to propri-
ety; don’t speak what is contrary to propriety; don’t
make a move that is contrary to propriety.”
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 15
Confucius • The Analects 15
12:2. Zhong Kong asked about perfect virtue
[ren]. The Master said, “When you travel, act as if
you were receiving a great guest. Employ the people
as if you were assisting at a great sacrifice. Don’t do
to others what you wouldn’t want done to yourself.
Then no one in the country or in your family will
complain about you.”
12:9. Duke Ai asked Yu Zo, “Suppose the year is
one of scarcity and the government faces a deficit.
What is to be done?” Yu Zo replied, “Why not
demand from the people a tenth of their income?”
“With two tenths there isn’t enough,” said the Duke.
“How could I get by on one tenth?” Yu Zo answered,
“If the people have plenty, their ruler will not be
needy alone. If the people are needy, their ruler can’t
enjoy plenty alone.”
12:17. Qi Kang asked Confucius about govern-
ment. He replied, “To govern [cheng] is to rectify
[cheng]. If you lead correctly, who will dare to be
incorrect?”
13:3. Zi Lu said, “The ruler of Wei is waiting for
you to help him govern. What should be done first?”
The Master replied, “Rectify names.” “Really?” said
Zi Lu. “You’re wide of the mark. Why rectify names?”
The Master said, “How uncultivated you are, Yu! A
superior man shows a cautious reserve about what
he doesn’t know.”
13:6. The Master said, “If a ruler acts correctly, he
can govern without issuing orders. If he acts incor-
rectly, his orders won’t be followed.”
13:13. The Master said, “If a minister makes his
own conduct correct, what difficulty will he have in
governing? If he can’t rectify himself, how can he rec-
tify others?”
13:18. The Duke of She told Confucius, “Some of
us are upright. If our father had stolen a sheep, we’d
bear witness to it.” Confucius said, “In my country
the upright are different. The father conceals the mis-
conduct of the son, and the son conceals the miscon-
duct of the father. Uprightness is to be found in this.”
14:30. The Master said, “The way of the superior
person is threefold, but I am not equal to it. Virtuous
[ren], he is free from anxieties; wise, he is free from
perplexities; bold, he is free from fear.” Zi Kong said,
“Master, that’s you.”
14:36. Someone said, “What do you say about
the principle of repaying injury with kindness?” The
Master said, “How then will you repay kindness?
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 16 First Principles • Theoretical Approaches
Repay kindness with kindness and injury with
justice.”
15:17. The Master said, “The superior person
takes righteousness [yi] to be essential. He practices
it according to propriety. He brings it forth in humil-
ity. He completes it with sincerity. This is indeed a
superior person.”
15:20. The Master said, “What the superior per-
son seeks is in himself. What the inferior person
seeks is in others.”
15:23. Zi Kong asked, “Is there one word to serve
as a rule for practice throughout life?” Confucius
said, “It is reciprocity. What you don’t want done to
yourself, don’t do to others.”
16:10. Confucius said, “The superior person
thoughtfully considers nine things: With his eyes,
he wants to see clearly. With his ears, he wants
to hear distinctly. In countenance, he wants to be
warm. In demeanor, he wants to be respectful. In
speech, he wants to be sincere. In business, he wants
to be careful. When in doubt, he wants to ask oth-
ers. When angry, he thinks of difficulties that might
result. When he sees opportunity for gain, he thinks
of righteousness.”
17:6. Zi Qang asked Confucius about perfect vir-
tue [ren]. Confucius said: “To be able to practice five
QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION
1. Which virtues are central, according to Confu-
cius, and why?
2. What does Confucius mean by saying that filial
piety and fraternal submission are the roots of
virtue?
3. Confucius holds that loyalty to family and
friends is more important than general social
obligations. Consider his example. Do you agree
with him? Are there other examples that would
lead you to a different conclusion? If so, what
does that imply about how these obligations
should be balanced?
bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 16
things everywhere under Heaven constitutes perfect
virtue.” He begged to know what they were, and was
told, “Seriousness, generosity, sincerity, diligence,
and kindness. If you’re serious, you won’t be treated
with disrespect. If you’re generous, you’ll win all
hearts. If you’re sincere, you’ll be trusted. If you’re
diligent, you’ll accomplish much. If you’re kind,
you’ll enjoy the service of others.”
17:8. The Master said, “Yu, have you heard the six
things followed by the six confusions?” Yu replied,
“I haven’t.” “Sit down and I’ll tell you. The love of
benevolence without the love of learning leads to an
ignorant simplicity. The love of knowledge without
the love of learning leads to dissipation of mind. The
love of sincerity without the love of learning leads to
recklessness. The love of straightforwardness with-
out the love of learning leads to rudeness. The love of
boldness without the love of learning leads to insub-
ordination. The love of strength of character without
the love of learning leads to extravagance.”
20:3. The Master said, “Without recognizing the
ordinances of heaven, it’s impossible to be a supe-
rior person. Without acquaintance with propriety,
it’s impossible to establish one’s character. Without
knowing the force of words, it’s impossible to know
people.”
4. Is Confucius’s doctrine “one thread”? If so, why
does Zeng’s explanation mention two things?
5. Contrast the roles of knowledge and propriety in
helping the superior person find the mean and
thus act virtuously.
6. Confucius is sometimes criticized for encouraging
so much respect for tradition that change becomes
impossible. Is that criticism fair, in your view?
7. What might Confucius mean by the rectification
of names, and how does it relate to his key ethical
concepts?
12/28/11 8:14 PM
 g
ARISTOTLE
from Nicomachean Ethics

