{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_50189/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_50189","id":"gutenberg_50189","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50189","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Ethics"],"text":"HUMBOLDT LIBRARY\n                                   OF\n                       POPULAR SCIENCE LITERATURE.\n\n\n\n                          THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS\n                                   OF\n                                 MORALS,\n                            AND OTHER ESSAYS;\n\n\n  Viz.: Right and Wrong; The Ethics of Belief; The Ethics of Religion.\n\n\n                  By WILLIAM KINGDON CLIFFORD, F.R.S.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nI. ON THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF MORALS.\n\n\nBy Morals or Ethic I mean the doctrine of a special kind of pleasure or\ndispleasure which is felt by the human mind in contemplating certain\ncourses of conduct, whereby they are felt to be right or wrong,\nand of a special desire to do the right things and avoid the wrong\nones. The pleasure or displeasure is commonly called the moral sense;\nthe corresponding desire might be called the moral appetite. These\nare facts, existing in the consciousness of every man who need be\nconsidered in this discussion, and sufficiently marked out by these\nnames; they need no further definition. In the same way the sense\nof taste is a feeling of pleasure or displeasure in things savory or\nunsavory, and is associated with a desire for the one and a repulsion\nfrom the other. We must assume that everybody knows what these words\nmean; the feelings they describe may be analyzed or accounted for,\nbut they cannot be more exactly defined as feelings.\n\nThe maxims of ethic are recommendations or commands of the form,\n'Do this particular thing because it is right,' or 'Avoid this\nparticular thing because it is wrong.' They express the immediate\ndesire to do the right thing for itself, not for the sake of anything\nelse: on this account the mood of them is called the categorical\nimperative. The particular things commanded or forbidden by such\nmaxims depend upon the character of the individual in whose mind they\narise. There is a certain general agreement in the ethical code of\npersons belonging to the same race at a given time, but considerable\nvariations in different races and times. To the question 'What is\nright?' can therefore only be answered in the first instance, 'That\nwhich pleases your moral sense.' But it may be further asked 'What\nis generally thought right?' and the reply will specify the ethic of\na particular race and period. But the ethical code of an individual,\nlike the standard of taste, may be modified by habit and education;\nand accordingly the question may be asked, 'How shall I order my\nmoral desires so as to be able to satisfy them most completely and\ncontinuously? What ought I to feel to be right?' The answer to this\nquestion must be sought in the study of the conditions under which\nthe moral sense was produced and is preserved; in other words, in the\nstudy of its functions as a property of the human organism. The maxims\nderived from this study may be called maxims of abstract or absolute\nright; they are not absolutely universal, 'eternal and immutable,'\nbut they are independent of the individual, and practically universal\nfor the present condition of the human species.\n\nI mean by Science the application of experience to new circumstances,\nby the aid of an order of nature which has been observed in the\npast, and on the assumption that such order will continue in the\nfuture. The simplest use of experience as a guide to action is probably\nnot even conscious; it is the association by continually-repeated\nselection of certain actions with certain circumstances, as in the\nunconsciously-acquired craft of the maker of flint implements. I\nstill call this science, although it is only a beginning; because\nthe physiological process is a type of what takes place in all later\nstages. The next step may be expressed in the form of a hypothetical\nmaxim,--'If you want to make brass, melt your copper along with this\nblue stone.' To a maxim of this sort it may always be replied, 'I do\nnot want to make brass, and so I shall not do as you tell me.' This\nreply is anticipated in the final form of science, when it is expressed\nas a statement or proposition: brass is an alloy of copper and zinc,\nand calamine is zinc carbonate. Belief in a general statement is\nan artifice of our mental constitution, whereby infinitely various\nsensations and groups of sensations are brought into connection with\ninfinitely various actions and groups of actions. On the phenomenal\nside there corresponds a certain cerebral structure by which various\ncombinations of disturbances in the sensor tract are made to lead to\nthe appropriate combinations of disturbances in the motor tract. The\nimportant point is that science, though apparently transformed into\npure knowledge, has yet never lost its character of being a craft;\nand that it is not the knowledge itself which can rightly be called\nscience, but a special way of getting and of using knowledge. Namely,\nscience is the getting of knowledge from experience on the assumption\nof uniformity in nature, and the use of such knowledge to guide the\nactions of men. And the most abstract statements or propositions in\nscience are to be regarded as bundles of hypothetical maxims packed\ninto a portable shape and size. Every scientific fact is a shorthand\nexpression for a vast number of practical directions: if you want\nso-and-so, do so-and-so.\n\nIf with this meaning of the word 'Science,' there is such a thing as\na scientific basis of Morals, it must be true that,--\n\n1. The maxims of Ethic are hypothetical maxims.\n\n2. Derived from experience.\n\n3. On the assumption of uniformity in nature.\n\nThese propositions I shall now endeavor to prove; and in conclusion,\nI shall indicate the direction in which we may look for those general\nstatements of fact whose organization will complete the likeness of\nethical and physical science.\n\nThe Tribal Self.--In the metaphysical sense, the word 'self' is\ntaken to mean the conscious subject, das Ich, the whole stream of\nfeelings which make up a consciousness regarded as bound together by\nassociation and memory. But, in the more common and more restricted\nethical sense, what we call self is a selected aggregate of feelings\nand of objects related to them, which hangs together as a conception by\nvirtue of long and repeated association. My self does not include all\nmy feelings, because habitually separate off some of them, say they\ndo not properly belong to me, and treat them as my enemies. On the\nother hand, it does in general include my body regarded as an object,\nbecause of the feelings which occur simultaneously with events which\naffect it. My foot is certainly part of myself, because I get hurt when\nanybody treads on it. When we desire anything for its somewhat remote\nconsequences, it is not common for these to be represented to the mind\nin the form of the actual feelings of pleasure which are ultimately to\nflow from the satisfaction of the desire; instead of this, they are\nreplaced by a symbolic conception which represents the thing desired\nas doing good to the complex abstraction self. This abstraction serves\nthus to support and hold together those complex and remote motives\nwhich make up by far the greater part of the life of the intelligent\nraces. When a thing is desired for no immediate pleasure that it\ncan bring, it is generally desired on account of a certain symbolic\nsubstitute for pleasure, the feeling that this thing is suitable to\nthe self. And, as in many like cases, this feeling, which at first\nderived its pleasurable nature from the faintly represented simple\npleasures of which it was a symbol, ceases after a time to recall\nthem and becomes a simple pleasure itself. In this way the self\nbecomes a sort of center about which our remoter motives revolve,\nand to which they always have regard; in virtue of which, moreover,\nthey become immediate and simple, from having been complex and remote.\n\nIf we consider now the simpler races of mankind, we shall find not\nonly that immediate desires play a far larger part in their lives,\nand so that the conception of self is less used and less developed,\nbut also that it is less definite and more wide. The savage is not\nonly hurt when anybody treads on his foot, but when anybody treads on\nhis tribe. He may lose his hut, and his wife, and his opportunities\nof getting food. In this way the tribe becomes naturally included in\nthat conception of self which renders remote desires possible by making\nthem immediate. The actual pains or pleasures which come from the woe\nor weal of the tribe, and which were the source of this conception,\ndrop out of consciousness and are remembered no more; the symbol which\nhas replaced them becomes a center and goal of immediate desires,\npowerful enough in many cases to override the strongest suggestions\nof individual pleasure or pain.\n\nHere a helping cause comes in. The tribe, qu\u00e2 tribe, has to exist,\nand it can only exist by aid of such an organic artifice as the\nconception of the tribal self in the minds of its members. Hence the\nnatural selection of those races in which this conception is the most\npowerful and most habitually predominant as a motive over immediate\ndesires. To such an extent has this proceeded that we may fairly\ndoubt whether the selfhood of the tribe is not earlier in point of\ndevelopment than that of the individual. In the process of time it\nbecomes a matter of hereditary transmission, and is thus fixed as\na specific character in the constitution of social man. With the\nsettlement of countries, and the aggregation of tribes into nations,\nit takes a wider and more abstract form; and in the highest natures the\ntribal self is incarnate in nothing less than humanity. Short of these\nheights, it places itself in the family and in the city. I shall call\nthat quality or disposition of man which consists in the supremacy\nof the family or tribal self as a mark of reference for motives by\nits old name Piety. And I have now to consider certain feelings and\nconceptions to which the existence of piety must necessarily give rise.\n\nBefore going further, however, it will be advisable to fix as\nprecisely as may be the sense of the words just used. Self, then, in\nthe ethical sense, is a conception in the mind of the individual which\nserves as a peg on which remote desires are hung and by which they are\nrendered immediate. The individual self is such a peg for the hanging\nof remote desires which affect the individual only. The tribal self\nis a conception in the mind of the individual which serves as a peg\non which those remote desires are hung which were implanted in him\nby the need of the tribe as a tribe. We must carefully distinguish\nthe tribal self from society, or the 'common consciousness;' it is\nsomething in the mind of each individual man which binds together\nhis gregarious instincts.\n\nThe word tribe is here used to mean a group of that size which in the\ncircumstances considered is selected for survival or destruction as\na group. Self-regarding excellences are brought out by the natural\nselection of individuals; the tribal self is developed by the natural\nselection of groups. The size of the groups must vary at different\ntimes; and the extent of the tribal self must vary accordingly.\n\nApprobation and Conscience.--The tribe has to exist. Such tribes\nas saw no necessity for it have ceased to live. To exist, it must\nencourage piety; and there is a method which lies ready to hand.\n\nWe do not like a man whose character is such that we may reasonably\nexpect injuries from him. This dislike of a man on account of his\ncharacter is a more complex feeling than the mere dislike of separate\ninjuries. A cat likes your hand and your lap, and the food you give\nher; but I do not think she has any conception of you. A dog, however,\nmay like you even when you thrash him, though he does not like the\nthrashing. Now such likes and dislikes may be felt by the tribal\nself. If a man does anything generally regarded as good for the tribe,\nmy tribal self may say, in the first place, 'I like that thing that\nyou have done.' By such common approbation of individual acts the\ninfluence of piety as a motive becomes defined; and natural selection\nwill in the long run preserve those tribes which have approved the\nright things; namely, those things which at that time gave the tribe\nan advantage in the struggle for existence. But in the second place,\na man may as a rule and constantly, being actuated by piety, do good\nthings for the tribe; and in that case the tribal self will say,\nI like you. The feeling expressed by this statement on the part of\nany individual, 'In the name of the tribe, I like you,' is what I\ncall approbation. It is the feeling produced in pious individuals by\nthat sort of character which seems to them beneficial to the community.\n\nNow suppose that a man has done something obviously harmful to the\ncommunity. Either some immediate desire, or his individual self, has\nfor once proved stronger than the tribal self. When the tribal self\nwakes up, the man says, 'In the name of the tribe, I do not like this\nthing that I, as an individual, have done.' This Self-judgment in the\nname of the tribe is called Conscience. If the man goes further and\ndraws from this act and others an inference about his own character,\nhe may say, 'In the name of the tribe, I do not like my individual\nself.' This is remorse. Mr. Darwin has well pointed out that immediate\ndesires are in general strong but of short duration, and cannot be\nadequately represented to the mind after they have passed; while\nthe social forces, though less violent, have a steady and continuous\naction.\n\nIn a mind sufficiently developed to distinguish the individual from the\ntribal self, conscience is thus a necessary result of the existence\nof piety; it is ready to hand as a means for its increase. But to\naccount for the existence of piety and conscience in the elemental\nform which we have hitherto considered is by no means to account for\nthe present moral nature of man. We shall be led many steps in that\ndirection if we consider the way in which society has used these\nfeelings of the individual as a means for its own preservation.\n\nRight and Responsibility.--A like or a dislike is one thing; the\nexpression of it is another. It is attached to the feeling by links of\nassociation; and when this association has been selectively modified\nby experience, whether consciously or unconsciously, the expression\nserves a purpose of retaining or repeating the thing liked, and of\nremoving the thing disliked. Such a purpose is served by the expression\nof tribal approbation or disapprobation, however little it may be the\nconscious end of such expression to any individual. It is necessary to\nthe tribe that the pious character should be encouraged and preserved,\nthe impious character discouraged and removed. The process is of two\nkinds; direct and reflex. In the direct process the tribal dislike of\nthe offender is precisely similar to the dislike of a noxious beast;\nand it expresses itself in his speedy removal. But in the reflex\nprocess we find the first trace of that singular and wonderful judgment\nby analogy which ascribes to other men a consciousness similar to our\nown. If the process were a conscious one, it might perhaps be described\nin this way: the tribal self says, 'Put yourself in this man's place;\nhe also is pious, but he has offended, and that proves that he is not\npious enough. Still, he has some conscience, and the expression of\nyour tribal dislike to his character, awakening his conscience, will\ntend to change him and make him more pious.' But the process is not a\nconscious one: the social craft or art of living together is learned\nby the tribe and not by the individual, and the purpose of improving\nmen's characters is provided for by complex social arrangements long\nbefore it has been conceived by any conscious mind. The tribal self\nlearns to approve certain expressions of tribal liking or disliking;\nthe actions whose open approval is liked by the tribal self are called\nright actions, and those whose open disapproval is liked are called\nwrong actions. The corresponding characters are called good or bad,\nvirtuous or vicious.\n\nThis introduces a further complication into the\nconscience. Self-judgment in the name of the tribe becomes associated\nwith very definite and material judgment by the tribe itself. On the\none hand, this undoubtedly strengthens the motive-power of conscience\nin an enormous degree. On the other hand, it tends to guide the\ndecisions of conscience; and since the expression of public approval or\ndisapproval is made in general by means of some organized machinery of\ngovernment, it becomes possible for conscience to be knowingly directed\nby the wise or misdirected by the wicked, instead of being driven along\nthe right path by the slow selective process of experience. Now right\nactions are not those which are publicly approved, but those whose\npublic approbation a well-instructed tribal self would like. Still, it\nis impossible to avoid the guiding influence of expressed approbation\non the great mass of the people; and in those cases where the machinery\nof government is approximately a means of expressing the true public\nconscience, that influence becomes a most powerful help to improvement.\n\nLet us note now the very important difference between the direct and\nthe reflex process. To clear a man away as a noxious beast, and to\npunish him for doing wrong, these are two very different things. The\npurpose in the first case is merely to get rid of a nuisance; the\npurpose in the second case is to improve the character either of the\nman himself or of those who will observe this public expression of\ndisapprobation. The offense of which the man has been guilty leads\nto an inference about his character, and it is supposed that the\ncommunity may contain other persons whose characters are similar to\nhis, or tend to become so. It has been found that the expression of\npublic disapprobation tends to awake the conscience of such people and\nto improve their characters. If the improvement of the man himself is\naimed at, it is assumed that he has a conscience which can be worked\nupon and made to deter him from similar offenses in future.\n\nThe word purpose has here been used in a sense to which it is perhaps\nworth while to call attention. Adaptation of means to an end may\nbe produced in two ways that we at present know of; by processes of\nnatural selection, and by the agency of an intelligence in which an\nimage or idea of the end preceded the use of the means. In both cases\nthe existence of the adaptation is accounted for by the necessity or\nutility of the end. It seems to me convenient to use the word purpose\nas meaning generally the end to which certain means are adapted, both\nin these two cases, and in any other that may hereafter become known,\nprovided only that the adaptation is accounted for by the necessity\nor utility of the end. And there seems no objection to the use of\nthe phrase 'final cause' in this wider sense, if it is to be kept\nat all. The word 'design' might then be kept for the special case\nof adaptation by an intelligence. And we may then say that since the\nprocess of natural selection has been understood, purpose has ceased\nto suggest design to instructed people, except in cases where the\nagency of man is independently probable.\n\nWhen a man can be punished for doing wrong with approval of the\ntribal self, he is said to be responsible. Responsibility implies\ntwo things:--(1) The act was a product of the man's character and\nof the circumstances, and his character may to a certain extent be\ninferred from the act; (2) The man had a conscience which might have\nbeen so worked upon as to prevent his doing the act. Unless the first\ncondition be fulfilled, we cannot reasonably take any action at all\nin regard to the man, but only in regard to the offense. In the case\nof crimes of violence, for example, we might carry a six-shooter to\nprotect ourselves against similar possibilities, but unless the fact\nof a man's having once committed a murder made it probable that he\nwould do the like again, it would clearly be absurd and unreasonable to\nlynch the man. That is to say, we assume an uniformity of connection\nbetween character and actions, infer a man's character from his past\nactions, and endeavor to provide against his future actions either by\ndestroying him or by changing his character. I think it will be found\nthat in all those cases where we not only deal with the offense but\ntreat it with moral reprobation, we imply the existence of a conscience\nwhich might have been worked upon to improve the character. Why, for\nexample, do we not regard a lunatic as responsible? Because we are in\npossession of information about his character derived not only from\nhis one offense but from other facts, whereby we know that even if he\nhad a conscience left, his mind is so diseased that it is impossible\nby moral reprobation alone to change his character so that it may be\nsubsequently relied upon. With his cure from disease and the restored\nvalidity of this condition, responsibility returns. There are, of\ncourse, cases in which an irresponsible person is punished as if he\nwere responsible, pour encourager les autres who are responsible. The\nquestion of the right or wrong of this procedure is the question of\nits average effect on the character of men at any particular time.