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Henry Sidgwick- Eye of the Universe

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by Bart Schultz


  singularity.” In this, he sounded the note of toleration for difference more

  often associated with the younger Mill, though Mill could scarcely have

  written the line “It is wonderful that nobody has ever yet fancied it to be

  sinful to scratch where it itches, and that it has never been determined

  that the only natural way of scratching is with such or such a finger and

  that it is unnatural to scratch with any other.” As Louis Crompton has

  demonstrated,

  Bentham made himself the spokesman of a silent and invisible minority. First, he

  rejects the silence taboo. ‘It seems rather too much,’ he remarks with dry irony, ‘to subscribe to men’s being hanged to save the indecency of enquiring whether they

  deserve it.’ Then . . . he pleads from a more rational mode of debate, which would

  scrutinize the purported social evils of forbidden sexual conduct rather than give

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  rise to fervid rhetoric. . . . But, most of all, he insists that we should establish that an act really does cause social harm before we criminalize it.

  Although John Stuart Mill did not apply his eloquence to this particular

  Benthamite cause, he did of course advance the cause of feminism in ways

  that were also concerned with countering the psychology of bigotry and

  the unconscious hatred of pleasure, recognizing that legal reform was only

  one element of reform. As Mary Lyndon Shanley has suggested:

  Mill’s plea for an end to the subjection of women was not made, as critics such as

  Gertrude Himmelfarb assert, in the name of “the absolute nature of the principle

  of liberty, the exaltation of individuality whatever its particular form,” but in the name of the need of both men and women for community. . . . The Subjection of

  Women was an eloquent brief for men and women and a devastating critique of the corruption of marital inequality. Beyond that it also expressed Mill’s profoundly

  held belief that any “liberal” regime must promote the conditions under which

  friendship, not only in marriage but in other associations as well, will take root

  and flourish.

  As Mill famously put it, when

  each of two persons, instead of being a nothing, is a something; when they are

  attached to one another, and are not too much unlike to begin with; the constant

  partaking in the same things, assisted by their sympathy, draws out the latent

  capacities of each for being interested in the things which were at first interesting only to the other; and works a gradual assimilation of the tastes and characters

  to one another, partly by the insensible modifications of each, but more by a real

  enriching of the two natures, each acquiring the tastes and capacities of the other

  in addition to its own.

  This, he observes, often happens “between two friends of the same sex, who

  are much associated in daily life,” and it would be common in marriage, did

  not the lopsided socialization process render it “next to an impossibility

  to form a really well-assorted union.” No reform was more urgent than

  that of rendering the family a school of sympathy rather than a school of

  despotism. The capacity for authentic friendship was a core element of

  the happiness to be maximized.

  To be sure, Mill famously distanced himself from his Benthamite in-

  heritance, proclaiming it “one-eyed” and insufficiently sensitive to the

  internal culture of the individual, the feeling and caring side highlighted

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  by the Romantic movement, which could and should be stimulated by

  poetry and art. Wendy Donner has urged that

  Mill’s utilitarian commitments require him to maintain that feelings are pivotal to

  morality and that if we are to take pleasure in intellectual pursuits or in the good

  of others we must be persons who feel deeply, who are in touch with our emotions,

  and who are motivated by our concern for others. Cultivation of sympathy with

  others is the foundation of moral development, and two widely held tenets of

  feminism – a stress on the importance of feelings and of sympathetic attachments

  to others – flow from this.

  Indeed, Mill’s politics of friendship, which also reflected his debt to the

  Platonic revival during the Victorian era, also put him at odds with the ear-

  lier Benthamite views about laissez-faire. Mill and Harriet Taylor grew

  increasingly committed to exploring decentralized socialist alternatives

  to capitalism, forms of economic organization less hostile to the cultiva-

  tion of sympathy and civic friendship. Happiness, for them, was not a

  known quantity but something the frontiers of which needed to be ex-

  plored through practical social experiments testing the human potential –

  “experiments in living.”

  Thus, it is astonishing how often the earlier, secular utilitarian tradition

  was in fact busily engaging the very concerns that Keynes and Strachey

  (not to mention Russell and Moore) thought it had entirely neglected:

  the exploration of states of consciousness (or higher pleasures) defining

  ultimate good, the cultivation of these and the sympathetic self through

  friendship (and art), the perversities of the social intolerance of heterodox

  sexual relations, hetero- and homo-, and, indeed, the challenges posed by

  the unconscious roots of motivation. For both Bentham and Mill, the

  deeper appeal of utilitarianism, and the deeper forms of resistance to it,

  worked themselves out below the level of the conscious calculating ego.