Aristotle (384–322 B.C.E.), born in Stagira, was the son of Nicomachus, the court physician to
Amyntas II, the king of Macedonia. Nicomachus died when Aristotle was a boy. After training
in medicine, Aristotle entered Plato’s Academy in Athens at the age of seventeen. He stayed
twenty years, until Plato’s death. In 342, he became the tutor of Alexander the Great, Amyntas’s
grandson, who was thirteen; Aristotle stayed at the Macedonian court as Alexander’s teacher
for three years, until Alexander was appointed regent. In 335, Aristotle returned to Athens to
establish his own school, the Lyceum. When Alexander died in 323, Athenians became suspicious
of Aristotle’s links to Macedonia. Fearing that he might be executed, as Socrates had been, he
fled Athens, “lest the Athenians sin twice against philosophy.” He died a year later in Chalcis of
chronic indigestion brought about by overwork.
Aristotle’s influence on intellectual history has been immense. He wrote treatises on physics,
biology, astronomy, psychology, logic, metaphysics, poetry, rhetoric, ethics, and politics.
Through the Middle Ages, in Europe and the Islamic world, Aristotle was known simply as “the
philosopher.” His philosophy is still important; most Western and Islamic thought is to some
degree Aristotelian. His scientific work, though now chiefly of historical interest, was remarkably
sophisticated. It was not superseded for more than 1,500 years.
The Nicomachean Ethics addresses the basic questions of moral philosophy: What is the
good? What is virtue? What is happiness? Aristotle believes that the good, for human beings—
what humans properly desire for its own sake—is happiness, which he thinks has its highest form
in contemplative activity. Aristotle holds that people can attain virtue and happiness, however,
only in the context of a good state governed in the proper way. Aristotle thus believes that ethics
and politics are intertwined. (Source: Reprinted by permission of the publishers from Aristotle’s
Nicomachean Ethics, translated by W. D. Ross. Oxford University Press, 1925. Most notes
have been omitted.)

Happiness aims at and what is the highest of all goods achiev-

able by action. Verbally there is very general agree-
BOOK I
ment; for both the general run of men and people
of superior refinement say that it is happiness,
4
and identify living well and doing well with being
Let us resume our inquiry and state, in view of the happy; but with regard to what happiness is they
fact that all knowledge and every pursuit aims at differ, and the many do not give the same account
some good, what it is that we say political science as the wise. . . .
17

bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 17 12/28/11 8:14 PM

 18 First Principles • Theoretical Approaches

7 of what it is is still desired. This might perhaps be

given, if we could first ascertain the function of man.
Let us again return to the good we are seeking, and ask
For just as for a flute-player, a sculptor, or any art-
what it can be. It seems different in different actions
ist, and, in general, for all things that have a func-
and arts; it is different in medicine, in strategy, and in
tion or activity, the good and the “well” is thought
the other arts likewise. What then is the good of each?
to reside in the function, so would it seem to be for
Surely that for whose sake everything else is done. In
man, if he has a function. Have the carpenter, then,
medicine this is health, in strategy victory, in architec-
and the tanner certain functions or activities, and has
ture a house, in any other sphere something else, and
man none? Is he born without a function? Or as eye,
in every action and pursuit the end; for it is for the sake
hand, foot, and in general each of the parts evidently
of this that all men do whatever else they do. There-
has a function, may one lay it down that man simi-
fore, if there is an end for all that we do, this will be the
larly has a function apart from all these? What then
good achievable by action, and if there are more than
can this be? Life seems to be common even to plants,
one, these will be the goods achievable by action.
but we are seeking what is peculiar to man. Let us
So the argument has by a different course reached
exclude, therefore, the life of nutrition and growth.
the same point; but we must try to state this even more
Next there would be a life of perception, but it also
clearly. Since there are evidently more than one end, and
seems to be common even to the horse, the ox, and
we choose some of these (e.g. wealth, flutes, and in gen-
every animal. There remains, then, an active life of
eral instruments) for the sake of something else, clearly
the element that has a rational principle; of this, one
not all ends are final ends; but the chief good is evidently
part has such a principle in the sense of being obedi-
something final. Therefore, if there is only one final end,
ent to one, the other in the sense of possessing one
this will be what we are seeking, and if there are more
and exercising thought. And, as “life of the rational
than one, the most final of these will be what we are
element” also has two meanings, we must state that
seeking. Now we call that which is in itself worthy of
life in the sense of activity is what we mean; for this
pursuit more final than that which is worthy of pursuit
seems to be the more proper sense of the term. Now
for the sake of something else, and that which is never
if the function of man is an activity of soul which
desirable for the sake of something else more final than
follows or implies a rational principle, and if we say
the things that are desirable both in themselves and for
“a so-and-so” and “a good so-and-so” have a func-
the sake of that other thing, and therefore we call final
tion which is the same in kind, e.g. a lyre-player
without qualification that which is always desirable in
and a good lyre-player, and so without qualification
itself and never for the sake of something else.
in all cases, eminence in respect of goodness being
Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is
added to the name of the function (for the function
held to be; for this we choose always for itself and
of a lyre-player is to play the lyre, and that of a good
never for the sake of something else, but honour,
lyre-player is to do so well): if this is the case, [and
pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed
we state the function of man to be a certain kind of
for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them
life, and this to be an activity or actions of the soul-
we should still choose each of them), but we choose
implying a rational principle, and the function of a
them also for the sake of happiness, judging that by
good man to be the good and noble performance of
means of them we shall be happy. Happiness, on the
these, and if any action is well performed when it is
other hand, no one chooses for the sake of these, nor,
performed in accordance with the appropriate excel-
in general, for anything other than itself. . . .
lence: if this is the case,] human good turns out to be
. . . Happiness, then, is something final and self-
activity of soul in accordance with virtue, and if there
sufficient, and is the end of action.
are more than one virtue, in accordance with the best
and most complete.
But we must add “in a complete life.” For one
The Function of Man
swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day;
Presumably, however, to say that happiness is the and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a
chief good seems a platitude, and a clearer account man blessed and happy. . . .