\n\nThe Categorical Imperative.--May we now say that the maxims of Ethic\nare hypothetical maxims? I think we may, and that in showing why we\nshall explain the apparent difference between them and other maxims\nbelonging to an early stage of science. In the first place ethical\nmaxims are learned by the tribe and not by the individual. Those tribes\nhave on the whole survived in which conscience approved such actions as\ntended to the improvement of men's characters as citizens and therefore\nto the survival of the tribe. Hence it is that the moral sense of the\nindividual, though founded on the experience of the tribe, is purely\nintuitive; conscience gives no reasons. Notwithstanding this, the\nethical maxims are presented to us as conditional; if you want to live\ntogether in this complicated way, your ways must be straight and not\ncrooked, you must seek the truth and love no lie. Suppose we answer, 'I\ndon't want to live together with other men in this complicated way; and\nso I shall not do as you tell me.' That is not the end of the matter,\nas it might be with other scientific precepts. For obvious reasons it\nis right in this case to reply, 'Then in the name of my people I do\nnot like you,' and to express this dislike by appropriate methods. And\nthe offender, being descended from a social race, is unable to escape\nhis conscience, the voice of his tribal self which says, 'In the name\nof the tribe, I hate myself for this treason that I have done.'\n\nThere are two reasons, then, why ethical maxims appear to be\nunconditional. First, they are acquired from experience not directly\nbut by tribal selection, and therefore in the mind of the individual\nthey do not rest upon the true reasons for them. Secondly, although\nthey are conditional, the absence of the condition in one born of a\nsocial race is rightly visited by moral reprobation.\n\nEthics are based on Uniformity.--I have already observed that\nto deal with men as a means of influencing their actions implies\nthat these actions are a product of character and circumstances;\nand that moral reprobation and responsibility cannot exist unless\nwe assume the efficacy of certain special means of influencing\ncharacter. It is not necessary to point out that such considerations\ninvolve that uniformity of nature which underlies the possibility\nof even unconscious adaptations to experience, of language, and of\ngeneral conceptions and statements. It may be asked, 'Are you quite\nsure that these observed uniformities between motive and action,\nbetween character and motive, between social influence and change of\ncharacter, are absolutely exact in the form in which you state them,\nor indeed that they are exact laws of any form? May there not be very\nslight divergences from exact laws, which will allow of the action\nof an \"uncaused will,\" or of the interference of some \"extra-mundane\nforce\"?' I am sure I do not know. But this I do know: that our sense\nof right and wrong is derived from such order as we can observe, and\nnot from such caprice of disorder as we may fancifully conjecture; and\nthat to whatever extent a divergence from exactness became sensible,\nto that extent it would destroy the most widespread and worthy of\nthe acquisitions of mankind.\n\nThe Final Standard.--By these views we are led to conclusions partly\nnegative, partly positive; of which, as might be expected, the negative\nare the most definite.\n\nFirst, then, Ethic is a matter of the tribe or community, and therefore\nthere are no 'self-regarding virtues.' The qualities of courage,\nprudence, etc., can only be rightly encouraged in so far as they are\nshown to conduce to the efficiency of a citizen; that is, in so far\nas they cease to be self-regarding. The duty of private judgment,\nof searching after truth, the sacredness of belief which ought not\nto be misused on unproved statements, follow only on showing of the\nenormous importance to society of a true knowledge of things. And any\ndiversion of conscience from its sole allegiance to the community is\ncondemned \u00e0 priori in the very nature of right and wrong.\n\nNext, the end of Ethic is not the greatest happiness of the greatest\nnumber. Your happiness is of no use to the community, except in so\nfar as it tends to make you a more efficient citizen--that is to\nsay, happiness is not to be desired for its own sake, but for the\nsake of something else. If any end is pointed to, it is the end of\nincreased efficiency in each man's special work, as well as in the\nsocial functions which are common to all. A man must strive to be a\nbetter citizen, a better workman, a better son, husband, or father.\n\nAgain, Piety is not Altruism. It is not the doing good to others as\nothers, but the service of the community by a member of it, who loses\nin that service the consciousness that he is anything different from\nthe community.\n\nThe social organism, like the individual, may be healthy or\ndiseased. Health and disease are very difficult things to define\naccurately: but for practical purposes, there are certain states about\nwhich no mistake can be made. When we have even a very imperfect\ncatalogue and description of states that are clearly and certainly\ndiseases, we may form a rough preliminary definition of health\nby saying that it means the absence of all these states. Now the\nhealth of society involves among other things, that right is done by\nthe individuals composing it. And certain social diseases consist\nin a wrong direction of the conscience. Hence the determination\nof abstract right depends on the study of healthy and diseased\nstates of society. How much light can be got for this end from the\nhistorical records we possess? A very great deal, if, as I believe,\nfor ethical purposes the nature of man and of society may be taken\nas approximately constant during the few thousand years of which we\nhave distinct records.\n\nThe matters of fact on which rational ethic must be founded are the\nlaws of modification of character, and the evidence of history as\nto those kinds of character which have most aided the improvement of\nthe race. For although the moral sense is intuitive, it must for the\nfuture be directed by our conscious discovery of the tribal purpose\nwhich it serves.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nII. RIGHT AND WRONG:\n\nTHE SCIENTIFIC GROUND OF THEIR DISTINCTION. [1]\n\n\nThe questions which are here to be considered are especially and\npeculiarly everybody's questions. It is not everybody's business to\nbe an engineer, or a doctor, or a carpenter, or a soldier; but it\nis everybody's business to be a citizen. The doctrines and precepts\nwhich guide the practice of the good engineer are of interest to him\nwho uses them and to those whose business it is to investigate them by\nmechanical science; the rest of us neither obey nor disobey them. But\nthe doctrines and precepts of morality, which guide the practice of\nthe good citizen, are of interest to all; they must be either obeyed\nor disobeyed by every human being who is not hopelessly and forever\nseparated from the rest of mankind. No one can say, therefore, that in\nthis inquiry we are not minding our own business, that we are meddling\nwith other men's affairs. We are in fact studying the principles of\nour profession, so far as we are able; a necessary thing for every\nman who wishes to do good work in it.\n\nAlong with the character of universal interest which belongs to\nour subject there goes another. What is everybody's practical\nbusiness is also to a large extent what everybody knows; and it\nmay be reasonably expected that a discourse about Right and Wrong\nwill be full of platitudes and truisms. The expectation is a just\none. The considerations I have to offer are of the very oldest and\nthe very simplest commonplace and common sense; and no one can be\nmore astonished than I am that there should be any reason to speak of\nthem at all. But there is reason to speak of them, because platitudes\nare not all of one kind. Some platitudes have a definite meaning\nand a practical application, and are established by the uniform and\nlong-continued experience of all people. Other platitudes, having\nno definite meaning and no practical application, seem not to be\nworth anybody's  while to test; and these are quite sufficiently\nestablished by mere assertion, if it is audacious enough to begin\nwith and persistent enough afterward. It is in order to distinguish\nthese two kinds of platitude from one another, and to make sure that\nthose which we retain form a body of doctrine consistent with itself\nand with the rest of our beliefs, that we undertake this examination\nof obvious and widespread principles.\n\nFirst of all, then, what are the facts?\n\nWe say that it is wrong to murder, to steal, to tell lies, and that it\nis right to take care of our families. When we say in this sense that\none action is right and another wrong, we have a certain feeling toward\nthe action which is peculiar and not quite like any other feeling. It\nis clearly a feeling toward the action and not toward the man who does\nit; because we speak of hating the sin and loving the sinner. We might\nreasonably dislike a man whom we knew or suspected to be a murderer,\nbecause of the natural fear that he might murder us; and we might like\nour own parents for taking care of us. But everybody knows that these\nfeelings are something quite different from the feeling which condemns\nmurder as a wrong thing, and approves parental care as a right thing. I\nsay nothing here about the possibility of analyzing this feeling, or\nproving that it arises by combination of other feelings; all I want\nto notice is that it is as distinct and recognizable as the feeling\nof pleasure in a sweet taste or of displeasure at a toothache. In\nspeaking of right and wrong, we speak of qualities of action which\narouse definite feelings that everybody knows and recognizes. It is\nnot necessary, then, to give a definition at the outset; we are going\nto use familiar terms which have a definite meaning in the same sense\nin which everybody uses them. We may ultimately come to something\nlike a definition; but what we have to do first is to collect the\nfacts and see what can be made of them, just as if we were going to\ntalk about limestone, or parents and children, or fuel.\n\nIt is easy to conceive that murder and theft and neglect of the young\nmight be considered wrong in a very simple state of society. But\nwe find at present that the condemnation of these actions does not\nstand alone; it goes with the condemnation of a great number of other\nactions which seem to be included with the obviously criminal action,\nin a sort of general rule. The wrongness of murder, for example,\nbelongs in a less degree to any form of bodily injury that one man\nmay inflict on another; and it is even extended so as to include\ninjuries to his reputation or his feelings. I make these more refined\nprecepts follow in the train of the more obvious and rough ones,\nbecause this appears to have been the traditional order of their\nestablishment. 'He that makes his neighbor blush in public,' says\nthe Mishna, 'is as if he had shed his blood.' In the same way the\nrough condemnation of stealing carries with it a condemnation of\nmore refined forms of dishonesty: we do not hesitate to say that it\nis wrong for a tradesman to adulterate his goods, or for a laborer\nto scamp his work. We not only say that it is wrong to tell lies,\nbut that it is wrong to deceive in other more ingenious ways; wrong\nto use words so that they shall have one sense to some people and\nanother sense to other people; wrong to suppress the truth when that\nsuppression leads to false belief in others. And again, the duty of\nparents toward their children is seen to be a special case of a very\nlarge and varied class of duties toward that great family to which we\nbelong--to the fatherland and them that dwell therein. The word duty\nwhich I have here used, has as definite a sense to the general mind\nas the words right and wrong; we say that it is right to do our duty,\nand wrong to neglect it. These duties to the community serve in our\nminds to explain and define our duties to individuals. It is wrong to\nkill any one; unless we are an executioner, when it may be our duty\nto kill a criminal; or a soldier, when it may be our duty to kill the\nenemy of our country; and in general it is wrong to injure any man in\nany way in our private capacity and for our own sakes. Thus if a man\ninjures us, it is only right to retaliate on behalf of other men. Of\ntwo men in a desert island, if one takes away the other's cloak, it\nmay or may not be right for the other to let him have his coat also;\nbut if a man takes away my cloak while we both live in society, it\nis my duty to use such means as I can to prevent him from taking away\nother people's cloaks. Observe that I am endeavoring to describe the\nfacts of the moral feelings of Englishmen, such as they are now.\n\nThe last remark leads us to another platitude of exceedingly ancient\ndate. We said that it was wrong to injure any man in our private\ncapacity and for our own sakes. A rule like this differs from all the\nothers that we have considered, because it not only deals with physical\nacts, words and deeds which can be observed and known by others, but\nalso with thoughts which are known only to the man himself. Who can\ntell whether a given act of punishment was done from a private or from\na public motive? Only the agent himself. And yet if the punishment\nwas just and within the law, we should condemn the man in the one\ncase and approve him in the other. This pursuit of the actions of\nmen to their very sources, in the feelings which they only can know,\nis as ancient as any morality we know of, and extends to the whole\nrange of it. Injury to another man arises from anger, malice, hatred,\nrevenge; these feelings are condemned as wrong. But feelings are not\nimmediately under our control, in the same way that overt actions are:\nI can shake anybody by the hand if I like, but I cannot always feel\nfriendly to him. Nevertheless we can pay attention to such aspects\nof the circumstances, and we can put ourselves into such conditions,\nthat our feelings get gradually modified in one way or the other; we\nform a habit of checking our anger by calling up certain images and\nconsiderations, whereby in time the offending passion is brought into\nsubjection and control. Accordingly we say that it is right to acquire\nand to exercise this control; and the control is supposed to exist\nwhenever we say that one feeling or disposition of mind is right and\nanother wrong. Thus, in connection with the precept against stealing,\nwe condemn envy and covetousness; we applaud a sensitive honesty which\nshudders at anything underhand or dishonorable. In connection with the\nrough precept against lying, we have built up and are still building\na great fabric of intellectual morality, whereby a man is forbidden\nto tell lies to himself, and is commanded to practice candor and\nfairness and open-mindedness in his judgments, and to labor zealously\nin pursuit of the truth. In connection with the duty to our families,\nwe say that it is right to cultivate public spirit, a quick sense of\nsympathy, and all that belongs to a social disposition.\n\nTwo other words are used in this connection which it seems necessary\nto mention. When we regard an action as right or wrong for ourselves,\nthis feeling about the action impels us to do it or not to do it,\nas the case may be. We may say that the moral sense acts in this case\nas a motive; meaning by moral sense only the feeling in regard to an\naction which is considered as right or wrong, and by motive something\nwhich impels us to act. Of course there may be other motives at work at\nthe same time, and it does not at all follow that we shall do the right\naction or abstain from the wrong one. This we all know to our cost. But\nstill our feeling about the rightness or wrongness of an action does\noperate as a motive when we think of the action as being done by us;\nand when so operating it is called conscience. I have nothing to do\nat present with the questions about conscience, whether it is a result\nof education, whether it can be explained by self-love, and so forth;\nI am only concerned in describing well-known facts, and in getting\nas clear as I can about the meaning of well-known words. Conscience,\nthen, is the whole aggregate of our feelings about actions as being\nright or wrong, regarded as tending to make us do the right actions and\navoid the wrong ones. We also say sometimes, in answer to the question,\n'How do you know that this is right or wrong?' 'My conscience tells me\nso.' And this way of speaking is quite analogous to other expressions\nof the same form; thus if I put my hand into water, and you ask me how\nI know that it is hot, I might say, 'My feeling of warmth tells me so.'\n\nWhen we consider a right or a wrong action as done by another\nperson, we think of that person as worthy of moral approbation or\nreprobation. He may be punished or not; but in any case this feeling\ntoward him is quite different from the feeling of dislike toward a\nperson injurious to us, or of disappointment at a machine which will\nnot go.\n\nWhenever we can morally approve or disapprove a man for his action, we\nsay that he is morally responsible for it, and vice vers\u00e2. To say that\na man is not morally responsible for his actions is the same thing as\nto say that it would be unreasonable to praise or blame him for them.\n\nThe statement that we ourselves are morally responsible is somewhat\nmore complicated, but the meaning is very easily made out; namely,\nthat another person may reasonably regard our actions as right or\nwrong, and may praise or blame us for them.\n\nWe can now, I suppose, understand one another pretty clearly in using\nthe words right and wrong, conscience, responsibility; and we have\nmade a rapid survey of the facts of the case in our own country at\nthe present time. Of course I do not pretend that this survey in any\nway approaches to completeness; but it will supply us at least with\nenough facts to enable us to deal always with concrete examples instead\nof remaining in generalities; and it may serve to show pretty fairly\nwhat the moral sense of an Englishman is like. We must next consider\nwhat account we can give of these facts by the scientific method.