  And the cause of Greek love had been better served by Bentham than by

  Byron and Shelley, and it would be better served still by Sidgwick and

  his friends, for whom friendship, in many different varieties, was both a

  crucial element of the happiness to be aimed at and a vital aspect of the

  inquiries needed to explore the human potential for happiness.

  At any rate, the hidden history of utilitarianism – especially in relation

  to and in contrast with visions of human nature as basically (and narrowly)

  self-interested or egoistic – forms another broad theme of this book, for

  Sidgwick’s contributions on this matter are of singular importance. To

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  be sure, Sidgwick was rather uncannily in line with many of the more

  compelling features of Mill’s moral and social philosophy, and it is useful

  to read him as carrying on that eclectic legacy (even more useful than to

  link him, as Rawls does, to the more
purely hedonistic Benthamite one).

  On a great raft of issues, he picked up where Mill – the real Mill – left

  off. Thus, Mill reworked utilitarianism: to reconcile it somewhat with

  commonsense moral rules and traditions; to recognize the complexity

  of individual psychology and the force of Romantic notions of human

  emotions, character, and happiness; to appraise the potential utility of

  religious belief; to explore the possibilities for some form of socialism

  (ethical if not economic); to make it a force for the liberation of women and

  the vitality and progress of a truly open society; and even (very tentatively,

  and despite his antipathy to Whewell) to suggest grounding it on intuition.

  On all of these counts and others, Sidgwick took his point of departure

  from Mill, the Mill who was at once a great liberal, a great reformer, a

  great socialist, and a great utilitarian. And behind the particular concerns,

  there was always the overriding obsession with the growth of “sympathy,”

  of “friendship,” so crucial for the future post-Christian era, so crucial

  for experiments in living. Sidgwick’s feminism, evident in the work for

  women’s higher education that he undertook in collaboration with his

  wife, Eleanor, effectively continued the efforts of Mill and Taylor. And

  this sheds further light on the continuity of their conceptions of reform

  and social equality, culture and civilization.

  Thus, if Sidgwick was a type of utilitarian, he was one who reflected the

  real complexity of that tradition rather than the stock view of it, so much

  so that later opponents of utilitarianism often look mild in comparison.

  As his friend James Bryce remarked:

  Sidgwick’s attitude toward the Benthamite system of Utilitarianism illustrates the

  cautiously discriminative habit of mind I have sought to describe. If he had been

  required to call himself by any name, he would not have refused that of Utilitarian,

  just as in mental philosophy he leaned to the type of thought represented by the two

  Mills rather than to the Kantian idealism of his friend and school contemporary,

  the Oxford professor T. H. Green. But the system of Utility takes in his hands

  a form so much more refined and delicate than was given to it by Bentham and

  James Mill, and is expounded with so many qualifications unknown to them, that

  it has become a very different thing, and is scarcely, if at all, assailable by the

  arguments which moralists of the idealistic type have brought against the older

  doctrine.

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  Indeed, in seeking to ground the “Great Hap” principle on an intu-

  itionist epistemology more often associated with the critics of utilitarian-

  ism (such as Whewell), Sidgwick, as Moore admitted, remained quite free

  of any taint of the “naturalistic fallacy” that supposedly undercut Mill’s

  justificatory efforts. Moreover, Sidgwick sought to appropriate Kantian

  universalizability for his own purposes, and if he criticized idealism at

  length, he also brought out many of the problems involved in trying to de-

  fend utilitarianism against commonsense and other objections, clarifying

  such matters as the difference between total and average utility calcula-

  tions, in connection with the question of optimal population growth. Most

  important, however, Sidgwick did not think that utilitarianism could be

  reconciled with egoism or self-interest; without a theistic postulate that the

  universe has a friendly moral order, there was ever the potential for a basic

  conflict between acting for one’s own greatest happiness and acting for

  the greatest happiness of all, each option presenting itself as what one has

  most reason to do. The gloomy last line of the first edition of the Methods

  rang out like an English version of the “crisis of the Enlightenment,”

  warning that practical reason might be reduced to a “chaos.”