bon38219_pt1_007-162.indd 18 12/28/11 8:14 PM

Another random document with
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 DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI

Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least

the Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely
valley at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace
of houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several
missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its
former glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A
thick grove of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn
crosses and headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the
agreeable, is a whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe
fruit; not the small African kind, but a much larger and also juicier
imported variety, which drops into the hands of the passing traveller,
without calling for any exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under
the jurisdiction of the native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who,
as I am on very friendly terms with him, allows me, as a matter of
course, the use of this lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.
 FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER”
(Sarcopsylla penetrans)

The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley,

some 1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing,
but the water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not
only from this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are
nothing short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built
against the boma palisade on the right of the baraza, the interior of
which is not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not
long in finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect
to do—what they please. In any case they do not seem to be very
particular about the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can
attribute to no other cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature,
from which both Knudsen and I have suffered for some time. If a
man like Omari has to be left unwatched for a moment, he is capable
of anything. Besides this complaint, we are inconvenienced by the
state of our nails, which have become as hard as glass, and crack on
the slightest provocation, and I have the additional infliction of
pimples all over me. As if all this were not enough, we have also, for
the last week been waging war against the jigger, who has found his
Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde plateau. Our men are seen
all day long—whenever their chronic colds and the dysentery likewise
raging among them permit—occupied in removing this scourge of
Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the disastrous
consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see natives of
this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all their toes,
or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a well-formed leg
ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by the female of
Sarcopsylla penetrans, which bores its way under the skin and there
develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on the subject, it is
stated that one’s attention is called to the presence of this parasite by
an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with my experience, so
far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces between and under the
toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but if the creature
penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball of the foot, it
may escape even the most careful search till it has reached maturity.
Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible ulceration, of which
we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be prevented. It is much
easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the white skin of a
European than on that of a native, on which the dark speck scarcely
shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the fact that I
constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle in, were
taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I
thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive
sublimate. The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill
the hole with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of
the plateau south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all
the spaces under her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of
prophylactic treatment. What will be the result, if any, who can say?
The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are
really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to
smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from
the Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most
distressing results. Whether they contain opium or some other
narcotic, neither of us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both
“off,” three-quarters stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we
recovered—and what happened next? Half-an-hour later we were
once more smoking these poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the
craving for tobacco in the tropics.
Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken
seriously. I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which
have run their course in an incredibly short time. In the early
afternoon, I am busy with my old natives, asking questions and
making notes. The strong midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to
an extraordinary degree, the brain is active and vigorous, and work
progresses rapidly, while a pleasant warmth pervades the whole
body. Suddenly this gives place to a violent chill, forcing me to put on
my overcoat, though it is only half-past three and the afternoon sun
is at its hottest. Now the brain no longer works with such acuteness
and logical precision; more especially does it fail me in trying to
establish the syntax of the difficult Makua language on which I have
ventured, as if I had not enough to do without it. Under the
circumstances it seems advisable to take my temperature, and I do
so, to save trouble, without leaving my seat, and while going on with
my work. On examination, I find it to be 101·48°. My tutors are
abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the baraza; a few minutes
later I am in it and treating myself internally with hot water and
lemon-juice.
Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make
them carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring
heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might
mean a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my
great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling. This
is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment,
that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an
hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the
wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.
Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state
of things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever
should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a
kind of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and
more inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly
follow extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at
least have the advantage of being only short interruptions to my
work, as on the following morning I am always quite fresh and fit.
My treasure of a cook is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which
makes it difficult for him to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in
the dark on account of his inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy
from somewhere in the bush, knows still less of cooking than Omari;
consequently Nils Knudsen himself has been promoted to the vacant
post. Finding that we had come to the end of our supplies, he began
by sending to Chingulungulu for the four sucking-pigs which we had
bought from Matola and temporarily left in his charge; and when
they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he callously slaughtered
the biggest of them. The first joint we were thoughtless enough to
entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s mshenzi cook, and it was
consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal into a
jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding,
consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening
meals. The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned
vegetables. Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission
entrusted the provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his
own—because he had more time on his hands than the rest of us,
seems to have laid in a huge stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of
food which is all very well for occasional use, but which quickly palls
when set before one every day; and we seem to have no other tins
left. There is no help for it—we must put up with the turnips; but I
am certain that, once I am home again, I shall not touch them for ten
years to come.
Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the
genuine flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch:
Knudsen has, with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9
× 12 cm. camera, at least so far that I can use it with a little care.
How, in the absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a
ticklish piece of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for
taking to pieces and putting together again the complicated
mechanism of the instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but
he did it successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light
contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the
above operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his
ten years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion
to wash a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough
cleansing, for the bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an
extremely strong smell. Having performed his task in the most
conscientious manner, he perceived with some surprise that the dog
did not appear much the better for it, and was further surprised by
finding his own nails ulcerating away in the course of the next few
days. “How was I to know that carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he
mutters indignantly, from time to time, with a troubled gaze at his
mutilated finger-tips.
 Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all
directions through the surrounding country, in accordance with old
habit, and also because the akida Sefu did not get together the tribal
elders from whom I wanted information so speedily as he had
promised. There is, however, no harm done, as, even if seen only
from the outside, the country and people are interesting enough.
The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off
at the corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is
about seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the
Lukuledi it averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area
is about two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface,
however, is not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western
edge to the ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the
eye ranges for many miles east and north-east, without encountering
any obstacle, over the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which
here and there thick clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is
inhabited by men who carry on their tillage like so many other
primitive peoples, by cutting down and burning the bush, and
manuring with the ashes. Even in the radiant light of a tropical day
such a fire is a grand sight.
Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the
great western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as
time permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction,
sometimes in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to
let me enjoy the view; but I have always been disappointed.
Wherever one looks, clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush,
and the air is full of smoke and vapour. It is a pity, for under more
favourable circumstances the panorama of the whole country up to
the distant Majeje hills must be truly magnificent. It is of little use
taking photographs now, and an outline sketch gives a very poor idea
of the scenery. In one of these excursions I went out of my way to
make a personal attempt on the Makonde bush. The present edge of
the plateau is the result of a far-reaching process of destruction
through erosion and denudation. The Makonde strata are
everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short, are hundreds of
yards in depth. In consequence of the loose stratification of these
beds, not only are the walls of these ravines nearly vertical, but their
upper end is closed by an equally steep escarpment, so that the
western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in by a series of
deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side of such a ravine
to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a dozen of my men.
It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub, but even so the
short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very hard work; at
the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they themselves
bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong khaki
suits had not escaped scatheless.

NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR

MAHUTA

I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time
back as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have
no doubt that it is not a natural product, but the result of human
occupation. Those parts of the high country where man—as a very
slight amount of practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not
yet penetrated with axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid
timber forest quite able to sustain a comparison with our mixed
forests in Germany. But wherever man has once built his hut or tilled
his field, this horrible bush springs up. Every phase of this process
may be seen in the course of a couple of hours’ walk along the main
road. From the bush to right or left, one hears the sound of the axe—
not from one spot only, but from several directions at once. A few
steps further on, we can see what is taking place. The brush has been
cut down and piled up in heaps to the height of a yard or more,
between which the trunks of the large trees stand up like the last
pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These, too, present a
melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed them—
cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and also
piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and
son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too
busy, almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites
so much interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles
of brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken
the place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their
smouldering trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if
they have not already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes,
perhaps only showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.
This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the
virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already
cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble
of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the
secondary bush.
After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the
hoe, the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the
country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact,
receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in
the south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains,
where droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its
abundant rains and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have
the satisfaction of seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working
for them as labourers, driven by hunger to serve where they were
accustomed to rule.
But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no
harvest the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has
been familiar to the native for ages; consequently he provides in
time, and, while his crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe
and firebrand. Next year he plants this with his various crops and
lets the first piece lie fallow. For a short time it remains waste and
desolate; then nature steps in to repair the destruction wrought by
man; a thousand new growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and
even the old stumps put forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth
is up to one’s knees, and in a few years more it is that terrible,
impenetrable bush, which maintains its position till the black
occupier of the land has made the round of all the available sites and
come back to his starting point.
The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.
According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing
else but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been
settled up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great
stress on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the
south-east, near Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence
their peaceful forefathers were driven by the continual raids of the
Sakalavas from Madagascar and the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast,
to take refuge on the almost inaccessible plateau. I have studied
African ethnology for twenty years, but the fact that changes of
population in this apparently quiet and peaceable corner of the earth
could have been occasioned by outside enterprises taking place on
the high seas, was completely new to me. It is, no doubt, however,
correct.
The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us
of other interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the
thickest of the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau,
instead of making their permanent homes beside the purling brooks
and springs of the low country.
“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern
side of the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was
nothing but thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never
washed himself or shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little.
He went out and made a human figure from the wood of a tree
growing in the open country, which he took home to his abode in the
bush and there set it upright. In the night this image came to life and
was a woman. The man and woman went down together to the
Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave birth to a still-
born child. They left that place and passed over the high land into the
valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another child, which
was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush country of
Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew up. In
course of time, the couple had many more children, and called
themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the
Makonde, also called Wamakonde,[48] i.e., aborigines. Their
forefather, the man from the bush, gave his children the command to
bury their dead upright, in memory of the mother of their race who
was cut out of wood and awoke to life when standing upright. He also
warned them against settling in the valleys and near large streams,
for sickness and death dwelt there. They were to make it a rule to
have their huts at least an hour’s walk from the nearest watering-
place; then their children would thrive and escape illness.”
The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is
somewhat different from that contained in the above legend, which I
extract from a little book (small, but packed with information), by
Pater Adams, entitled Lindi und sein Hinterland. Otherwise, my
results agree exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing?
Hapana—there is no such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the
supply of water scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other
people do not wash, so why should the Makonde distinguish himself
by such needless eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short,
woolly crop scarcely needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is
likewise easy enough to follow. Beyond this, however, there is
nothing ridiculous in the ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from
various local artists a fairly large number of figures carved in wood,
ranging from fifteen to twenty-three inches in height, and
representing women belonging to the great group of the Mavia,
Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is remarkably well
done and renders the female type with great accuracy, especially the
keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the object and
meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more probably)
would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with the
scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures
were merely intended to represent the nembo—the artificial
deformations of pelele, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded
by Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely
be more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that
they are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably
unaware of the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.
 The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the
Rovuma, and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru
valley, undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the
travels of the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their
descendants. The descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with
its extraordinary fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible
at a glance—but the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent
to the Rondo Plateau and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie
within the bounds of probability, for all these districts have exactly
the same character as the extreme south. Now, however, comes a
point of especial interest for our bacteriological age. The primitive
Makonde did not enjoy their lives in the marshy river-valleys.
Disease raged among them, and many died. It was only after they
had returned to their original home near Mahuta, that the health
conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to think of the
African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is only equalled
by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused by evil
spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to
assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish
districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.
This knowledge is crystallized in the
ancestral warning against settling in the
valleys and near the great waters, the
dwelling-places of disease and death. At the
same time, for security against the hostile
Mavia south of the Rovuma, it was enacted
that every settlement must be not less than a
certain distance from the southern edge of the
plateau. Such in fact is their mode of life at the
present day. It is not such a bad one, and
certainly they are both safer and more
comfortable than the Makua, the recent
intruders from the south, who have made USUAL METHOD OF
good their footing on the western edge of the CLOSING HUT-DOOR
plateau, extending over a fairly wide belt of
country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings
anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain,
especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a
Makonde hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the
most important settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly
spacious huts. But how slovenly is their construction compared with
the palatial residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain.
The roofs are still more untidy than in the general run of huts during
the dry season, the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings
or the lamentable remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a
veritable dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts
only show any attempt at division into rooms, and this consists
merely of very roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone
have I noticed any indication of progress—in the method of fastening
the door. Houses all over the south are secured in a simple but
ingenious manner. The door consists of a set of stout pieces of wood
or bamboo, tied with bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in
two grooves round one of the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If
the owner wishes to leave home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s
upper arm and about a yard long. One of these is placed obliquely
against the middle of the door from the inside, so as to form an angle
of from 60° to 75° with the ground. He then places the second piece
horizontally across the first, pressing it downward with all his might.
It is kept in place by two strong posts planted in the ground a few
inches inside the door. This fastening is absolutely safe, but of course
cannot be applied to both doors at once, otherwise how could the
owner leave or enter his house? I have not yet succeeded in finding
out how the back door is fastened.

MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO

 This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe
Chauro, however, have a much more complicated, solid and original
one. Here, too, the door is as already described, except that there is
only one post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from
one side of the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just
large enough to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a
large wooden bolt passing through a hole in this post and pressing
with its free end against the door. The other end has three holes into
which fit three pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The
door is opened with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat
curved and sloped off at the butt; the other end has three pegs
corresponding to the holes, in the bolt, so that, when it is thrust
through the hole in the wall and inserted into the rectangular
opening in the post, the pegs can be lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]

MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY

With no small pride first one householder and then a second

showed me on the spot the action of this greatest invention of the
Makonde Highlands. To both with an admiring exclamation of
“Vizuri sana!” (“Very fine!”). I expressed the wish to take back these
marvels with me to Ulaya, to show the Wazungu what clever fellows
the Makonde are. Scarcely five minutes after my return to camp at
Newala, the two men came up sweating under the weight of two
heavy logs which they laid down at my feet, handing over at the same
time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing, logically enough, that if
the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted with it, they had taken
their axes and chopped down the posts—as it never occurred to them
to dig them out of the ground and so bring them intact. Thus I have
two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead of praise,
come in for a blowing-up.
The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially
miserable; their more than slovenly construction reminds one of the
temporary erections of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here
have not been concerned in a war. It must therefore be due to
congenital idleness, or else to the absence of a powerful chief. Even
the baraza at Mlipa’s, a short hour’s walk south-east of Newala,
shares in this general neglect. While public buildings in this country
are usually looked after more or less carefully, this is in evident
danger of being blown over by the first strong easterly gale. The only
attractive object in this whole district is the grave of the late chief
Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while the sun was still trying with
partial success to break through the rolling mists, and the circular
grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a broken pot, is all that marks
the old king’s resting-place, impressed one with a touch of pathos.
Even my very materially-minded carriers seemed to feel something
of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald songs, they chanted
solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green of the Makonde
bush:—
 “We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have
no fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the
Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great
master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”
With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here
on the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other
conclusion than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is
impossible for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any
given individual at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even
an anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination,
might find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples
collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central
African rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian
Ocean, are closely related to each other—some of their languages are
only distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech,
and no doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and
structure of skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking
differences in outward appearance.
 Even did such exist, I should have no time
to concern myself with them, for day after day,
I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in
any case to grasp and record—an
extraordinary number of ethnographic
phenomena. I am almost disposed to think it
fortunate that some departments of inquiry, at
least, are barred by external circumstances.
Chief among these is the subject of iron-
working. We are apt to think of Africa as a
country where iron ore is everywhere, so to
speak, to be picked up by the roadside, and
where it would be quite surprising if the
inhabitants had not learnt to smelt the
material ready to their hand. In fact, the
knowledge of this art ranges all over the
continent, from the Kabyles in the north to the
Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma
and the Lukuledi the conditions are not so
favourable. According to the statements of the
Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other
form of iron ore is known to them. They have
not therefore advanced to the art of smelting
the metal, but have hitherto bought all their
THE ANCESTRESS OF
THE MAKONDE
iron implements from neighbouring tribes.
Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much
better off. Only one man now living is said to
understand the art of smelting iron. This old fundi lives close to
Huwe, that isolated, steep-sided block of granite which rises out of
the green solitude between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose
jagged and splintered top meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While
still at Masasi I wished to see this man at work, but was told that,
frightened by the rising, he had retired across the Rovuma, though
he would soon return. All subsequent inquiries as to whether the
fundi had come back met with the genuine African answer, “Bado”
(“Not yet”).
 BRAZIER