\n\nBut first let us stop to note that we really have used the scientific\nmethod in making this first step; and also that to the same extent\nthe method has been used by all serious moralists. Some would have\nus define virtue, to begin with, in terms of some other thing which\nis not virtue, and then work out from our definition all the details\nof what we ought to do. So Plato said that virtue was knowledge,\nAristotle that it was the golden mean, and Bentham said that the\nright action was that which conduced to the greatest happiness of the\ngreatest number. But so also, in physical speculations, Thales said\nthat everything was Water, and Heraclitus said it was All-becoming,\nand Empedocles said it was made out of Four Elements, and Pythagoras\nsaid it was Number. But we only began to know about things when people\nlooked straight at the facts, and made what they could out of them;\nand that is the only way in which we can know anything about right\nand wrong. Moreover, it is the way in which the great moralists have\nset to work, when they came to treat of verifiable things and not of\ntheories all in the air. A great many people think of a prophet as a\nman who, all by himself, or from some secret source, gets the belief\nthat this thing is right and that thing wrong. And then (they imagine)\nhe gets up and goes about persuading other people to feel as he does\nabout it; and so it becomes a part of their conscience, and a new duty\nis created. This may be in some cases, but I have never met with any\nexample of it in history. When Socrates puzzled the Greeks by asking\nthem what they precisely meant by Goodness and Justice and Virtue,\nthe mere existence of the words shows that the people, as a whole,\npossessed a moral sense, and felt that certain things were right and\nothers wrong. What the moralist did was to show the connection between\ndifferent virtues, the likeness of virtue to certain other things,\nthe implications which a thoughtful man could find in the common\nlanguage. Wherever the Greek moral sense had come from, it was there in\nthe people before it could be enforced by a prophet or discussed by a\nphilosopher. Again, we find a wonderful collection of moral aphorisms\nin those shrewd sayings of the Jewish fathers which are preserved in\nthe Mishna or oral law. Some of this teaching is familiar to us all\nfrom the popular exposition of it which is contained in the three\nfirst Gospels. But the very plainness and homeliness of the precepts\nshows that they are just acute statements of what was already felt\nby the popular common sense; protesting, in many cases, against the\nformalism of the ceremonial law with which they are curiously mixed\nup. The Rabbis even show a jealousy of prophetic interference, as if\nthey knew well that it takes not one man, but many men, to feel what\nis right. When a certain Rabbi Eliezer, being worsted in argument,\ncried out, 'If I am right, let heaven pronounce in my favor!' there\nwas heard a Bath-kol or voice from the skies, saying, 'Do you venture\nto dispute with Rabbi Eliezer, who is an authority on all religious\nquestions?' But Rabbi Joshua rose and said, 'Our law is not in heaven,\nbut in the book which dates from Sinai, and which teaches us that in\nmatters of discussion the majority makes the law.' [2]\n\nOne of the most important expressions of the moral sense for all time\nis that of the Stoic philosophy, especially after its reception among\nthe Romans. It is here that we find the enthusiasm of humanity--the\ncaritas generis humani--which is so large and important a feature in\nall modern conceptions of morality, and whose widespread influence\nupon Roman citizens may be traced in the Epistles of St. Paul. In\nthe Stoic emperors, also, we find probably the earliest example of\ngreat moral principles consciously applied to legislation on a large\nscale. But are we to attribute this to the individual insight of\nthe Stoic philosophers? It might seem at first sight that we must,\nif we are to listen to that vulgar vituperation of the older culture\nwhich has descended to us from those who had everything to gain by\nits destruction. [3] We hear enough of the luxurious feasting of\nthe Roman capital, how it would almost have taxed the resources of a\nmodern pastry-cook; of the cruelty of gladiatorial shows, how they\nwere nearly as bad as autos-da-f\u00e9, except that a man had his fair\nchance and was not tortured for torture's sake; of the oppression of\nprovincials by people like Verres, of whom it may even be said that if\nthey had been the East India Company they could not have been worse;\nof the complaints of Tacitus against bad and mad emperors (as Sir\nHenry Maine says); and of the still more serious complaints of the\nmodern historian against the excessive taxation [4] which was one great\ncause of the fall of the empire. Of all this we are told a great deal;\nbut we are not told of the many thousands of honorable men who carried\ncivilization to the ends of the known world, and administered a mighty\nempire so that it was loved and worshiped to the furthest corner of\nit. It is to these men and their common action that we must attribute\nthe morality which found its organized expression in the writings of\nthe Stoic philosophers. From these three cases we may gather that\nRight is a thing which must be done before it can be talked about,\nalthough after that it may only too easily be talked about without\nbeing done. Individual effort and energy may insist upon getting that\ndone which was already felt to be right; and individual insight and\nacumen may point out consequences of an action which bring it under\npreviously known moral rules. There is another dispute of the Rabbis\nthat may serve to show what is meant by this. It was forbidden by\nthe law to have any dealings with the Sab\u00e6an idolaters during the\nweek preceding their idolatrous feasts. But the doctors discussed the\ncase in which one of these idolaters owes you a bill; are you to let\nhim pay it during that week or not? The school of Shammai said 'No;\nfor he will want all his money to enjoy himself at the feast.' But\nthe school of Hillel said, 'Yes, let him pay it; for how can he enjoy\nhis feast while his bills are unpaid?' The question here is about the\nconsequences of an action; but there is no dispute about the moral\nprinciple, which is that consideration and kindness are to be shown\nto idolaters, even in the matter of their idolatrous rites.\n\nIt seems, then, that we are no worse off than anybody else who has\nstudied this subject, in finding our materials ready made for us;\nsufficiently definite meanings given in the common speech to the\nwords right and wrong, good and bad, with which we have to deal;\na fair body of facts familiarly known, which we have to organize and\naccount for as best we can. But our special inquiry is, what account\ncan be given of these facts by the scientific method? to which end\nwe cannot do better than fix our ideas as well as we can upon the\ncharacter and scope of that method.\n\nNow the scientific method is a method of getting knowledge by\ninference, and that of two different kinds. One kind of inference is\nthat which is used in the physical and natural sciences, and it enables\nus to go from known phenomena to unknown phenomena. Because a stone is\nheavy in the morning, I infer that it will be heavy in the afternoon;\nand I infer this by assuming a certain uniformity of nature. The sort\nof uniformity that I assume depends upon the extent of my scientific\neducation; the rules of inference become more and more definite as we\ngo on. At first I might assume that all things are always alike; this\nwould not be true, but it has to be assumed in a vague way, in order\nthat a thing may have the same name at different times. Afterward I\nget the more definite belief that certain particular qualities, like\nweight, have nothing to do with the time of day; and subsequently\nI find that weight has nothing to do with the shape of the stone,\nbut only with the quantity of it. The uniformity which we assume,\nthen, is not that vague one that we started with, but a chastened\nand corrected uniformity. I might go on to suppose, for example,\nthat the weight of the stone had nothing to do with the place where\nit was; and a great deal might be said for this supposition. It would,\nhowever, have to be corrected when it was found that the weight varies\nslightly in different latitudes. On the other hand, I should find that\nthis variation was just the same for my stone as for a piece of iron\nor wood; that it had nothing to do with the kind of matter. And so I\nmight be led to the conclusion that all matter is heavy, and that the\nweight of it depends only on its quantity and its position relative to\nthe earth. You see here that I go on arriving at conclusions always\nof this form; that some one circumstance or quality has nothing\nto do with some other circumstance or quality. I begin by assuming\nthat it is independent of everything; I end by finding that it is\nindependent of some definite things. That is, I begin by assuming\na vague uniformity. I always use this assumption to infer from some\none fact a great number of other facts; but as my education proceeds,\nI get to know what sort of things may be inferred and what may not. An\nobserver of scientific mind takes note of just those things from which\ninferences may be drawn, and passes by the rest. If an astronomer,\nobserving the sun, were to record the fact that at the moment when\na sun-spot began to shrink there was a rap at his front door, we\nshould know that he was not up to his work. But if he records that\nsun-spots are thickest every eleven years, and that this is also\nthe period of extra cloudiness in Jupiter, the observation may or\nmay not be confirmed, and it may or may not lead to inferences of\nimportance; but still it is the kind of thing from which inferences\nmay be drawn. There is always a certain instinct among instructed\npeople which tells them in this way what kinds of inferences may be\ndrawn; and this is the unconscious effect of the definite uniformity\nwhich they have been led to assume in nature. It may subsequently be\norganized into a law or general truth, and no doubt becomes a surer\nguide by that process. Then it goes to form the more precise instinct\nof the next generation.\n\nWhat we have said about this first kind of inference, which goes\nfrom phenomena to phenomena, is shortly this. It proceeds upon an\nassumption of uniformity in nature; and this assumption is not fixed\nand made once for all, but is a changing and growing thing, becoming\nmore definite as we go on.\n\nIf I were told to pick out some one character which especially colors\nthis guiding conception of uniformity in our present stage of science,\nI should certainly reply, Atomism. The form of this with which we are\nmost familiar is the molecular theory of bodies; which represents\nall bodies as made up of small elements of uniform character, each\npractically having relations only with the adjacent ones, and these\nrelations the same all through--namely, some simple mechanical\naction upon each other's motions. But this is only a particular\ncase. A palace, a cottage, the tunnel of the underground railway,\nand a factory chimney, are all built of bricks; the bricks are alike\nin all these cases, each brick is practically related only to the\nadjacent ones, and the relation is throughout the same, namely, two\nflat sides are stuck together with mortar. There is an atomism in the\nsciences of number, of quantity, of space; the theorems of geometry\nare groupings of individual points, each related only to the adjacent\nones by certain definite laws. But what concerns us chiefly at present\nis the atomism of human physiology. Just as every solid is built up\nof molecules, so the nervous system is built up of nerve-threads and\nnerve-corpuscles. We owe to Mr. Lewes our very best thanks for the\nstress which he has laid on the doctrine that nerve-fiber is uniform\nin structure and function, and for the word neurility, which expresses\nits common properties. And similar gratitude is due to Dr. Hughlings\nJackson for his long defense of the proposition that the element\nof nervous structure and function is a sensori-motor process. In\nstructure, this is two fibers or bundles of fibers going to the same\ngray corpuscle; in function it is a message traveling up one fiber or\nbundle to the corpuscle, and then down the other fiber or bundle. Out\nof this, as a brick, the house of our life is built. All these simple\nelementary processes are alike, and each is practically related only\nto the adjacent ones; the relation being in all cases of the same kind,\nviz., the passage from a simple to a complex message, or vice vers\u00e2.\n\nThe result of atomism in any form, dealing with any subject, is that\nthe principle of uniformity is hunted down into the elements of things;\nit is resolved into the uniformity of these elements or atoms, and of\nthe relations of those which are next to each other. By an element or\nan atom we do not here mean something absolutely simple or indivisible,\nfor a molecule, a brick, and a nerve-process are all very complex\nthings. We only mean that, for the purpose in hand, the properties of\nthe still more complex thing which is made of them have nothing to do\nwith the complexities or the differences of these elements. The solid\nmade of molecules, the house made of bricks, the nervous system made\nof sensori-motor processes, are nothing more than collections of these\npractically uniform elements, having certain relations of nextness,\nand behavior uniformly depending on that nextness.\n\nThe inference of phenomena from phenomena, then, is based upon an\nassumption of uniformity, which in the present stage of science may\nbe called an atomic uniformity.\n\nThe other mode of inference which belongs to the scientific method is\nthat which is used in what are called the mental and moral sciences;\nand it enables us to go from phenomena to the facts which underlie\nphenomena, and which are themselves not phenomena at all. If I pinch\nyour arm, and you draw it away and make a face, I infer that you have\nfelt pain. I infer this by assuming that you have a consciousness\nsimilar to my own, and related to your perception of your body as\nmy consciousness is related to my perception of my body. Now is this\nthe same assumption as before, a mere assumption of the uniformity of\nnature? It certainly seems like it at first; but if we think about it\nwe shall find that there is a very profound difference between them. In\nphysical inference I go from phenomena to phenomena; that is, from the\nknowledge of certain appearances or representations actually present\nto my mind I infer certain other appearances that might be present to\nmy mind. From the weight of a stone in the morning--that is, from my\nfeeling of its weight, or my perception of the process of weighing\nit, I infer that the stone will be heavy in the afternoon--that is,\nI infer the possibility of similar feelings and perceptions in me at\nanother time. The whole process relates to me and my perceptions, to\nthings contained in my mind. But when I infer that you are conscious\nfrom what you say or do, I pass from that which is my feeling or\nperception, which is in my mind and part of me, to that which is\nnot my feeling at all, which is outside me altogether, namely, your\nfeelings and perceptions. Now there is no possible physical inference,\nno inference of phenomena from phenomena, that will help me over\nthat gulf. I am obliged to admit that this second kind of inference\ndepends upon another assumption, not included in the assumption of\nthe uniformity of phenomena.\n\nHow does a dream differ from waking life? In a fairly coherent dream\neverything seems quite real, and it is rare, I think, with most\npeople to know in a dream that they are dreaming. Now, if a dream is\nsufficiently vivid and coherent, all physical inferences are just\nas valid in it as they are in waking life. In a hazy or imperfect\ndream, it is true, things melt into one another unexpectedly and\nunaccountably; we fly, remove mountains, and stop runaway horses\nwith a finger. But there is nothing in the mere nature of a dream to\nhinder it from being an exact copy of waking experience. If I find\na stone heavy in one part of my dream, and infer that it is heavy\nat some subsequent part, the inference will be verified if the dream\nis coherent enough; I shall go to the stone, lift it up, and find it\nas heavy as before. And the same thing is true of all inferences of\nphenomena from phenomena. For physical purposes a dream is just as\ngood as real life; the only difference is in vividness and coherence.\n\nWhat, then, hinders us from saying that life is all a dream? If the\nphenomena we dream of are just as good and real phenomena as those\nwe see and feel when we are awake, what right have we to say that the\nmaterial universe has any more existence apart from our minds than the\nthings we see and feel in our dreams? The answer which Berkeley gave\nto that question was, No right at all. The physical universe which\nI see and feel, and infer, is just my dream and nothing else; that\nwhich you see is your dream; only it so happens that all our dreams\nagree in many respects. This doctrine of Berkeley's has now been so\nfar confirmed by the physiology of the senses, that it is no longer\na metaphysical speculation, but a scientifically established fact.\n\nBut there is a difference between dreams and waking life, which is of\nfar too great importance for any of us to be in danger of neglecting\nit. When I see a man in my dream, there is just as good a body as if I\nwere awake; muscles, nerves, circulation, capability of adapting means\nto ends. If only the dream is coherent enough, no physical test can\nestablish that it is a dream. In both cases I see and feel the same\nthing. In both cases I assume the existence of more than I can see and\nfeel, namely, the consciousness of this other man. But now here is a\ngreat difference, and the only difference--in a dream this assumption\nis wrong; in waking life it is right. The man I see in my dream is\na mere machine, a bundle of phenomena with no underlying reality;\nthere is no consciousness involved except my consciousness, no feeling\nin the case except my feelings. The man I see in waking life is more\nthan a bundle of phenomena; his body and its actions are phenomena,\nbut these phenomena are merely the symbols and representatives in my\nmind of a reality which is outside my mind, namely, the consciousness\nof the man himself which is represented by the working of his brain,\nand the simpler quasi-mental facts, not woven into his consciousness,\nwhich are represented by the working of the rest of his body. What\nmakes life not to be a dream is the existence of those facts which we\narrive at by our second process of inference; the consciousness of men\nand the higher animals, the sub-consciousness of lower organisms and\nthe quasi-mental facts which go along with the motions of inanimate\nmatter. In a book which is very largely and deservedly known by heart,\n'Through the Looking-glass,' there is a very instructive discussion\nupon this point. Alice has been taken to see the Red King as he\nlies snoring; and Tweedledee asks, 'Do you know what he is dreaming\nabout?' 'Nobody can guess that,' replies Alice. 'Why, about you,'\nhe says triumphantly. 'And if he stopped dreaming about you, where do\nyou suppose you'd be?' 'Where I am now of course,' said Alice. 'Not\nyou,' said Tweedledee, 'you'd be nowhere. You are only a sort of thing\nin his dream.' 'If that there King was to wake,' added Tweedledum,\n'you'd go out, bang! just like a candle.' Alice was quite right in\nregarding these remarks as unphilosophical. The fact that she could\nsee, think, and feel was proof positive that she was not a sort\nof thing in anybody's dream. This is the meaning of that saying,\nCogito ergo sum, of Descartes. By him, and by Spinoza after him,\nthe verb cogito and the substantive cogitatio were used to denote\nconsciousness in general, any kind of feeling, even what we now call\nsub-consciousness. The saying means that feeling exists in and for\nitself, not as a quality or modification or state or manifestation\nof anything else.\n\nWe are obliged in every hour of our lives to act upon beliefs which\nhave been arrived at by inferences of these two kinds; inferences based\non the assumption of uniformity in nature, and inferences which add to\nthis the assumption of feelings which are not our own. By organizing\nthe 'common sense' which embodies the first class of inferences, we\nbuild up the physical sciences; that is to say, all those sciences\nwhich deal with the physical, material, or phenomenal universe,\nwhether animate or inanimate. And so by organizing the common sense\nwhich embodies the second class of inferences, we build up various\nsciences of mind. The description and classification of feelings, the\nfacts of their association with each other, and of their simultaneity\nwith phenomena of nerve-action,--all this belongs to psychology,\nwhich may be historical and comparative. The doctrine of certain\nspecial classes of feelings is organized into the special sciences\nof those feelings; thus the facts about the feelings which we are now\nconsidering, about the feelings of moral approbation and reprobation,\nare organized into the science of ethics and the facts about the\nfeeling of beauty or ugliness are organized into the science of\n\u00e6sthetics, or, as it is sometimes called, the philosophy of art. For\nall of these the uniformity of nature has to be assumed as a basis\nof inference; but over and above that it is necessary to assume\nthat other men are conscious in the same way that I am. Now in these\nsciences of mind, just as in the physical sciences, the uniformity\nwhich is assumed in the inferred mental facts is a growing thing which\nbecomes more definite as we go on, and each successive generation of\nobservers knows better what to observe and what sort of inferences\nmay be drawn from observed things. But, moreover, it is as true of\nthe mental sciences as of the physical ones that the uniformity is in\nthe present stage of science an atomic uniformity. We have learned to\nregard our consciousness as made up of elements practically alike,\nhaving relations of succession in time and of contiguity at each\ninstant, which relations are in all cases practically the same. The\nelement of consciousness is the transference of an impression into\nthe beginning of action. Our mental life is a structure made out of\nsuch elements, just as the working of our nervous system is made out\nof sensori-motor processes. And accordingly the interaction of the\ntwo branches of science leads us to regard the mental facts as the\nrealities or things-in-themselves, of which the material phenomena are\nmere pictures or symbols. The final result seems to be that atomism is\ncarried beyond phenomena into the realities which phenomena represent;\nand that the observed uniformities of nature, in so far as they can\nbe expressed in the language of atomism, are actual uniformities of\nthings in themselves.