  This was the infamous “dualism of practical reason,” and the attempt

  to get beyond it – to effect some form of “harmonization” – was for

  Sidgwick another element of the deepest problems of human life, one that

  arose with special urgency with the decline of orthodox religion. He had

  none of that Humean insouciance that could take up skepticism toward

  such matters as the coincidence of duty and interest – or the worth of the-

  istic claims – with imperturbible good cheer. Sidgwick could not bear the

  thought of a universe so fundamentally perverse as to allow that the wages

  of virtue might “be dust,” and he endlessly explored every possible means

  of harmonization, including the perfectionist path of achieving reconcil-

  iation via cultivation of the self. In this, he was also more sophisticated

  than his predecessors on the problems involved in defining happiness,

  the limitations of construing it in terms of pleasure or desirable con-

  sciousness, and the uncertainties involved in seeking to maximize it. With

  him, Benthamite clarity had an extremely ironic denouement, highlight-

  ing the vast realm of the incalculable in human affairs, how much had to be

  left to uncertain judgment, and how deeply problematic egoistic reasons

  could be.

  Clearly, as much as Sidgwick was obsessed with egoism, he had noth-

  ing like the confidence of past or present libertarians in the ability of

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  markets and governmental institutions to mobilize self-interest to further

  the general happiness. A society cannot long hold together with such weak

  cement, and in society as it stood, egoistic concern was too apt to take a

  narrow and singularly self-defeating form. Indeed, Sidgwick thought that

  it was crucial to foster, among other things, the “spirit of justice,” and “to

  develop the elements from which the moral habit of justice springs – on

  the one hand, sympathy, and the readiness to imagine oneself in another’s

  place and look at things from his point of view; and on the other hand,

  the intelligent apprehension of common interests” (PE ). And when

  it came to praising attempts to build more cooperative, beneficent social

  relations, in which work is its own reward or done for the sake of the

  community, he could sound like his mentor Mill on socialism.

  But Sidgwick carried these concerns to new limits, places the older

  utilitarians had never envisioned. Fretful about the viability of traditional

  religious belief, and about the conclusiveness of the reasons for acting to

  advance the greatest happiness, he was intensely interested in the possi-

  bility that psychical research might provide some new evidence for the

  moral order of the universe, for the
reality of the afterlife. Thus, the ag-

  gressive secular utilitarianism of Bentham, who was morbidly afraid of

  ghosts, eventually produced the eclectic utilitarianism of Sidgwick, who

  chased ghosts with a passion, convinced that they might reveal to him the

  “secret of the Universe.”

  Moreover, Sidgwick’s explorations of the Other World were inextricably

  linked to his explorations of the Inner World, the world of depth psychol-

  ogy that Freud would shortly be entering, partly courtesy of Sidgwick’s

  Society for Psychical Research. In his dealings with psychics and mediums,

  or with ordinary people who had had extraordinary experiences, he was

  exposed to the vast range of unconscious mental processes: trance states,

  premonitions, hallucinations, dreams, visions, channelling, split and mul-

  tiple personalities. This was unlike anything Mill had ever dealt with, in

  his efforts to marry utilitarianism to Romantic celebrations of individual

  genius and powerful emotion. If Mill had called for a new science of indi-

  vidual psychology – ethology – Sidgwick answered the call by delving into

  depth psychology and parapsychology, playing a key role in what has mis-

  leadingly been called the “discovery of the unconscious.” Studied religious

  introspection, the Platonic revival, Romantic self-expression, Apostolic

  friendship, parapsychology, and the utilitarian investigation of the nature

  of pleasure all ended up pushing Sidgwick in the same direction – to

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  make of himself an experiment in living, to test the limits defining his

  “true self,” when the true self was turning out to be difficult to decipher.

  Should psychical research fail to provide evidence for the afterlife, much

  would depend on how far sentiment could be reshaped to foster sympathy

  without such foundations.

  What is more, this search for the truth about self-identity was of-

  ten tied to questions of sexual identity. It is a remarkable and revealing

  fact that nearly all of Sidgwick’s closest friends were champions of male

  love: H. G. Dakyns, Roden Noel, Oscar Browning, F. W. Myers, Arthur

 

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