Some consolation was afforded me by a brassfounder, whom I

came across in the bush near Akundonde’s. This man is the favourite
of women, and therefore no doubt of the gods; he welds the glittering
brass rods purchased at the coast into those massive, heavy rings
which, on the wrists and ankles of the local fair ones, continually give
me fresh food for admiration. Like every decent master-craftsman he
had all his tools with him, consisting of a pair of bellows, three
crucibles and a hammer—nothing more, apparently. He was quite
willing to show his skill, and in a twinkling had fixed his bellows on
the ground. They are simply two goat-skins, taken off whole, the four
legs being closed by knots, while the upper opening, intended to
admit the air, is kept stretched by two pieces of wood. At the lower
end of the skin a smaller opening is left into which a wooden tube is
stuck. The fundi has quickly borrowed a heap of wood-embers from
the nearest hut; he then fixes the free ends of the two tubes into an
earthen pipe, and clamps them to the ground by means of a bent
piece of wood. Now he fills one of his small clay crucibles, the dross
on which shows that they have been long in use, with the yellow
material, places it in the midst of the embers, which, at present are
only faintly glimmering, and begins his work. In quick alternation
the smith’s two hands move up and down with the open ends of the
bellows; as he raises his hand he holds the slit wide open, so as to let
the air enter the skin bag unhindered. In pressing it down he closes
the bag, and the air puffs through the bamboo tube and clay pipe into
the fire, which quickly burns up. The smith, however, does not keep
on with this work, but beckons to another man, who relieves him at
the bellows, while he takes some more tools out of a large skin pouch
carried on his back. I look on in wonder as, with a smooth round
stick about the thickness of a finger, he bores a few vertical holes into
the clean sand of the soil. This should not be difficult, yet the man
seems to be taking great pains over it. Then he fastens down to the
ground, with a couple of wooden clamps, a neat little trough made by
splitting a joint of bamboo in half, so that the ends are closed by the
two knots. At last the yellow metal has attained the right consistency,
and the fundi lifts the crucible from the fire by means of two sticks
split at the end to serve as tongs. A short swift turn to the left—a
tilting of the crucible—and the molten brass, hissing and giving forth
clouds of smoke, flows first into the bamboo mould and then into the
holes in the ground.
The technique of this backwoods craftsman may not be very far
advanced, but it cannot be denied that he knows how to obtain an
adequate result by the simplest means. The ladies of highest rank in
this country—that is to say, those who can afford it, wear two kinds
of these massive brass rings, one cylindrical, the other semicircular
in section. The latter are cast in the most ingenious way in the
bamboo mould, the former in the circular hole in the sand. It is quite
a simple matter for the fundi to fit these bars to the limbs of his fair
customers; with a few light strokes of his hammer he bends the
pliable brass round arm or ankle without further inconvenience to
the wearer.
SHAPING THE POT