\n\nSo much for the two things which I have promised to bring together; the\nfacts of our moral feelings, and the scientific method. It may appear\nthat the latter has been expounded at more length than was necessary\nfor the treatment of this particular subject; but the justification for\nthis length is to be found in certain common objections to the claims\nof science to be the sole judge of mental and moral questions. Some\nof the chief of these objections I will now mention.\n\nIt is sometimes said that science can only deal with what is,\nbut that art and morals deal with what ought to be. The saying is\nperfectly true, but it is quite consistent with what is equally true,\nthat the facts of art and morals are fit subject-matter of science. I\nmay describe all that I have in my house, and I may state everything\nthat I want in my house; these are two very different things, but they\nare equally statements of facts. One is a statement about phenomena,\nabout the objects which are actually in my possession; the other is\na statement about my feelings, about my wants and desires. There are\nfacts, to be got at by common sense, about the kind of thing that a\nman of a certain character and occupation will like to have in his\nhouse, and these facts may be organized into general statements on the\nassumption of uniformity in nature. Now the organized results of common\nsense dealing with facts are just science and nothing else. And in the\nsame way I may say what men do at the present day, how we live now,\nor I may say what we ought to do, namely, what course of conduct,\nif adopted, we should morally approve; and no doubt these would be\ntwo very different things. But each of them would be a statement of\nfacts. One would belong to the sociology of our time; in so far as\nmen's deeds could not be adequately described to us without some\naccount of their feelings and intentions, it would involve facts\nbelonging to psychology as well as facts belonging to the physical\nsciences. But the other would be an account of a particular class of\nour feelings, namely, those which we feel toward an action when it is\nregarded as right or wrong. These facts may be organized by common\nsense on the assumption of uniformity in nature just as well as any\nother facts. And we shall see farther on that not only in this sense,\nbut in a deeper and more abstract sense, 'what ought to be done'\nis a question for scientific inquiry.\n\nThe same objection is sometimes put into another form. It is said\nthat laws of chemistry, for example, are general statements about\nwhat happens when bodies are treated in a certain way, and that such\nlaws are fit matter for science; but that moral laws are different,\nbecause they tell us to do certain things, and we may or may not obey\nthem. The mood of the one is indicative, of the other imperative. Now\nit is quite true that the word law in the expression 'law of nature,'\nand in the expressions 'law of morals,' 'law of the land,' has two\ntotally different meanings, which no educated person will confound; and\nI am not aware that any one has rested the claim of science to judge\nmoral questions on what is no better than a stale and unprofitable\npun. But two different things may be equally matters of scientific\ninvestigation, even when their names are alike in sound. A telegraph\npost is not the same thing as a post in the War Office, and yet the\nsame intelligence may be used to investigate the conditions of the\none and the other. That such and such things are right or wrong,\nthat such and such laws are laws of morals or laws of the land,\nthese are facts, just as the laws of chemistry are facts; and all\nfacts belong to science, and are her portion forever.\n\nAgain, it is sometimes said that moral questions have been\nauthoritatively settled by other methods; that we ought to accept this\ndecision, and not to question it by any method of scientific inquiry;\nand that reason should give way to revelation on such matters. I\nhope before I have done to show just cause why we should pronounce on\nsuch teaching as this no light sentence of moral condemnation: first,\nbecause it is our duty to form those beliefs which are to guide our\nactions by the two scientific modes of inference, and by these alone;\nand, secondly, because the proposed mode of settling ethical questions\nby authority is contrary to the very nature of right and wrong.\n\nLeaving this, then, for the present, I pass on to the most formidable\nobjection that has been made to a scientific treatment of ethics. The\nobjection is that the scientific method is not applicable to human\naction, because the rule of uniformity does not hold good. Whenever\na man exercises his will, and makes a voluntary choice of one out of\nvarious possible courses, an event occurs whose relation to contiguous\nevents cannot be included in a general statement applicable to all\nsimilar cases. There is something wholly capricious and disorderly,\nbelonging to that moment only; and we have no right to conclude\nthat if the circumstances were exactly repeated, and the man himself\nabsolutely unaltered, he would choose the same course.\n\nIt is clear that if the doctrine here stated is true, the ground is\nreally cut from under our feet, and we cannot deal with human action\nby the scientific method. I shall endeavor to show, moreover, that in\nthis case, although we might still have a feeling of moral approbation\nor reprobation toward actions, yet we could not reasonably praise or\nblame men for their deeds, nor regard them as morally responsible. So\nthat, if my contention is just, to deprive us of the scientific method\nis practically to deprive us of morals altogether. On both grounds,\ntherefore, it is of the greatest importance that we should define\nour position in regard to this controversy; if, indeed, that can be\ncalled a controversy in which the practical belief of all mankind\nand the consent of nearly all serious writers are on one side.\n\nLet us in the first place consider a little more closely the connection\nbetween conscience and responsibility. Words in common use, such as\nthese two, have their meanings practically fixed before difficult\ncontroversies arise; but after the controversy has arisen each party\ngives that slight tinge to the meaning which best suits its own view\nof the question. Thus it appears to each that the common language\nobviously supports their own view, that this is the natural and primary\nview of the matter, and that the opponents are using words in a new\nmeaning and wrestling them from their proper sense. Now this is just\nmy position. I have endeavored so far to use all words in their common\nevery-day sense, only making this as precise as I can; and, with two\nexceptions, of which due warning will be given, I shall do my best\nto continue this practice in future. I seem to myself to be talking\nthe most obvious platitudes; but it must be remembered that those who\ntake the opposite view will think I am perverting the English language.\n\nThere is a common meaning of the word 'responsible,' which though\nnot the same as that of the phrase 'morally responsible,' may throw\nsome light upon it. If we say of a book, 'A is responsible for the\npreface and the first half, and B is responsible for the rest,'\nwe mean that A wrote the preface and the first half. If two people\ngo into a shop and choose a blue silk dress together, it might be\nsaid that A was responsible for its being silk and B for its being\nblue. Before they chose, the dress was undetermined both in color\nand in material. A's choice fixed the material, and then it was\nundetermined only in color. B's choice fixed the color; and if we\nsuppose that there were no more variable conditions (only one blue\nsilk dress in the shop), the dress was then completely determined. In\nthis sense of the word we say that a man is responsible for that part\nof an event which was undetermined when he was left out of account,\nand which became determined when he was taken account of. Suppose\ntwo narrow streets, one lying north and south, one east and west,\nand crossing one another. A man is put down where they cross, and\nhas to walk. Then he must walk either north, south, east, or west,\nand he is not responsible for that; what he is responsible for is the\nchoice of one of these four directions. May we not say in the present\nsense of the word that the external circumstances are responsible for\nthe restriction on his choice? We should mean only that the fact of\nhis going in one or other of the four directions was due to external\ncircumstances, and not to him. Again, suppose I have a number of\npunches of various shapes, some square, some oblong, some oval, some\nround, and that I am going to punch a hole in a piece of paper. Where\nI shall punch the hole may be fixed by any kind of circumstances;\nbut the shape of the hole depends on the punch I take. May we not say\nthat the punch is responsible for the shape of the hole, but not for\nthe position of it?\n\nIt may be said that this is not the whole of the meaning of the word\n'responsible,' even in its loosest sense; that it ought never to be\nused except of a conscious agent. Still this is part of its meaning;\nif we regard an event as determined by a variety of circumstances,\na man's choice being among them, we say that he is responsible for\njust that choice which is left him by the other circumstances.\n\nWhen we ask the practical question, 'Who is responsible for\nso-and-so?' we want to find out who is to be got at in order that\nso-and-so may be altered. If I want to change the shape of the hole\nI make in my paper, I must change my punch; but this will be of\nno use if I want to change the position of the hole. If I want the\ncolor of the dress changed from blue to green, it is B, and not A,\nthat I must persuade.\n\nWe mean something more than this when we say that a man is morally\nresponsible for an action. It seems to me that moral responsibility\nand conscience go together, both in regard to the man and in regard\nto the action. In order that a man may be morally responsible for an\naction, the man must have a conscience, and the action must be one in\nregard to which conscience is capable of acting as a motive, that is,\nthe action must be capable of being right or wrong. If a child were\nleft on a desert island and grew up wholly without a conscience, and\nthen were brought among men, he would not be morally responsible for\nhis actions until he had acquired a conscience by education. He would\nof course be responsible, in the sense just explained, for that part\nof them which was left undetermined by external circumstances, and\nif we wanted to alter his actions in these respects we should have\nto do it by altering him. But it would be useless and unreasonable\nto attempt to do this by means of praise or blame, the expression of\nmoral approbation or disapprobation, until he had acquired a conscience\nwhich could be worked upon by such means.\n\nIt seems, then, that in order that a man may be morally responsible\nfor an action, three things are necessary:--\n\n1. He might have done something else; that is to say, the action was\nnot wholly determined by external circumstances, and he is responsible\nonly for the choice which was left him.\n\n2. He had a conscience.\n\n3. The action was one in regard to the doing or not doing of which\nconscience might be a sufficient motive.\n\nThese three things are necessary, but it does not follow that they\nare sufficient. It is very commonly said that the action must be a\nvoluntary one. It will be found, I think, that this is contained in my\nthird condition, and also that the form of statement I have adopted\nexhibits more clearly the reason why the condition is necessary. We\nmay say that an action is involuntary either when it is instinctive,\nor when one motive is so strong that there is no voluntary choice\nbetween motives. An involuntary cough produced by irritation of\nthe glottis is no proper subject for blame or praise. A man is not\nresponsible for it, because it is done by a part of his body without\nconsulting him. What is meant by him in this case will require further\ninvestigation. Again, when a dipsomaniac has so great and overmastering\nan inclination to drink that we cannot conceive of conscience being\nstrong enough to conquer it, he is not responsible for that act, though\nhe may be responsible for having got himself into the state. But if\nit is conceivable that a very strong conscience fully brought to bear\nmight succeed in conquering the inclination, we may take a lenient\nview of the fall and say there was a very strong temptation, but we\nshall still regard it as a fall, and say that the man is responsible\nand a wrong has been done.\n\nBut since it is just in this distinction between voluntary and\ninvoluntary action that the whole crux of the matter lies, let\nus examine more closely into it. I say that when I cough or sneeze\ninvoluntarily, it is really not I that cough or sneeze, but a part of\nmy body which acts without consulting me. This action is determined\nfor me by the circumstances, and is not part of the choice that\nis left to me, so that I am not responsible for it. The question\ncomes then to determining how much is to be called circumstances,\nand how much is to be called me. Now I want to describe what happens\nwhen I voluntarily do anything, and there are two courses open to\nme. I may describe the things in themselves, my feelings and the\ngeneral course of my consciousness, trusting to the analogy between\nmy consciousness and yours to make me understood; or I may describe\nthese things as nature describes them to your senses, namely in terms\nof the phenomena of my nervous system, appealing to your memory of\nphenomena and your knowledge of physical action. I shall do both,\nbecause in some respects our knowledge is more complete from the\none source, and in some respects from the other. When I look back\nand reflect upon a voluntary action, I seem to find that it differs\nfrom an involuntary action in the fact that a certain portion of my\ncharacter has been consulted. There is always a suggestion of some\nsort, either the end of a train of thought or a new sensation; and\nthere is an action ensuing, either the movement of a muscle or set\nof muscles, or the fixing of attention upon something. But between\nthese two there is a consultation, as it were, of my past history. The\nsuggestion is viewed in the light of everything bearing on it that I\nthink of at the time, and in virtue of this light it moves me to act in\none or more ways. Let us first suppose that no hesitation is involved,\nthat only one way of acting is suggested, and I yield to this impulse\nand act in the particular way. This is the simplest kind of voluntary\naction. It differs from involuntary or instinctive action in the fact\nthat with the latter there is no such conscious consultation of past\nhistory. If we describe these facts in terms of the phenomena which\npicture them to other minds, we shall say that in involuntary action a\nmessage passes straight through from the sensory to the motor center,\nand so on to the muscles, without consulting the cerebrum; while\ninvoluntary action the message is passed on from the sensory center\nto the cerebrum, there translated into appropriate motor stimuli,\ncarried down to the motor center, and so on to the muscles. There\nmay be other differences, but at least there is this difference. Now\non the physical side that which determines, what groups of cerebral\nfibers shall be set at work by the given message, and what groups of\nmotor stimuli shall be set at work by these, is the mechanism of my\nbrain at the time; and on the mental side that which determines what\nmemories shall be called up by the given sensation, and what motives\nthese memories shall bring into action, is my mental character. We\nmay say, then, in this simplest case of voluntary action, that when\nthe suggestion is given it is the character of me which determines\nthe character of the ensuing action; and consequently that I am\nresponsible for choosing that particular course out of those which\nwere left open to me by the external circumstances.\n\nThis is when I yield to the impulse. But suppose I do not; suppose\nthat the original suggestion, viewed in the light of memory, sets\nvarious motives in action, each motive belonging to a certain class\nof things which I remember. Then I choose which of these motives\nshall prevail. Those who carefully watch themselves find out that a\nparticular motive is made to prevail by the fixing of the attention\nupon that class of remembered things which calls up the motive. The\nphysical side of this is the sending of blood to a certain set of\nnerves--namely, those whose action corresponds to the memories which\nare to be attended to. The sending of blood is accomplished by the\npinching of arteries; and there are special nerves, called vaso-motor\nnerves, whose business it is to carry messages to the walls of the\narteries and get them pinched. Now this act of directing the attention\nmay be voluntary or involuntary just like any other act. When the\ntransformed and re-enforced nerve-message gets to the vaso-motor\ncenter, some part of it may be so predominant that a message goes\nstraight off to the arteries, and sends a quantity of blood to the\nnerves supplying that part; or the call for blood may be sent back\nfor revision by the cerebrum, which is thus again consulted. To say\nthe same thing in terms of my feelings, a particular class of memories\nroused by the original suggestion may seize upon my attention before I\nhave time to choose what I will attend to; or the appeal may be carried\nto a deeper part of my character dealing with wider and more abstract\nconceptions, which views the conflicting motives in the light of a\npast experience of motives, and by that light is drawn to one or the\nother of them.\n\nWe thus get to a sort of motive of the second order or motive of\nmotives. Is there any reason why we should not go on to a motive of\nthe third order, and the fourth, and so on? None whatever that I know\nof, except that no one has ever observed such a thing. There seems\nplenty of room for the requisite mechanism on the physical side;\nand no one can say, on the mental side, how complex is the working\nof his consciousness. But we must carefully distinguish between the\nintellectual deliberation about motives, which applies to the future\nand the past, and the practical choice of motives in the moment of\nwill. The former may be a train of any length and complexity: we have\nno reason to believe that the latter is more than engine and tender.\n\nWe are now in a position to classify actions in respect of the kind\nof responsibility which belongs to them; namely we have--\n\n1. Involuntary or instinctive actions.\n\n2. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is involuntary.\n\n3. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is voluntary.\n\nIn each of these cases what is responsible is that part of my character\nwhich determines what the action shall be. For instinctive actions we\ndo not say that I am responsible, because the choice is made before\nI know anything about it. For voluntary actions I am responsible,\nbecause I make the choice; that is, the character of me is what\ndetermines the character of the action. In me, then, for this purpose,\nis included the aggregate of links of association which determines\nwhat memories shall be called up by a given suggestion, and what\nmotives shall be set at work by these memories. But we distinguish\nthis mass of passions and pleasures, desire and knowledge and pain,\nwhich makes up most of my character at the moment, from that inner\nand deeper motive-choosing self which is called Reason, and the Will,\nand the Ego; which is only responsible when motives are voluntarily\nchosen by directing attention to them. It is responsible only for\nthe choice of one motive out of those presented to it, not for the\nnature of the motives which are presented.\n\nBut again, I may reasonably be blamed for what I did yesterday,\nor a week ago, or last year. This is because I am permanent; in\nso far as from my actions of that date an inference may be drawn\nabout my character now, it is reasonable that I should be treated as\npraiseworthy or blamable. And within certain limits I am for the same\nreason responsible for what I am now, because within certain limits\nI have made myself. Even instinctive actions are dependent in many\ncases upon habits which may be altered by proper attention and care;\nand still more the nature of the connections between sensation and\naction, the associations of memory and motive, may be voluntarily\nmodified if I choose to try. The habit of choosing among motives\nis one which may be acquired and strengthened by practice, and the\nstrength of particular motives, by continually directing attention\nto them, may be almost indefinitely increased or diminished. Thus,\nif by me is meant not the instantaneous me of this moment, but the\naggregate me of my past life, or even of the last year, the range of\nmy responsibility is very largely increased. I am responsible for a\nvery large portion of the circumstances which are now external to me;\nthat is to say, I am responsible for certain of the restrictions on\nmy own freedom. As the eagle was shot with an arrow that flew on its\nown feather, so I find myself bound with fetters of my proper forging.\n\nLet us now endeavor to conceive an action which is not determined in\nany way by the character of the agent. If we ask, 'What makes it to be\nthat action and no other?' we are told, 'The man's Ego.' The words are\nhere used, it seems to me, in some non-natural sense, if in any sense\nat all. One thing makes another to be what it is when the characters\nof the two things are connected together by some general statement\nor rule. But we have to suppose that the character of the action is\nnot connected with the character of the Ego by any general statement\nor rule. With the same Ego and the same circumstances of all kinds,\nanything within the limits imposed by the circumstances may happen\nat any moment. I find myself unable to conceive any distinct sense\nin which responsibility could apply in this case; nor do I see at\nall how it would be reasonable to use praise or blame. If the action\ndoes not depend on the character, what is the use of trying to alter\nthe character? Suppose, however, that this indeterminateness is only\npartial; that the character does add some restrictions to those already\nimposed by circumstances, but leaves the choice between certain actions\nundetermined, and to be settled by chance or the transcendental Ego. Is\nit not clear that the man would be responsible for precisely that part\nof the character of the action which was determined by his character,\nand not for what was left undetermined by it? For it is just that\npart which was determined by his character which it is reasonable to\ntry to alter by altering him.\n\nWe who believe in uniformity are not the only people unable to conceive\nresponsibility without it. These are the words of Sir W. Hamilton,\nas quoted by Mr. J. S. Mill:-- [5]\n\n'Nay, were we even to admit as true what we cannot think as possible,\nstill the doctrine of a motiveless volition would be only casualism;\nand the free acts of an indifferent are, morally and rationally,\nas worthless as the pre-ordered passions of a determined will.'\n\n'That, though inconceivable, a motiveless volition would, if conceived,\nbe conceived as morally worthless, only shows our impotence more\nclearly.'\n\n'Is the person an original undetermined cause of the determination\nof his will? If he be not, then he is not a free agent, and the\nscheme of Necessity is admitted. If he be, in the first place, it is\nimpossible to conceive the possibility of this; and in the second,\nif the fact, though inconceivable, be allowed, it is impossible to\nsee how a cause, undetermined by any motive, can be a rational, moral,\nand accountable cause.'\n\nIt is true that Hamilton also says that the scheme of necessity is\ninconceivable, because it leads to an infinite non-commencement;\nand that 'the possibility of morality depends on the possibility of\nliberty; for if a man be not a free agent, he is not the author of his\nactions, and has, therefore, no responsibility--no moral personality\nat all.'\n\nI know nothing about necessity; I only believe that nature is\npractically uniform even in human action. I know nothing about\nan infinitely distant past; I only know that I ought to base on\nuniformity those inferences which are to guide my actions. But that\nman is a free agent appears to me obvious, and that in the natural\nsense of the words. We need ask for no better definition than Kant's:--\n\n'Will is a kind of causality belonging to living agents, in so\nfar as they are rational; and freedom is such a property of that\ncausality as enables them to be efficient agents independently of\noutside causes determining them; as, on the other hand, necessity\n(Naturnothwendigkeit) is that property of all irrational beings which\nconsists in their being determined to activity by the influence of\noutside causes.' ('Metaphysics of Ethics,' chap. iii.)\n\nI believe that I am a free agent when my actions are independent of\nthe control of circumstances outside me; and it seems a misuse of\nlanguage to call me a free agent if my actions are determined by a\ntranscendental Ego who is independent of the circumstances inside\nme--that is to say, of my character. The expression 'free will' has\nunfortunately been imported into mental science from a theological\ncontroversy rather different from the one we are now considering. It\nis surely too much to expect that good and serviceable English words\nshould be sacrificed to a phantom.\n\nIn an admirable book, 'The Methods of Ethics,' Mr. Henry Sidgwick\nhas stated, with supreme fairness and impartiality, both sides\nof this question. After setting forth the 'almost overwhelming\ncumulative proof' of uniformity in human action, he says that it\nseems 'more than balanced by a single argument on the other side:\nthe immediate affirmation of consciousness in the moment of deliberate\nvolition.' 'No amount of experience of the sway of motives ever tends\nto make me distrust my intuitive consciousness that in resolving,\nafter deliberation, I exercise free choice as to which of the motives\nacting upon me shall prevail.'\n\nThe only answer to this argument is that it is not 'on the other\nside.' There is no doubt about the deliverance of consciousness; and\neven if our powers of self-observation had not been acute enough to\ndiscover it, the existence of some choice between motives would be\nproved by the existence of vaso-motor nerves. But perhaps the most\ninstructive way of meeting arguments of this kind is to inquire what\nconsciousness ought to say in order that its deliverances may be of\nany use in the controversy. It is affirmed, on the side of uniformity,\nthat the feelings in my consciousness in the moment of voluntary choice\nhave been preceded by facts out of my consciousness which are related\nto them in a uniform manner, so that if the previous facts had been\naccurately known the voluntary choice might have been predicted. On\nthe other side this is denied. To be of any use in the controversy,\nthen, the immediate deliverance of my consciousness must be competent\nto assure me of the non-existence of something which by hypothesis\nis not in my consciousness. Given an absolutely dark room, can my\nsense of sight assure me that there is no one but myself in it? Can\nmy sense of hearing assure me that nothing inaudible is going on? As\nlittle can the immediate deliverance of my consciousness assure me\nthat the uniformity of nature does not apply to human actions.\n\nIt is perhaps necessary, in connection with this question, to refer\nto that singular Materialism of high authority and recent date which\nmakes consciousness a physical agent, 'correlates' it with Light\nand Nerve-force, and so reduces it to an objective phenomenon. This\ndoctrine is founded on a common and very useful mode of speech, in\nwhich we say, for example, that a good fire is a source of pleasure\non a cold day, and that a man's feeling of chill may make him run to\nit. But so also we say that the sun rises and sets every morning and\nnight, although the man in the moon sees clearly that this is due\nto the rotation of the earth. One cannot be pedantic all day. But\nif we choose for once to be pedantic, the matter is after all very\nsimple. Suppose that I am made to run by feeling a chill. When I\nbegin to move my leg, I may observe if I like a double series of\nfacts. I have the feeling of effort, the sensation of motion in\nmy leg; I feel the pressure of my foot on the ground. Along with\nthis I may see with my eyes, or feel with my hands, the motion of\nmy leg as a material object. The first series of facts belongs to\nme alone; the second may be equally observed by anybody else. The\nmental series began first; I willed to move my leg before I saw it\nmove. But when I know more about the matter, I can trace the material\nseries further back, and find nerve-messages going to the muscles of\nmy leg to make it move. But I had a feeling of chill before I chose\nto move my leg. Accordingly, I can find nerve-messages, excited by\nthe contraction due to the low temperature, going to my brain from\nthe chilled skin. Assuming the uniformity of nature, I carry forward\nand backward both the mental and the material series. A uniformity\nis observed in each, and a parallelism is observed between them,\nwhenever observations can be made. But sometimes one series is known\nbetter, and sometimes the other; so that in telling a story we quite\nnaturally speak sometimes of mental facts and sometimes of material\nfacts. A feeling of chill made a man run; strictly speaking, the\nnervous disturbance which co-existed with that feeling of chill made\nhim run, if we want to talk about material facts; or the feeling of\nchill produced the form of sub-consciousness which co-exists with\nthe motion of legs, if we want to talk about mental facts. But we\nknow nothing about the special nervous disturbance which co-exists\nwith a feeling of chill, because it has not yet been localized in the\nbrain; and we know nothing about the form of sub-consciousness which\nco-exists with the motion of legs; although there is very good reason\nfor believing in the existence of both. So we talk about the feeling\nof chill and the running, because in one case we know the mental side,\nand in the other the material side. A man might show me a picture of\nthe battle of Gravelotte, and say, 'You can't see the battle, because\nit's all over, but there is a picture of it.' And then he might put\na chassepot into my hand, and say, 'We could not represent the whole\nconstruction of a chassepot in the picture, but you can examine this\none, and find it out.' If I now insisted on mixing up the two modes\nof communication of knowledge, if I expected that the chassepots\nin the picture would go off, and said that the one in my hand was\npainted on heavy canvas, I should be acting exactly in the spirit\nof the new materialism. For the material facts are a representation\nor symbol of the mental facts, just as a picture is a representation\nor symbol of a battle. And my own mind is a reality from which I can\njudge by analogy of the realities represented by other men's brains,\njust as the chassepot in my hand is a reality from which I can judge by\nanalogy of the chassepots represented in the picture. When, therefore,\nwe ask, 'What is the physical link between the ingoing message from\nchilled skin and the outgoing message which moves the leg?' and the\nanswer is, 'A man's Will,' we have as much right to be amused as\nif we had asked our friend with the picture what pigment was used\nin painting the cannon in the foreground, and received the answer,\n'Wrought iron.' It will be found excellent practice in the mental\noperations required by this doctrine to imagine a train, the fore part\nof which is an engine and three carriages linked with iron couplings,\nand the hind part three other carriages linked with iron couplings;\nthe bond between the two parts being made out of the sentiments of\namity subsisting between the stoker and the guard.\n\nTo sum up: the uniformity of nature in human actions has been\ndenied on the ground that it takes away responsibility, that it is\ncontradicted by the testimony of consciousness, and that there is a\nphysical correlation between mind and matter. We have replied that\nthe uniformity of nature is necessary to responsibility, that it is\naffirmed by the testimony of consciousness whenever consciousness is\ncompetent to testify, and that matter is the phenomenon or symbol of\nwhich mind or quasi-mind is the symbolized and represented thing. We\nare now free to continue our inquiries on the supposition that nature\nis uniform.\n\nWe began by describing the moral sense of an Englishman. No doubt\nthe description would serve very well for the more civilized nations\nof Europe; most closely for Germans and Dutch. But the fact that we\ncan speak in this way discloses that there is more than one moral\nsense, and that what I feel to be right another man may feel to\nbe wrong. Thus we cannot help asking whether there is any reason\nfor preferring one moral sense to another; whether the question,\n'What is right to do?' has in any one set of circumstances a single\nanswer which can be definitely known.\n\nClearly, in the first rough sense of the word, this is not true. What\nis right for me to do now, seeing that I am here with a certain\ncharacter, and a certain moral sense as part of it, is just what\nI feel to be right. The individual conscience is, in the moment\nof volition, the only possible judge of what is right; there is\nno conflicting claim. But if we are deliberating about the future,\nwe know that we can modify our conscience gradually by associating\nwith people, reading certain books, and paying attention to certain\nideas and feelings; and we may ask ourselves, 'How shall we modify\nour conscience, if at all? what kind of conscience shall we try to\nget? what is the best conscience?' We may ask similar questions about\nour sense of taste. There is no doubt at present that the nicest things\nto me are the things I like; but I know that I can train myself to\nlike some things and dislike others, and that things which are very\nnasty at one time may come to be great delicacies at another. I may\nask, 'How shall I train myself? What is the best taste?' And this\nleads very naturally to putting the question in another form, namely,\n'What is taste good for? What is the purpose or function of taste?' We\nshould probably find as the answer to that question that the purpose or\nfunction of taste is to discriminate wholesome food from unwholesome;\nthat it is a matter of stomach and digestion. It will follow from\nthis that the best taste is that which prefers wholesome food, and\nthat by cultivating a preference for wholesome and nutritious things\nI shall be training my palate in the way it should go. In just the\nsame way our question about the best conscience will resolve itself\ninto a question about the purpose or function of the conscience--why\nwe have got it, and what it is good for.\n\nNow to my mind the simplest and clearest and most profound philosophy\nthat was ever written upon this subject is to be found in the 2d and\n3d chapters of Mr. Darwin's 'Descent of Man.' In these chapters it\nappears that just as most physical characteristics of organisms have\nbeen evolved and preserved because they were useful to the individual\nin the struggle for existence against other individuals and other\nspecies, so this particular feeling has been evolved and preserved\nbecause it is useful to the tribe or community in the struggle for\nexistence against other tribes, and against the environment as a\nwhole. The function of conscience is the preservation of the tribe\nas a tribe. And we shall rightly train our consciences if we learn\nto approve those actions which tend to the advantage of the community\nin the struggle for existence.\n\nThere are here some words, however, which require careful\ndefinition. And first the word purpose. A thing serves a purpose\nwhen it is adapted to some end; thus a corkscrew is adapted to the\nend of extracting corks from bottles, and our lungs are adapted to\nthe end of respiration. We may say that the extraction of corks is\nthe purpose of the corkscrew, and that respiration is the purpose\nof the lungs. But here we shall have used the word in two different\nsenses. A man made the corkscrew with a purpose in his mind, and he\nknew and intended that it should be used for pulling out corks. But\nnobody made our lungs with a purpose in his mind, and intended that\nthey should be used for breathing. The respiratory apparatus was\nadapted to its purpose by natural selection--namely, by the gradual\npreservation of better and better adaptations, and the killing off of\nthe worse and imperfect adaptations. In using the word purpose for\nthe result of this unconscious process of adaptation by survival of\nthe fittest, I know that I am somewhat extending its ordinary sense,\nwhich implies consciousness. But it seems to me that on the score\nof convenience there is a great deal to be said for this extension\nof meaning. We want a word to express the adaptation of means to an\nend, whether involving consciousness or not; the word purpose will do\nvery well, and the adjective purposive has already been used in this\nsense. But if the use is admitted, we must distinguish two kinds of\npurpose. There is the unconscious purpose which is attained by natural\nselection, in which no consciousness need be concerned; and there\nis the conscious purpose of an intelligence which designs a thing\nthat it may serve to do something which he desires to be done. The\ndistinguishing mark of this second kind, design or conscious purpose,\nis that in the consciousness of the agent there is an image or symbol\nof the end which he desires, and this precedes and determines the use\nof the means. Thus the man who first invented a corkscrew must have\npreviously known that corks were in bottles, and have desired to get\nthem out. We may describe this if we like in terms of matter, and say\nthat a purpose of the second kind implies a complex nervous system,\nin which there can be formed an image or symbol of the end, and that\nthis symbol determines the use of the means. The nervous image or\nsymbol of anything is that mode of working of part of my brain which\ngoes on simultaneously and is correlated with my thinking of the thing.\n\nAristotle defines an organism as that in which the part exists for the\nsake of the whole. It is not that the existence of the part depends\non the existence of the whole, for every whole exists only as an\naggregate of parts related in a certain way; but that the shape and\nnature of the part are determined by the wants of the whole. Thus\nthe shape and nature of my foot are what they are, not for the sake\nof my foot itself, but for the sake of my whole body, and because it\nwants to move about. That which the part has to do for the whole is\ncalled its function. Thus the function of my foot is to support me,\nand assist in locomotion. Not all the nature of the part is necessarily\nfor the sake of the whole: the comparative callosity of the skin of\nmy sole is for the protection of my foot itself.\n\nSociety is an organism, and man in society is part of an organism\naccording to this definition, in so far as some portion of the\nnature of man is what it is for the sake of the whole--society. Now\nconscience is such a portion of the nature of man, and its function\nis the preservation of society in the struggle for existence. We may\nbe able to define this function more closely when we know more about\nthe way in which conscience tends to preserve society.\n\nNext let us endeavor to make precise the meaning of the words community\nand society. It is clear that at different times men may be divided\ninto groups of greater or less extent--tribes, clans, families,\nnations, towns. If a certain number of clans are struggling for\nexistence, that portion of the conscience will be developed which\ntends to the preservation of the clan; so, if towns or families are\nstruggling, we shall get a moral sense adapted to the advantage of the\ntown or the family. In this way different portions of the moral sense\nmay be developed at different stages of progress. Now it is clear that\nfor the purpose of the conscience the word community at any time will\nmean a group of that size and nature which is being selected or not\nselected for survival as a whole. Selection may be going on at the\nsame time among many different kinds of groups. And ultimately the\nmoral sense will be composed of various portions relating to various\ngroups, the function or purpose of each portion being the advantage\nof that group to which it relates in the struggle for existence. Thus\nwe have a sense of family duty, of municipal duty, of national duty,\nand of duties toward all mankind.\n\nIt is to be noticed that part of the nature of a smaller group may\nbe what it is for the sake of a larger group to which it belongs;\nand then we may speak of the function of the smaller group. Thus it\nappears probable that the family, in the form in which it now exists\namong us, is determined by the good of the nation; and we may say\nthat the function of the family is to promote the advantage of the\nnation or larger society in some certain ways. But I do not think it\nwould be right to follow Auguste Comte in speaking of the function\nof humanity; because humanity is obviously not a part of any larger\norganism for whose sake it is what it is.