SMOOTHING WITH MAIZE-COB

CUTTING THE EDGE

 FINISHING THE BOTTOM

LAST SMOOTHING BEFORE

BURNING

FIRING THE BRUSH-PILE

 LIGHTING THE FARTHER SIDE OF
THE PILE

TURNING THE RED-HOT VESSEL

NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASASI

Pottery is an art which must always and everywhere excite the
interest of the student, just because it is so intimately connected with
the development of human culture, and because its relics are one of
the principal factors in the reconstruction of our own condition in
prehistoric times. I shall always remember with pleasure the two or
three afternoons at Masasi when Salim Matola’s mother, a slightly-
built, graceful, pleasant-looking woman, explained to me with
touching patience, by means of concrete illustrations, the ceramic art
of her people. The only implements for this primitive process were a
lump of clay in her left hand, and in the right a calabash containing
the following valuables: the fragment of a maize-cob stripped of all
its grains, a smooth, oval pebble, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, a
few chips of gourd-shell, a bamboo splinter about the length of one’s
hand, a small shell, and a bunch of some herb resembling spinach.
 Nothing more. The woman scraped with the
shell a round, shallow hole in the soft, fine
sand of the soil, and, when an active young
girl had filled the calabash with water for her,
she began to knead the clay. As if by magic it
gradually assumed the shape of a rough but
already well-shaped vessel, which only wanted
a little touching up with the instruments
before mentioned. I looked out with the
MAKUA WOMAN closest attention for any indication of the use
MAKING A POT. of the potter’s wheel, in however rudimentary
SHOWS THE a form, but no—hapana (there is none). The
BEGINNINGS OF THE embryo pot stood firmly in its little
POTTER’S WHEEL
depression, and the woman walked round it in
a stooping posture, whether she was removing
small stones or similar foreign bodies with the maize-cob, smoothing
the inner or outer surface with the splinter of bamboo, or later, after
letting it dry for a day, pricking in the ornamentation with a pointed
bit of gourd-shell, or working out the bottom, or cutting the edge
with a sharp bamboo knife, or giving the last touches to the finished
vessel. This occupation of the women is infinitely toilsome, but it is
without doubt an accurate reproduction of the process in use among
our ancestors of the Neolithic and Bronze ages.
There is no doubt that the invention of pottery, an item in human
progress whose importance cannot be over-estimated, is due to
women. Rough, coarse and unfeeling, the men of the horde range
over the countryside. When the united cunning of the hunters has
succeeded in killing the game; not one of them thinks of carrying
home the spoil. A bright fire, kindled by a vigorous wielding of the
drill, is crackling beside them; the animal has been cleaned and cut
up secundum artem, and, after a slight singeing, will soon disappear
under their sharp teeth; no one all this time giving a single thought
to wife or child.
To what shifts, on the other hand, the primitive wife, and still more
the primitive mother, was put! Not even prehistoric stomachs could
endure an unvarying diet of raw food. Something or other suggested
the beneficial effect of hot water on the majority of approved but
indigestible dishes. Perhaps a neighbour had tried holding the hard
roots or tubers over the fire in a calabash filled with water—or maybe
an ostrich-egg-shell, or a hastily improvised vessel of bark. They
became much softer and more palatable than they had previously
been; but, unfortunately, the vessel could not stand the fire and got
charred on the outside. That can be remedied, thought our
ancestress, and plastered a layer of wet clay round a similar vessel.
This is an improvement; the cooking utensil remains uninjured, but
the heat of the fire has shrunk it, so that it is loose in its shell. The
next step is to detach it, so, with a firm grip and a jerk, shell and
kernel are separated, and pottery is invented. Perhaps, however, the
discovery which led to an intelligent use of the burnt-clay shell, was
made in a slightly different way. Ostrich-eggs and calabashes are not
to be found in every part of the world, but everywhere mankind has
arrived at the art of making baskets out of pliant materials, such as
bark, bast, strips of palm-leaf, supple twigs, etc. Our inventor has no
water-tight vessel provided by nature. “Never mind, let us line the
basket with clay.” This answers the purpose, but alas! the basket gets
burnt over the blazing fire, the woman watches the process of
cooking with increasing uneasiness, fearing a leak, but no leak
appears. The food, done to a turn, is eaten with peculiar relish; and
the cooking-vessel is examined, half in curiosity, half in satisfaction
at the result. The plastic clay is now hard as stone, and at the same
time looks exceedingly well, for the neat plaiting of the burnt basket
is traced all over it in a pretty pattern. Thus, simultaneously with
pottery, its ornamentation was invented.
Primitive woman has another claim to respect. It was the man,
roving abroad, who invented the art of producing fire at will, but the
woman, unable to imitate him in this, has been a Vestal from the
earliest times. Nothing gives so much trouble as the keeping alight of
the smouldering brand, and, above all, when all the men are absent
from the camp. Heavy rain-clouds gather, already the first large
drops are falling, the first gusts of the storm rage over the plain. The
little flame, a greater anxiety to the woman than her own children,
flickers unsteadily in the blast. What is to be done? A sudden thought
occurs to her, and in an instant she has constructed a primitive hut
out of strips of bark, to protect the flame against rain and wind.
This, or something very like it, was the way in which the principle
of the house was discovered; and even the most hardened misogynist
cannot fairly refuse a woman the credit of it. The protection of the
hearth-fire from the weather is the germ from which the human
dwelling was evolved. Men had little, if any share, in this forward
step, and that only at a late stage. Even at the present day, the
plastering of the housewall with clay and the manufacture of pottery
are exclusively the women’s business. These are two very significant
survivals. Our European kitchen-garden, too, is originally a woman’s
invention, and the hoe, the primitive instrument of agriculture, is,
characteristically enough, still used in this department. But the
noblest achievement which we owe to the other sex is unquestionably
the art of cookery. Roasting alone—the oldest process—is one for
which men took the hint (a very obvious one) from nature. It must
have been suggested by the scorched carcase of some animal
overtaken by the destructive forest-fires. But boiling—the process of
improving organic substances by the help of water heated to boiling-
point—is a much later discovery. It is so recent that it has not even
yet penetrated to all parts of the world. The Polynesians understand
how to steam food, that is, to cook it, neatly wrapped in leaves, in a
hole in the earth between hot stones, the air being excluded, and
(sometimes) a few drops of water sprinkled on the stones; but they
do not understand boiling.
To come back from this digression, we find that the slender Nyasa
woman has, after once more carefully examining the finished pot,
put it aside in the shade to dry. On the following day she sends me
word by her son, Salim Matola, who is always on hand, that she is
going to do the burning, and, on coming out of my house, I find her
already hard at work. She has spread on the ground a layer of very
dry sticks, about as thick as one’s thumb, has laid the pot (now of a
yellowish-grey colour) on them, and is piling brushwood round it.
My faithful Pesa mbili, the mnyampara, who has been standing by,
most obligingly, with a lighted stick, now hands it to her. Both of
them, blowing steadily, light the pile on the lee side, and, when the
flame begins to catch, on the weather side also. Soon the whole is in a
blaze, but the dry fuel is quickly consumed and the fire dies down, so
that we see the red-hot vessel rising from the ashes. The woman
turns it continually with a long stick, sometimes one way and
sometimes another, so that it may be evenly heated all over. In
twenty minutes she rolls it out of the ash-heap, takes up the bundle
of spinach, which has been lying for two days in a jar of water, and
sprinkles the red-hot clay with it. The places where the drops fall are
marked by black spots on the uniform reddish-brown surface. With a
sigh of relief, and with visible satisfaction, the woman rises to an
erect position; she is standing just in a line between me and the fire,
from which a cloud of smoke is just rising: I press the ball of my
camera, the shutter clicks—the apotheosis is achieved! Like a
priestess, representative of her inventive sex, the graceful woman
stands: at her feet the hearth-fire she has given us beside her the
invention she has devised for us, in the background the home she has
built for us.
At Newala, also, I have had the manufacture of pottery carried on
in my presence. Technically the process is better than that already
described, for here we find the beginnings of the potter’s wheel,
which does not seem to exist in the plains; at least I have seen
nothing of the sort. The artist, a frightfully stupid Makua woman, did
not make a depression in the ground to receive the pot she was about
to shape, but used instead a large potsherd. Otherwise, she went to
work in much the same way as Salim’s mother, except that she saved
herself the trouble of walking round and round her work by squatting
at her ease and letting the pot and potsherd rotate round her; this is
surely the first step towards a machine. But it does not follow that
the pot was improved by the process. It is true that it was beautifully
rounded and presented a very creditable appearance when finished,
but the numerous large and small vessels which I have seen, and, in
part, collected, in the “less advanced” districts, are no less so. We
moderns imagine that instruments of precision are necessary to
produce excellent results. Go to the prehistoric collections of our
museums and look at the pots, urns and bowls of our ancestors in the
dim ages of the past, and you will at once perceive your error.
MAKING LONGITUDINAL CUT IN
BARK