\n\nNow that we have cleared up the meanings of some of our words, we\nare still a great way from the definite solution of our question,\n'What is the best conscience? or what ought I to think right?' For\nwe do not yet know what is for the advantage of the community in the\nstruggle for existence. If we choose to learn by the analogy of an\nindividual organism, we may see that no permanent or final answer can\nbe given, because the organism grows in consequence of the struggle,\nand develops new wants while it is satisfying the old ones. But\nat any given time it has quite enough to do to keep alive and to\navoid dangers and diseases. So we may expect that the wants and even\nthe necessities of the social organism will grow with its growth,\nand that it is impossible to predict what may tend in the distant\nfuture to its advantage in the struggle for existence. But still,\nin this vague and general statement of the functions of conscience,\nwe shall find that we have already established a great deal.\n\nIn the first place, right is an affair of the community, and must not\nbe referred to anything else. To go back to our analogy of taste: if\nI tried to persuade you that the best palate was that which preferred\nthings pretty to look at, you might condemn me \u00e0 priori without any\nexperience, by merely knowing that taste is an affair of stomach and\ndigestion--that its function is to select wholesome food. And so,\nif any one tries to persuade us that the best conscience is that\nwhich thinks it right to obey the will of some individual, as a deity\nor a monarch, he is condemned \u00e0 priori in the very nature of right\nand wrong. In order that the worship of a deity may be consistent\nwith natural ethics, he must be regarded as the friend and helper of\nhumanity, and his character must be judged from his actions by a moral\nstandard which is independent of him. And this, it must be admitted,\nis the position which has been taken by most English divines, as long\nas they were Englishmen first and divines afterward. The worship of\na deity who is represented as unfair or unfriendly to any portion of\nthe community is a wrong thing, however great may be the threats and\npromises by which it is commended. And still worse, the reference of\nright and wrong to his arbitrary will as a standard, the diversion\nof the allegiance of the moral sense from the community to him, is\nthe most insidious and fatal of social diseases. It was against this\nthat the Teutonic conscience protested in the Reformation. Again, in\nmonarchical countries, in order that allegiance to the sovereign may\nbe consistent with natural ethics, he must be regarded as the servant\nand symbol of the national unity, capable of rebellion and punishable\nfor it. And this has been the theory of the English constitution from\ntime immemorial.\n\nThe first principle of natural ethics, then, is the sole and supreme\nallegiance of conscience to the community. I venture to call this piety\nin accordance with the older meaning of the word. Even if it should\nturn out impossible to sever it from the unfortunate associations which\nhave clung to its later meaning, still it seems worth while to try.\n\nAn immediate deduction from our principle is that there are no\nself-regarding virtues properly so called; those qualities which\ntend to the advantage and preservation of the individual being only\nmorally right in so far as they make him a more useful citizen. And\nthis conclusion is in some cases of great practical importance. The\nvirtue of purity, for example, attains in this way a fairly exact\ndefinition: purity in a man is that course of conduct which makes him\nto be a good husband and father, in a woman that which makes her to be\na good wife and mother, or which helps other people so to prepare and\nkeep themselves. It is easy to see how many false ideas and pernicious\nprecepts are swept away by even so simple a definition as that.\n\nNext, we may fairly define our position in regard to that moral\nsystem which has deservedly found favor with the great mass of our\ncountrymen. In the common statement of utilitarianism the end of\nright action is defined to be the greatest happiness of the greatest\nnumber. It seems to me that the reason and the ample justification\nof the success of this system is that it explicitly sets forth the\ncommunity as the object of moral allegiance. But our determination\nof the purpose of the conscience will oblige us to make a change in\nthe statement of it. Happiness is not the end of right action. My\nhappiness is of no use to the community except in so far as it makes\nme a more efficient citizen; that is to say, it is rightly desired as\na means and not as an end. The end may be described as the greatest\nefficiency of all citizens as such. No doubt happiness will in the\nlong run accrue to the community as a consequence of right conduct;\nbut the right is determined independently of the happiness, and,\nas Plato says, it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.\n\nIn conclusion, I would add some words on the relation of Veracity to\nthe first principle of Piety. It is clear that veracity is founded on\nfaith in man; you tell a man the truth when you can trust him with it\nand are not afraid. This perhaps is made more evident by considering\nthe case of exception allowed by all moralists--namely, that if a man\nasks you the way with a view to committing a murder, it is right to\ntell a lie and misdirect him. The reason why he must not have the truth\ntold him is that he would make a bad use of it; he cannot be trusted\nwith it. About these cases of exception an important remark must be\nmade in passing. When we hear that a man has told a lie under such\ncircumstances, we are indeed ready to admit that for once it was right,\nmensonge admirable; but we always have a sort of feeling that it must\nnot occur again. And the same thing applies to cases of conflicting\nobligations, when for example the family conscience and the national\nconscience disagree. In such cases no general rule can be laid down; we\nhave to choose the less of two evils; but this is not right altogether\nin the same sense as it is right to speak the truth. There is something\nwrong in the circumstances, that we should have to choose an evil at\nall. The actual course to be pursued will vary with the progress of\nsociety; that evil which at first was greater will become less, and\nin a perfect society the conflict will be resolved into harmony. But\nmeanwhile these cases of exception must be carefully kept distinct\nfrom the straightforward cases of right and wrong, and they always\nimply an obligation to mend the circumstances if we can.\n\nVeracity to an individual is not only enjoined by piety in virtue of\nthe obvious advantage which attends a straightforward and mutually\ntrusting community as compared with others, but also because deception\nis in all cases a personal injury. Still more is this true of veracity\nto the community itself. The conception of the universe or aggregate\nof beliefs which forms the link between sensation and action for\neach individual is a public and not a private matter; it is formed\nby society and for society. Of what enormous importance it is to the\ncommunity that this should be a true conception I need not attempt\nto describe. Now to the attainment of this true conception two things\nare necessary.\n\nFirst, if we study the history of those methods by which true beliefs\nand false beliefs have been attained, we shall see that it is our duty\nto guide our beliefs by inference from experience on the assumption\nof uniformity of nature and consciousness in other men, and by this\nonly. Only upon this moral basis can the foundations of the empirical\nmethod be justified.\n\nSecondly, veracity to the community depends upon faith in man. Surely\nI ought to be talking platitudes when I say that it is not English to\ntell a man a lie, or to suggest a lie by your silence or your actions,\nbecause you are afraid that he is not prepared for the truth, because\nyou don't quite know what he will do when he knows it, because perhaps\nafter all this lie is a better thing for him than the truth would\nbe, this same man being all the time an honest fellow-citizen whom\nyou have every reason to trust. Surely I have heard that this craven\ncrookedness is the object of our national detestation. And yet it is\nconstantly whispered that it would be dangerous to divulge certain\ntruths to the masses. 'I know the whole thing is untrue: but then\nit is so useful for the people; you don't know what harm you might\ndo by shaking their faith in it.' Crooked ways are none the less\ncrooked because they are meant to deceive great masses of people\ninstead of individuals. If a thing is true, let us all believe it,\nrich and poor, men, women, and children. If a thing is untrue, let\nus all disbelieve it, rich and poor, men, women, and children. Truth\nis a thing to be shouted from the housetops, not to be whispered over\nrose-water after dinner when the ladies are gone away.\n\nEven in those whom I would most reverence, who would shrink with\nhorror from such actual deception as I have just mentioned, I find\ntraces of a want of faith in man. Even that noble thinker, to whom\nwe of this generation owe more than I can tell, seemed to say in\none of his posthumous essays that in regard to questions of great\npublic importance we might encourage a hope in excess of the evidence\n(which would infallibly grow into a belief and defy evidence) if\nwe found that life was made easier by it. As if we should not lose\ninfinitely more by nourishing a tendency to falsehood than we could\ngain by the delusion of a pleasing fancy. Life must first of all be\nmade straight and true; it may get easier through the help this brings\nto the commonwealth. And Lange, the great historian of materialism,\nsays that the amount of false belief necessary to morality in a given\nsociety is a matter of taste. I cannot believe that any falsehood\nwhatever is necessary to morality. It cannot be true of my race and\nyours that to keep ourselves from becoming scoundrels we must needs\nbelieve a lie. The sense of right grew up among healthy men and was\nfixed by the practice of comradeship. It has never had help from\nphantoms and falsehoods, and it never can want any. By faith in man\nand piety toward men we have taught each other the right hitherto; with\nfaith in man and piety toward men we shall never more depart from it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE ETHICS OF BELIEF.\n\n\nI. The Duty of Inquiry.--A shipowner was about to send to sea an\nemigrant-ship. He knew that she was old, and not over-well built at the\nfirst; that she had seen many seas and climes, and often had needed\nrepairs. Doubts had been suggested to him that possibly she was not\nseaworthy. These doubts preyed upon his mind, and made him unhappy;\nhe thought that perhaps he ought to have her thoroughly overhauled\nand refitted, even though this should put him to great expense. Before\nthe ship sailed, however, he succeeded in overcoming these melancholy\nreflections. He said to himself that she had gone safely through\nso many voyages and weathered so many storms that it was idle to\nsuppose she would not come safely home from this trip also. He would\nput his trust in Providence, which could hardly fail to protect all\nthese unhappy families that were leaving their fatherland to seek for\nbetter times elsewhere. He would dismiss from his mind all ungenerous\nsuspicions about the honesty of builders and contractors. In such ways\nhe acquired a sincere and comfortable conviction that his vessel was\nthoroughly safe and seaworthy; he watched her departure with a light\nheart, and benevolent wishes for the success of the exiles in their\nstrange new home that was to be; and he got his insurance-money when\nshe went down in mid-ocean and told no tales.\n\nWhat shall we say of him? Surely this, that he was verily guilty of\nthe death of those men. It is admitted that he did sincerely believe in\nthe soundness of his ship; but the sincerity of his conviction can in\nno wise help him, because he had no right to believe on such evidence\nas was before him. He had acquired his belief not by honestly earning\nit in patient investigation, but by stifling his doubts. And although\nin the end he may have felt so sure about it that he could not think\notherwise, yet inasmuch as he had knowingly and willingly worked\nhimself into that frame of mind, he must be held responsible for it.\n\nLet us alter the case a little, and suppose that the ship was not\nunsound after all; that she made her voyage safely, and many others\nafter it. Will that diminish the guilt of her owner? Not one jot. When\nan action is once done, it is right or wrong forever; no accidental\nfailure of its good or evil fruits can possibly alter that. The\nman would not have been innocent, he would only have been not found\nout. The question of right or wrong has to do with the origin of his\nbelief, not the matter of it; not what it was, but how he got it;\nnot whether it turned out to be true or false, but whether he had a\nright to believe on such evidence as was before him.\n\nThere was once an island in which some of the inhabitants professed\na religion teaching neither the doctrine of original sin nor that of\neternal punishment. A suspicion got abroad that the professors of this\nreligion had made use of unfair means to get their doctrines taught\nto children. They were accused of wresting the laws of their country\nin such a way as to remove children from the care of their natural\nand legal guardians; and even of stealing them away and keeping them\nconcealed from their friends and relations. A certain number of men\nformed themselves into a society for the purpose of agitating the\npublic about this matter. They published grave accusations against\nindividual citizens of the highest position and character, and did\nall in their power to injure these citizens in the exercise of their\nprofessions. So great was the noise they made, that a Commission\nwas appointed to investigate the facts; but after the Commission\nhad carefully inquired into all the evidence that could be got,\nit appeared that the accused were innocent. Not only had they been\naccused on insufficient evidence, but the evidence of their innocence\nwas such as the agitators might easily have obtained, if they had\nattempted a fair inquiry. After these disclosures the inhabitants\nof that country looked upon the members of the agitating society,\nnot only as persons whose judgment was to be distrusted, but also as\nno longer to be counted honorable men. For although they had sincerely\nand conscientiously believed in the charges they had made, yet they had\nno right to believe on such evidence as was before them. Their sincere\nconvictions, instead of being honestly earned by patient inquiring,\nwere stolen by listening to the voice of prejudice and passion.\n\nLet us vary this case also, and suppose, other things remaining as\nbefore, that a still more accurate investigation proved the accused\nto have been really guilty. Would this make any difference in the\nguilt of the accusers? Clearly not; the question is not whether their\nbelief was true or false, but whether they entertained it on wrong\ngrounds. They would no doubt say, 'Now you see that we were right\nafter all; next time perhaps you will believe us.' And they might be\nbelieved, but they would not thereby become honorable men. They would\nnot be innocent, they would only be not found out. Every one of them,\nif he chose to examine himself in foro conscienti\u00e6, would know that he\nhad acquired and nourished a belief, when he had no right to believe\non such evidence as was before him; and therein he would know that\nhe had done a wrong thing.\n\nIt may be said, however, that in both of these supposed cases it is\nnot the belief which is judged to be wrong, but the action following\nupon it. The shipowner might say, 'I am perfectly certain that my\nship is sound, but still I feel it my duty to have her examined,\nbefore trusting the lives of so many people to her.' And it might be\nsaid to the agitator, 'However convinced you were of the justice of\nyour cause and the truth of your convictions, you ought not to have\nmade a public attack upon any man's character until you had examined\nthe evidence on both sides with the utmost patience and care.'\n\nIn the first place, let us admit that, so far as it goes, this\nview of the case is right and necessary; right, because even when\na man's belief is so fixed that he cannot think otherwise, he still\nhas a choice in regard to the action suggested by it, and so cannot\nescape the duty of investigating on the ground of the strength of his\nconvictions; and necessary, because those who are not yet capable\nof controlling their feelings and thoughts must have a plain rule\ndealing with overt acts.\n\nBut this being premised as necessary, it becomes clear that it is not\nsufficient, and that our previous judgment is required to supplement\nit. For it is not possible so to sever the belief from the action it\nsuggests as to condemn the one without condemning the other. No man\nholding a strong belief on one side of a question, or even wishing\nto hold a belief on one side, can investigate it with such fairness\nand completeness as if he were really in doubt and unbiased; so that\nthe existence of a belief not founded on fair inquiry unfits a man\nfor the performance of this necessary duty.\n\nNor is that truly a belief at all which has not some influence upon\nthe actions of him who holds it. He who truly believes that which\nprompts him to an action has looked upon the action to lust after it,\nhe has committed it already in his heart. If a belief is not realized\nimmediately in open deeds, it is stored up for the guidance of the\nfuture. It goes to make a part of that aggregate of beliefs which\nis the link between sensation and action at every moment of all our\nlives, and which is so organized and compacted together that no part\nof it can be isolated from the rest, but every new addition modifies\nthe structure of the whole. No real belief, however trifling and\nfragmentary it may seem, is ever truly insignificant; it prepares\nus to receive more of its like, confirms those which resembled it\nbefore, and weakens others; and so gradually it lays a stealthy train\nin our inmost thoughts, which may some day explode into overt action,\nand leave its stamp upon our character forever.\n\nAnd no one man's belief is in any case a private matter which concerns\nhimself alone. Our lives are guided by that general conception of\nthe course of things which has been created by society for social\npurposes. Our words, our phrases, our forms and processes and modes\nof thought, are common property, fashioned and perfected from age\nto age; an heirloom which every succeeding generation inherits as a\nprecious deposit and a sacred trust to be handed on to the next one,\nnot unchanged but enlarged and purified, with some clear marks of its\nproper handiwork. Into this, for good or ill, is woven every belief\nof every man who has speech of his fellows. An awful privilege, and\nan awful responsibility, that we should help to create the world in\nwhich posterity will live.\n\nIn the two supposed cases which have been considered, it has been\njudged wrong to believe on insufficient evidence, or to nourish belief\nby suppressing doubts and avoiding investigation. The reason of this\njudgment is not far to seek: it is that in both these cases the belief\nheld by one man was of great importance to other men. But forasmuch\nas no belief held by one man, however seemingly trivial the belief,\nand however obscure the believer, is ever actually insignificant or\nwithout its effect on the fate of mankind, we have no choice but to\nextend our judgment to all cases of belief whatever. Belief, that\nsacred faculty which prompts the decisions of our will, and knits\ninto harmonious working all the compacted energies of our being,\nis ours not for ourselves, but for humanity. It is rightly used on\ntruths which have been established by long experience and waiting\ntoil, and which have stood in the fierce light of free and fearless\nquestioning. Then it helps to bind men together, and to strengthen and\ndirect their common action. It is desecrated when given to unproved\nand unquestioned statements, for the solace and private pleasure of\nthe believer; to add a tinsel splendor to the plain straight road of\nour life and display a bright mirage beyond it; or even to drown the\ncommon sorrows of our kind by a self-deception which allows them not\nonly to cast down, but also to degrade us. Whoso would deserve well of\nhis fellows in this matter will guard the purity of his belief with\na very fanaticism of jealous care, lest at any time it should rest\non an unworthy object, and catch a stain which can never be wiped away.\n\nIt is not only the leader of men, statesman, philosopher, or poet,\nthat owes this bounden duty to mankind. Every rustic who delivers\nin the village alehouse his slow, infrequent sentences, may help to\nkill or keep alive the fatal superstitions which clog his race. Every\nhard-worked wife of an artisan may transmit to her children beliefs\nwhich shall knit society together, or rend it in pieces. No simplicity\nof mind, no obscurity of station, can escape the universal duty of\nquestioning all that we believe.\n\nIt is true that this duty is a hard one, and the doubt which comes out\nof it is often a very bitter thing. It leaves us bare and powerless\nwhere we thought that we were safe and strong. To know all about\nanything is to know how to deal with it under all circumstances. We\nfeel much happier and more secure when we think we know precisely\nwhat to do, no matter what happens, than when we have lost our way and\ndo not know where to turn. And if we have supposed ourselves to know\nall about anything, and to be capable of doing what is fit in regard\nto it, we naturally do not like to find that we are really ignorant\nand powerless, that we have to begin again at the beginning, and try\nto learn what the thing is and how it is to be dealt with--if indeed\nanything can be learnt about it. It is the sense of power attached\nto a sense of knowledge that makes men desirous of believing, and\nafraid of doubting.\n\nThis sense of power is the highest and best of pleasures when the\nbelief on which it is founded is a true belief, and has been fairly\nearned by investigation. For then we may justly feel that it is common\nproperty, and holds good for others as well as for ourselves. Then\nwe may be glad, not that I have learned secrets by which I am safer\nand stronger, but that we men have got mastery over more of the\nworld; and we shall be strong, not for ourselves, but in the name\nof Man and in his strength. But if the belief has been accepted on\ninsufficient evidence, the pleasure is a stolen one. Not only does\nit deceive ourselves by giving us a sense of power which we do not\nreally possess, but it is sinful, because it is stolen in defiance of\nour duty to mankind. That duty is to guard ourselves from such beliefs\nas from a pestilence, which may shortly master our own body and then\nspread to the rest of the town. What would be thought of one who,\nfor the sake of a sweet fruit, should deliberately run the risk of\nbringing a plague upon his family and his neighbors?\n\nAnd, as in other such cases, it is not the risk only which has to\nbe considered; for a bad action is always bad at the time when it is\ndone, no matter what happens afterward. Every time we let ourselves\nbelieve for unworthy reasons, we weaken our powers of self-control,\nof doubting, of judicially and fairly weighing evidence. We all suffer\nseverely enough from the maintenance and support of false beliefs\nand the fatally wrong actions which they lead to, and the evil born\nwhen one such belief is entertained is great and wide. But a greater\nand wider evil arises when the credulous character is maintained\nand supported, when a habit of believing for unworthy reasons is\nfostered and made permanent. If I steal money from any person,\nthere may be no harm done by the mere transfer of possession; he\nmay not feel the loss, or it may prevent him from using the money\nbadly. But I cannot help doing this great wrong toward Man, that\nI make myself dishonest. What hurts society is not that it should\nlose its property, but that it should become a den of thieves; for\nthen it must cease to be society. This is why we ought not to do\nevil that good may come; for at any rate this great evil has come,\nthat we have done evil and are made wicked thereby. In like manner,\nif I let myself believe anything on insufficient evidence, there may\nbe no great harm done by the mere belief; it may be true after all,\nor I may never have occasion to exhibit it in outward acts. But I\ncannot help doing this great wrong toward Man, that I make myself\ncredulous. The danger to society is not merely that it should believe\nwrong things, though that is great enough; but that it should become\ncredulous, and lose the habit of testing things and inquiring into\nthem; for then it must sink back into savagery.\n\nThe harm which is done by credulity in a man is not confined to the\nfostering of a credulous character in others, and consequent support\nof false beliefs. Habitual want of care about what I believe leads to\nhabitual want of care in others about the truth of what is told to\nme. Men speak the truth to one another when each reveres the truth\nin his own mind and in the other's mind; but how shall my friend\nrevere the truth in my mind when I myself am careless about it,\nwhen I believe things because I want to believe them, and because\nthey are comforting and pleasant? Will he not learn to cry, 'Peace,'\nto me, when there is no peace? By such a course I shall surround\nmyself with a thick atmosphere of falsehood and fraud, and in that I\nmust live. It may matter little to me, in my cloud-castle of sweet\nillusions and darling lies; but it matters much to Man that I have\nmade my neighbors ready to deceive. The credulous man is father to\nthe liar and the cheat; he lives in the bosom of this his family,\nand it is no marvel if he should become even as they are. So closely\nare our duties knit together, that whoso shall keep the whole law,\nand yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all.\n\nTo sum up: it is wrong always, everywhere and for any one, to believe\nanything upon insufficient evidence.\n\nIf a man, holding a belief which he was taught in childhood or\npersuaded of afterward, keeps down and pushes away any doubts which\narise about it in his mind, purposely avoids the reading of books and\nthe company of men that call in question or discuss it, and regards\nas impious those questions which cannot easily be asked without\ndisturbing it--the life of that man is one long sin against mankind.\n\nIf this judgment seems harsh when applied to those simple souls who\nhave never known better, who have been brought up from the cradle\nwith a horror of doubt, and taught that their eternal welfare depends\non what they believe, then it leads to the very serious question,\nWho hath made Israel to sin?\n\nIt may be permitted me to fortify this judgment with the sentence\nof Milton--\n\n'A man may be a heretic in the truth; and if he believe things only\nbecause his pastor says so, or the assembly so determine, without\nknowing other reason, though his belief be true, yet the very truth\nhe holds becomes his heresy.'\n\nAnd with this famous aphorism of Coleridge--\n\n'He who begins by loving Christianity better than Truth, will proceed\nby loving his own sect or Church better than Christianity, and end\nin loving himself better than all.'\n\nInquiry into the evidence of a doctrine is not to be made once for\nall, and then taken as finally settled. It is never lawful to stifle a\ndoubt; for either it can be honestly answered by means of the inquiry\nalready made, or else it proves that the inquiry was not complete.\n\n'But,' says one, 'I am a busy man; I have no time for the long course\nof study which would be necessary to make me in any degree a competent\njudge of certain questions, or even able to understand the nature of\nthe arguments.' Then he should have no time to believe.\n\nII. The Weight of Authority.--Are we then to become universal skeptics,\ndoubting everything, afraid always to put one foot before the other\nuntil we have personally tested the firmness of the road? Are we\nto deprive ourselves of the help and guidance of that vast body of\nknowledge which is daily growing upon the world, because neither\nwe nor any other one person can possibly test a hundredth part of\nit by immediate experiment or observation, and because it would not\nbe completely proved if we did? Shall we steal and tell lies because\nwe have had no personal experience wide enough to justify the belief\nthat it is wrong to do so?\n\nThere is no practical danger that such consequences will ever follow\nfrom scrupulous care and self-control in the matter of belief. Those\nmen who have most nearly done their duty in this respect have found\nthat certain great principles, and these most fitted for the guidance\nof life, have stood out more and more clearly in proportion to the\ncare and honesty with which they were tested, and have acquired in\nthis way a practical certainty. The beliefs about right and wrong\nwhich guide our actions in dealing with men in society, and the beliefs\nabout physical nature which guide our actions in dealing with animate\nand inanimate bodies, these never suffer from investigation; they\ncan take care of themselves, without being propped up by 'acts of\nfaith,' the clamor of paid advocates, or the suppression of contrary\nevidence. Moreover there are many cases in which it is our duty\nto act upon probabilities, although the evidence is not such as to\njustify present belief; because it is precisely by such action, and\nby observation of its fruits, that evidence is got which may justify\nfuture belief. So that we have no reason to fear lest a habit of\nconscientious inquiry should paralyze the actions of our daily life.\n\nBut because it is not enough to say, 'It is wrong to believe on\nunworthy evidence,' without saying also what evidence is worthy,\nwe shall now go on to inquire under what circumstances it is lawful\nto believe on the testimony of others; and then, further, we shall\ninquire more generally when and why we may believe that which goes\nbeyond our own experience, or even beyond the experience of mankind.\n\nIn what cases, then, let us ask in the first place, is the testimony\nof a man unworthy of belief? He may say that which is untrue either\nknowingly or unknowingly. In the first case he is lying, and his moral\ncharacter is to blame; in the second case he is ignorant or mistaken,\nand it is only his knowledge or his judgment which is in fault. In\norder that we may have the right to accept his testimony as ground for\nbelieving what he says, we must have reasonable grounds for trusting\nhis veracity, that he is really trying to speak the truth so far as he\nknows it; his knowledge, that he has had opportunities of knowing the\ntruth about this matter; and his judgment, that he has made proper use\nof those opportunities in coming to the conclusion which he affirms.\n\nHowever plain and obvious these reasons may be, so that no man of\nordinary intelligence, reflecting upon the matter, could fail to\narrive at them, it is nevertheless true that a great many persons\ndo habitually disregard them in weighing testimony. Of the two\nquestions, equally important to the trustworthiness of a witness,\n'Is he dishonest?' and 'May he be mistaken?' the majority of mankind\nare perfectly satisfied if one can, with some show of probability,\nbe answered in the negative. The excellent moral character of a man\nis alleged as ground for accepting his statements about things which\nhe cannot possibly have known. A Mohammedan, for example, will tell\nus that the character of his Prophet was so noble and majestic that\nit commands the reverence even of those who do not believe in his\nmission. So admirable was his moral teaching, so wisely put together\nthe great social machine which he created, that his precepts have not\nonly been accepted by a great portion of mankind, but have actually\nbeen obeyed. His institutions have on the one hand rescued the negro\nfrom savagery, and on the other hand have taught civilization to the\nadvancing West; and although the races which held the highest forms\nof his faith, and most fully embodied his mind and thought, have all\nbeen conquered and swept away by barbaric tribes, yet the history\nof their marvellous attainments remains as an imperishable glory to\nIslam. Are we to doubt the word of a man so great and so good? Can we\nsuppose that this magnificent genius, this splendid moral hero, has\nlied to us about the most solemn and sacred matters? The testimony of\nMohammed is clear, that there is but one God, and that he, Mohammed,\nis his prophet; that if we believe in him we shall enjoy everlasting\nfelicity, but that if we do not we shall be damned. This testimony\nrests on the most awful of foundations, the revelation of heaven\nitself; for was he not visited by the angel Gabriel, as he fasted and\nprayed in his desert cave, and allowed to enter into the blessed fields\nof Paradise? Surely God is God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God.\n\nWhat should we answer to this Mussulman? First, no doubt, we should\nbe tempted to take exception against his view of the character\nof the Prophet and the uniformly beneficial influence of Islam:\nbefore we could go with him altogether in these matters it might seem\nthat we should have to forget many terrible things of which we have\nheard or read. But if we chose to grant him all these assumptions,\nfor the sake of argument, and because it is difficult both for the\nfaithful and for infidels to discuss them fairly and without passion,\nstill we should have something to say which takes away the ground\nof his belief, and therefore shows that it is wrong to entertain\nit. Namely this: the character of Mohammed is excellent evidence\nthat he was honest and spoke the truth so far as he knew it; but it\nis no evidence at all that he knew what the truth was. What means\ncould he have of knowing that the form which appeared to him to be\nthe angel Gabriel was not a hallucination, and that his apparent\nvisit to Paradise was not a dream? Grant that he himself was fully\npersuaded and honestly believed that he had the guidance of heaven,\nand was the vehicle of a supernatural revelation, how could he know\nthat this strong conviction was not a mistake? Let us put ourselves\nin his place; we shall find that the more completely we endeavor\nto realize what passed through his mind, the more clearly we shall\nperceive that the Prophet could have had no adequate ground for the\nbelief in his own inspiration. It is most probable that he himself\nnever doubted of the matter, or thought of asking the question; but\nwe are in the position of those to whom the question has been asked,\nand who are bound to answer it. It is known to medical observers that\nsolitude and want of food are powerful means of producing delusion\nand of fostering a tendency to mental disease. Let us suppose, then,\nthat I, like Mohammed, go into desert places to fast and pray; what\nthings can happen to me which will give me the right to believe that I\nam divinely inspired? Suppose that I get information, apparently from\na celestial visitor, which upon being tested is found to be correct. I\ncannot be sure, in the first place, that the celestial visitor is not\na figment of my own mind, and that the information did not come to me,\nunknown at the time to my consciousness, through some subtle channel of\nsense. But if my visitor were a real visitor, and for a long time gave\nme information which was found to be trustworthy, this would indeed\nbe good ground for trusting him in the future as to such matters as\nfall within human powers of verification; but it would not be ground\nfor trusting his testimony as to any other matters. For although his\ntested character would justify me in believing that he spoke the truth\nso far as he knew, yet the same question would present itself--what\nground is there for supposing that he knows?\n\nEven if my supposed visitor had given me such information, subsequently\nverified by me, as proved him to have means of knowledge about\nverifiable matters far exceeding my own; this would not justify me in\nbelieving what he said about matters that are not at present capable\nof verification by man. It would be ground for interesting conjecture,\nand for the hope that, as the fruit of our patient inquiry, we might\nby and by attain to such a means of verification as should rightly\nturn conjecture into belief. For belief belongs to man, and to the\nguidance of human affairs: no belief is real unless it guide our\nactions, and those very actions supply a test of its truth.\n\nBut, it may be replied, the acceptance of Islam as a system is\njust that action which is prompted by belief in the mission of the\nProphet, and which will serve for a test of its truth. Is it possible\nto believe that a system which has succeeded so well is really founded\nupon a delusion? Not only have individual saints found joy and peace in\nbelieving, and verified those spiritual experiences which are promised\nto the faithful, but nations also have been raised from savagery or\nbarbarism to a higher social state. Surely we are at liberty to say\nthat the belief has been acted upon, and that it has been verified.\n\nIt requires, however, but little consideration to show that what\nhas really been verified is not at all the supernal character of the\nProphet's mission, or the trustworthiness of his authority in matters\nwhich we ourselves cannot test, but only his practical wisdom in\ncertain very mundane things. The fact that believers have found joy\nand peace in believing gives us the right to say that the doctrine\nis a comfortable doctrine, and pleasant to the soul; but it does not\ngive us the right to say that it is true. And the question which our\nconscience is always asking about that which we are tempted to believe\nis not, 'Is it comfortable and pleasant?' but, 'Is it true?' That\nthe Prophet preached certain doctrines, and predicted that spiritual\ncomfort would be found in them, proves only his sympathy with human\nnature and his knowledge of it; but it does not prove his superhuman\nknowledge of theology.\n\nAnd if we admit for the sake of argument (for it seems that we cannot\ndo more) that the progress made by Moslem nations in certain cases\nwas really due to the system formed and sent forth into the the world\nby Mohammed, we are not at liberty to conclude from this that he was\ninspired to declare the truth about things which we cannot verify. We\nare only at liberty to infer the excellence of his moral precepts,\nor of the means which he devised for so working upon men as to get\nthem obeyed, or of the social and political machinery which he set\nup. And it would require a great amount of careful examination into\nthe history of those nations to determine which of these things\nhad the greater share in the result. So that here again it is the\nProphet's knowledge of human nature, and his sympathy with it, that\nare verified; not his divine inspiration, or his knowledge of theology.\n\nIf there were only one Prophet, indeed, it might well seem a difficult\nand even an ungracious task to decide upon what points we would\ntrust him, and on what we would doubt his authority; seeing what help\nand furtherance all men have gained in all ages from those who saw\nmore clearly, who felt more strongly, and who sought the truth with\nmore single heart than their weaker brethren. But there is not only\none Prophet; and while the consent of many upon that which, as men,\nthey had real means of knowing and did know, has endured to the end,\nand been honorably built into the great fabric of human knowledge,\nthe diverse witness of some about that which they did not and could\nnot know remains as a warning to us that to exaggerate the prophetic\nauthority is to misuse it, and to dishonor those who have sought\nonly to help and further us after their power. It is hardly in human\nnature that a man should quite accurately gauge the limits of his own\ninsight; but it is the duty of those who profit by his work to consider\ncarefully where he may have been carried beyond it. If we must needs\nembalm his possible errors along with his solid achievements, and use\nhis authority as an excuse for believing what he cannot have known,\nwe make of his goodness an occasion to sin.\n\nTo consider only one other such witness: the followers of the Buddha\nhave at least as much right to appeal to individual and social\nexperience in support of the authority of the Eastern saviour. The\nspecial mark of his religion, it is said, that in which it has never\nbeen surpassed, is the comfort and consolation which it gives to\nthe sick and sorrowful, the tender sympathy with which it soothes and\nassuages all the natural griefs of men. And surely no triumph of social\nmorality can be greater or nobler than that which has kept nearly half\nthe human race from persecuting in the name of religion. If we are to\ntrust the accounts of his early followers, he believed himself to have\ncome upon earth with a divine and cosmic mission to set rolling the\nwheel of the law. Being a prince, he divested himself of his kingdom,\nand of his free will became acquainted with misery, that he might\nlearn how to meet and subdue it. Could such a man speak falsely about\nsolemn things? And as for his knowledge, was he not a man miraculous\nwith powers more than man's? He was born of woman without the help\nof man; he rose into the air and was transfigured before his kinsmen;\nat last he went up bodily into heaven from the top of Adam's Peak. Is\nnot his word to be believed in when he testifies of heavenly things?\n\nIf there were only he, and no other, with such claims! But there\nis Mohammed with his testimony; we cannot choose but listen to them\nboth. The Prophet tells us that there is one God, and that we shall\nlive forever in joy or misery, according as we believe in the Prophet\nor not. The Buddha says that there is no God, and that we shall be\nannihilated by and by if we are good enough. Both cannot be infallibly\ninspired; one or the other must have been the victim of a delusion,\nand thought he knew that which he really did not know. Who shall dare\nto say which? and how can we justify ourselves in believing that the\nother was not also deluded?