DRAWING THE BARK OFF THE LOG

REMOVING THE OUTER BARK

 BEATING THE BARK

WORKING THE BARK-CLOTH AFTER BEATING, TO MAKE IT

SOFT

MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA

To-day, nearly the whole population of German East Africa is
clothed in imported calico. This was not always the case; even now in
some parts of the north dressed skins are still the prevailing wear,
and in the north-western districts—east and north of Lake
Tanganyika—lies a zone where bark-cloth has not yet been
superseded. Probably not many generations have passed since such
bark fabrics and kilts of skins were the only clothing even in the
south. Even to-day, large quantities of this bright-red or drab
material are still to be found; but if we wish to see it, we must look in
the granaries and on the drying stages inside the native huts, where
it serves less ambitious uses as wrappings for those seeds and fruits
which require to be packed with special care. The salt produced at
Masasi, too, is packed for transport to a distance in large sheets of
bark-cloth. Wherever I found it in any degree possible, I studied the
process of making this cloth. The native requisitioned for the
purpose arrived, carrying a log between two and three yards long and
as thick as his thigh, and nothing else except a curiously-shaped
mallet and the usual long, sharp and pointed knife which all men and
boys wear in a belt at their backs without a sheath—horribile dictu!
[51]
Silently he squats down before me, and with two rapid cuts has
drawn a couple of circles round the log some two yards apart, and
slits the bark lengthwise between them with the point of his knife.
With evident care, he then scrapes off the outer rind all round the
log, so that in a quarter of an hour the inner red layer of the bark
shows up brightly-coloured between the two untouched ends. With
some trouble and much caution, he now loosens the bark at one end,
and opens the cylinder. He then stands up, takes hold of the free
edge with both hands, and turning it inside out, slowly but steadily
pulls it off in one piece. Now comes the troublesome work of
scraping all superfluous particles of outer bark from the outside of
the long, narrow piece of material, while the inner side is carefully
scrutinised for defective spots. At last it is ready for beating. Having
signalled to a friend, who immediately places a bowl of water beside
him, the artificer damps his sheet of bark all over, seizes his mallet,
lays one end of the stuff on the smoothest spot of the log, and
hammers away slowly but continuously. “Very simple!” I think to
myself. “Why, I could do that, too!”—but I am forced to change my
opinions a little later on; for the beating is quite an art, if the fabric is
not to be beaten to pieces. To prevent the breaking of the fibres, the
stuff is several times folded across, so as to interpose several
thicknesses between the mallet and the block. At last the required
state is reached, and the fundi seizes the sheet, still folded, by both
ends, and wrings it out, or calls an assistant to take one end while he
holds the other. The cloth produced in this way is not nearly so fine
and uniform in texture as the famous Uganda bark-cloth, but it is
quite soft, and, above all, cheap.
Now, too, I examine the mallet. My craftsman has been using the
simpler but better form of this implement, a conical block of some
hard wood, its base—the striking surface—being scored across and
across with more or less deeply-cut grooves, and the handle stuck
into a hole in the middle. The other and earlier form of mallet is
shaped in the same way, but the head is fastened by an ingenious
network of bark strips into the split bamboo serving as a handle. The
observation so often made, that ancient customs persist longest in
connection with religious ceremonies and in the life of children, here
finds confirmation. As we shall soon see, bark-cloth is still worn
during the unyago,[52] having been prepared with special solemn
ceremonies; and many a mother, if she has no other garment handy,
will still put her little one into a kilt of bark-cloth, which, after all,
looks better, besides being more in keeping with its African
surroundings, than the ridiculous bit of print from Ulaya.
MAKUA WOMEN