\n\nWe are led, then, to these judgments following. The goodness and\ngreatness of a man do not justify us in accepting a belief upon the\nwarrant of his authority, unless there are reasonable grounds for\nsupposing that he knew the truth of what he was saying. And there\ncan be no grounds for supposing that a man knows that which we,\nwithout ceasing to be men, could not be supposed to verify.\n\nIf a chemist tells me, who am no chemist, that a certain substance can\nbe made by putting together other substances in certain proportions and\nsubjecting them to a known process, I am quite justified in believing\nthis upon his authority, unless I know anything against his character\nor his judgment. For his professional training is one which tends to\nencourage veracity and the honest pursuit of truth, and to produce a\ndislike of hasty conclusions and slovenly investigation. And I have\nreasonable ground for supposing that he knows the truth of what he\nis saying, for although I am no chemist, I can be made to understand\nso much of the methods and processes of the science as makes it\nconceivable to me that, without ceasing to be man, I might verify the\nstatement. I may never actually verify it, or even see any experiment\nwhich goes toward verifying it; but still I have quite reason enough\nto justify me in believing that the verification is within the reach\nof human appliances and powers, and in particular that it has been\nactually performed by my informant. His result, the belief to which he\nhas been led by his inquiries, is valid not only for himself but for\nothers; it is watched and tested by those who are working in the same\nground and who know that no greater service can be rendered to science\nthan the purification of accepted results from the errors which may\nhave crept into them. It is in this way that the result becomes common\nproperty, a right object of belief, which is a social affair and matter\nof public business. Thus it is to be observed that his authority is\nvalid because there are those who question it and verify it; that it\nis precisely this process of examining and purifying that keeps alive\namong investigators the love of that which shall stand all possible\ntests, the sense of public responsibility as of those whose work,\nif well done, shall remain as the enduring heritage of mankind.\n\nBut if my chemist tells me that an atom of oxygen has existed unaltered\nin weight and rate of vibration throughout all time, I have no right\nto believe this on his authority, for it is a thing which he cannot\nknow without ceasing to be man. He may quite honestly believe that\nthis statement is a fair inference from his experiments, but in that\ncase his judgment is at fault. A very simple consideration of the\ncharacter of experiments would show him that they never can lead to\nresults of such a kind; that being themselves only approximate and\nlimited, they cannot give us knowledge which is exact and universal. No\neminence of character and genius can give a man authority enough to\njustify us in believing him when he makes statements implying exact\nor universal knowledge.\n\nAgain, an Arctic explorer may tell us that in a given latitude and\nlongitude he has experienced such and such a degree of cold, that the\nsea was of such a depth, and the ice of such a character. We should\nbe quite right to believe him, in the absence of any stain upon his\nveracity. It is conceivable that we might, without ceasing to be men,\ngo there and verify his statement; it can be tested by the witness of\nhis companions, and there is adequate ground for supposing that he\nknows the truth of what he is saying. But if an old whaler tells us\nthat the ice is three hundred feet thick all the way up to the Pole,\nwe shall not be justified in believing him. For although the statement\nmay be capable of verification by man, it is certainly not capable\nof verification by him, with any means and appliances which he has\npossessed; and he must have persuaded himself of the truth of it by\nsome means which does not attach any credit to his testimony. Even if,\ntherefore, the matter affirmed is within the reach of human knowledge,\nwe have no right to accept it upon authority unless it is within the\nreach of our informant's knowledge.\n\nWhat shall we say of that authority, more venerable and august than any\nindividual witness, the time-honored tradition of the human race? An\natmosphere of beliefs and conceptions has been formed by the labors\nand struggles of our forefathers, which enables us to breathe amid the\nvarious and complex circumstances of our life. It is around and about\nus and within us; we cannot think except in the forms and processes\nof thought which it supplies. Is it possible to doubt and to test\nit? and if possible, is it right?\n\nWe shall find reason to answer that it is not only possible and\nright, but our bounden duty; that the main purpose of the tradition\nitself is to supply us with the means of asking questions, of testing\nand inquiring into things; that if we misuse it, and take it as a\ncollection of cut-and-dried statements, to be accepted without further\ninquiry, we are not only injuring ourselves here, but by refusing\nto do our part toward the building up of the fabric which shall be\ninherited by our children, we are tending to cut off ourselves and\nour race from the human line.\n\nLet us first take care to distinguish a kind of tradition which\nespecially requires to be examined and called in question, because\nit especially shrinks from inquiry. Suppose that a medicine-man in\nCentral Africa tells his tribe that a certain powerful medicine in his\ntent will be propitiated if they kill their cattle; and that the tribe\nbelieve him. Whether the medicine was propitiated or not, there are\nno means of verifying, but the cattle are gone. Still the belief may\nbe kept up in the tribe that propitiation has been effected in this\nway; and in a later generation it will be all the easier for another\nmedicine-man to persuade them to a similar act. Here the only reason\nfor belief is that everybody has believed the thing for so long that\nit must be true. And yet the belief was founded on fraud, and has\nbeen propagated by credulity. That man will undoubtedly do right,\nand be a friend of men who shall call it in question and see that\nthere is no evidence for it, help his neighbors to see as he does,\nand even, if need be, go into the holy tent and break the medicine.\n\nThe rule, which should guide us in such cases is simple and obvious\nenough: that the aggregate testimony of our neighbors is subject\nto the same conditions as the testimony of any one of them. Namely,\nwe have no right to believe a thing true because everybody says so,\nunless there are good grounds for believing that some one person\nat least has the means of knowing what is true, and is speaking the\ntruth so far as he knows it. However many nations and generations of\nmen are brought into the witness-box, they cannot testify to anything\nwhich they do not know. Every man who has accepted the statement from\nsomebody else, without himself testing and verifying it, is out of\ncourt; his word is worth nothing at all. And when we get back at last\nto the true birth and beginning of the statement, two serious questions\nmust be disposed of in regard to him who first made it: was he mistaken\nin thinking that he knew about this matter, or was he lying?\n\nThis last question is unfortunately a very actual and practical one\neven to us at this day and in this country. We have no occasion to\ngo to La Salette, or to Central Africa, or to Lourdes, for examples\nof immoral and debasing superstition. It is only too possible for\na child to grow up in London surrounded by an atmosphere of beliefs\nfit only for the savage, which have in our own time been founded in\nfraud and propagated by credulity.\n\nLaying aside, then, such tradition as is handed on without testing\nby successive generations, let us consider that which is truly built\nup out of the common experience of mankind. This great fabric is for\nthe guidance of our thoughts, and through them of our actions, both in\nthe moral and in the material world. In the moral world, for example,\nit gives us the conceptions of right in general, of justice, of truth,\nof beneficence, and the like. These are given as conceptions, not as\nstatements or propositions; they answer to certain definite instincts,\nwhich are certainly within us, however they came there. That it is\nright to be beneficent is matter of immediate personal experience;\nfor when a man retires within himself and there finds something,\nwider and more lasting than his solitary personality which says,\n'I want to do right,' as well as, 'I want to do good to man,' he can\nverify by direct observation that one instinct is founded upon and\nagrees fully with the other. And it is his duty so to verify this\nand all similar statements.\n\nThe tradition says also, at a definite place and time, that such and\nsuch actions are just, or true, or beneficent. For all such rules a\nfurther inquiry is necessary, since they are sometimes established\nby an authority other than that of the moral sense founded on\nexperience. Until recently, the moral tradition of our own country--and\nindeed of all Europe--taught that it was beneficent to give money\nindiscriminately to beggars. But the questioning of this rule, and\ninvestigation into it, led men to see that true beneficence is that\nwhich helps a man to do the work which he is most fitted for, not that\nwhich keeps and encourages him in idleness; and that to neglect this\ndistinction in the present is to prepare pauperism and misery for\nthe future. By this testing and discussion, not only has practice\nbeen purified and made more beneficent, but the very conception\nof beneficence has been made wider and wiser. Now here the great\nsocial heirloom consists of two parts: the instinct of beneficence,\nwhich makes a certain side of our nature, when predominant, wish\nto do good to men; and the intellectual conception of beneficence,\nwhich we can compare with any proposed course of conduct and ask,\n'Is this beneficent or not?' By the continual asking and answering\nof such questions the conception grows in breadth and distinctness,\nand the instinct becomes strengthened and purified. It appears then\nthat the great use of the conception, the intellectual part of the\nheirloom, is to enable us to ask questions; that it grows and is kept\nstraight by means of these questions; and if we do not use it for that\npurpose we shall gradually lose it altogether, and be left with a mere\ncode of regulations which cannot rightly be called morality at all.\n\nSuch considerations apply even more obviously and clearly, if possible,\nto the store of beliefs and conceptions which our fathers have amassed\nfor us in respect of the material world. We are ready to laugh at the\nrule of thumb of the Australian, who continues to tie his hatchet to\nthe side of the handle, although the Birmingham fitter has made a\nhole on purpose for him to put the handle in. His people have tied\nup hatchets so for ages: who is he that he should set himself up\nagainst their wisdom? He has sunk so low that he cannot do what some\nof them must have done in the far distant past--call in question an\nestablished usage, and invent or learn something better. Yet here,\nin the dim beginning of knowledge, where science and art are one,\nwe find only the same simple rule which applies to the highest and\ndeepest growths of that cosmic Tree; to its loftiest flower-tipped\nbranches as well as to the profoundest of its hidden roots; the rule,\nnamely, that what is stored up and handed down to us is rightly used\nby those who act as the makers acted, when they stored it up; those\nwho use it to ask further questions, to examine, to investigate;\nwho try honestly and solemnly to find out what is the right way of\nlooking at things and of dealing with them.\n\nA question rightly asked is already half answered, said Jacobi; we may\nadd that the method of solution is the other half of the answer, and\nthat the actual result counts for nothing by the side of these two. For\nan example let us go to the telegraph, where theory and practice,\ngrown each to years of discretion, are marvelously wedded for the\nfruitful service of men. Ohm found that the strength of an electric\ncurrent is directly proportional to the strength of the battery which\nproduces it, and inversely as the length of the wire along which it\nhas to travel. This is called Ohm's law; but the result, regarded\nas a statement to be believed, is not the valuable part of it. The\nfirst half is the question: what relation holds good between these\nquantities? So put, the question involves already the conception of\nstrength of current, and of strength of battery, as quantities to be\nmeasured and compared; it hints clearly that these are the things to\nbe attended to in the study of electric currents. The second half\nis the method of investigation; how to measure these quantities,\nwhat instruments are required for the experiment, and how are they\nto be used? The student who begins to learn about electricity is not\nasked to believe in Ohm's law: he is made to understand the question,\nhe is placed before the apparatus, and he is taught to verify it. He\nlearns to do things, not to think he knows things; to use instruments\nand to ask questions, not to accept a traditional statement. The\nquestion which required a genius to ask it rightly is answered by a\ntyro. If Ohm's law were suddenly lost and forgotten by all men, while\nthe question and the method of solution remained, the result could\nbe rediscovered in an hour. But the result by itself, if known to a\npeople who could not comprehend the value of the question or the means\nof solving it, would be like a watch in the hands of a savage who could\nnot wind it up, or an iron steam-ship worked by Spanish engineers.\n\nIn regard, then, to the sacred tradition of humanity, we learn\nthat it consists, not in propositions or statements which are to\nbe accepted and believed on the authority of the tradition, but\nin questions rightly asked, in conceptions which enable us to ask\nfurther questions, and in methods of answering questions. The value\nof all these things depends on their being tested day by day. The\nvery sacredness of the precious deposit imposes upon us the duty and\nthe responsibility of testing it, of purifying and enlarging it to\nthe utmost of our power. He who makes use of its results to stifle\nhis own doubts, or to hamper the inquiry of others, is guilty of a\nsacrilege which centuries shall never be able to blot out. When the\nlabors and questionings of honest and brave men shall have built up\nthe fabric of known truth to a glory which we in this generation can\nneither hope for nor imagine, in that pure and holy temple he shall\nhave no part nor lot, but his name and his works shall be cast out\ninto the darkness of oblivion forever.\n\nIII. The Limits of Inference.--The question in what cases we may\nbelieve that which goes beyond our experience, is a very large and\ndelicate one, extending to the whole range of scientific method, and\nrequiring a considerable increase in the application of it before it\ncan be answered with anything approaching to completeness. But one\nrule, lying on the threshold of the subject, of extreme simplicity\nand vast practical importance, may here be touched upon and shortly\nlaid down.\n\nA little reflection will show us that every belief, even the simplest\nand most fundamental, goes beyond experience when regarded as a guide\nto our actions. A burnt child dreads the fire, because it believes\nthat the fire will burn it to-day just as it did yesterday; but this\nbelief goes beyond experience, and assumes that the unknown fire\nof to-day is like the known fire of yesterday. Even the belief that\nthe child was burnt yesterday goes beyond present experience, which\ncontains only the memory of a burning, and not the burning itself;\nit assumes, therefore, that this memory is trustworthy, although we\nknow that a memory may often be mistaken. But if it is to be used as a\nguide to action, as a hint of what the future is to be, it must assume\nsomething about that future, namely, that it will be consistent with\nthe supposition that the burning really took place yesterday; which\nis going beyond experience. Even the fundamental 'I am,' which cannot\nbe doubted, is no guide to action until it takes to itself 'I shall\nbe,' which goes beyond experience. The question is not, therefore,\n'May we believe what goes beyond experience?' for this is involved\nin the very nature of belief; but 'How far and in what manner may we\nadd to our experience in forming our beliefs?'\n\nAnd an answer, of utter simplicity and universality, is suggested by\nthe example we have taken: a burnt child dreads the fire. We may go\nbeyond experience by assuming that what we do not know is like what\nwe do know; or, in other words, we may add to our experience on the\nassumption of a uniformity in nature. What this uniformity precisely\nis, how we grow in the knowledge of it from generation to generation,\nthese are questions which for the present we lay aside, being content\nto examine two instances which may serve to make plainer the nature\nof the rule.\n\nFrom certain observations made with the spectroscope, we infer the\nexistence of hydrogen in the sun. By looking into the spectroscope when\nthe sun is shining on its slit, we see certain definite bright lines:\nand experiments made upon bodies on the earth have taught us that when\nthese bright lines are seen hydrogen is the source of them. We assume,\nthen, that the unknown bright lines in the sun are like the known\nbright lines of the laboratory, and that hydrogen in the sun behaves\nas hydrogen under similar circumstances would behave on the earth.\n\nBut are we not trusting our spectroscope too much? Surely, having found\nit to be trustworthy for terrestrial substances, where its statements\ncan be verified by man, we are justified in accepting its testimony\nin other like cases; but not when it gives us information about things\nin the sun, where its testimony cannot be directly verified by man?\n\nCertainly, we want to know a little more before this inference can\nbe justified; and fortunately we do know this. The spectroscope\ntestifies to exactly the same thing in the two cases; namely, that\nlight-vibrations of a certain rate are being sent through it. Its\nconstruction is such that if it were wrong about this in one case,\nit would be wrong in the other. When we come to look into the matter,\nwe find that we have really assumed the matter of the sun to be like\nthe matter of the earth, made up of a certain number of distinct\nsubstances; and that each of these, when very hot, has a distinct rate\nof vibration, by which it may be recognized and singled out from the\nrest. But this is the kind of assumption which we are justified in\nusing when we add to our experience. It is an assumption of uniformity\nin nature, and can only be checked by comparison with many similar\nassumptions which we have to make in other such cases.\n\nBut is this a true belief, of the existence of hydrogen in the sun? Can\nit help in the right guidance of human action?\n\nCertainly not, if it is accepted on unworthy grounds, and without\nsome understanding of the process by which it is got at. But when\nthis process is taken in as the ground of the belief, it becomes a\nvery serious and practical matter. For if there is no hydrogen in\nthe sun, the spectroscope--that is to say, the measurement of rates\nof vibration--must be an uncertain guide in recognizing different\nsubstances; and consequently it ought not to be used in chemical\nanalysis--in assaying, for example--to the great saving of time,\ntrouble, and money. Whereas the acceptance of the spectroscopic\nmethod as trustworthy, has enriched us not only with new metals,\nwhich is a great thing, but with new processes of investigation,\nwhich is vastly greater.\n\nFor another example, let us consider the way in which we infer\nthe truth of an historical event--say the siege of Syracuse in the\nPeloponnesian war. Our experience is that manuscripts exist which\nare said to be and which call themselves manuscripts of the history\nof Thucydides; that in other manuscripts, stated to be by later\nhistorians, he is described as living during the time of the war; and\nthat books, supposed to date from the revival of learning, tell us how\nthese manuscripts had been preserved and were then acquired. We find\nalso that men do not, as a rule, forge books and histories without a\nspecial motive; we assume that in this respect men in the past were\nlike men in the present; and we observe that in this case no special\nmotive was present. That is, we add to our experience on the assumption\nof a uniformity in the characters of men. Because our knowledge of\nthis uniformity is far less complete and exact than our knowledge of\nthat which obtains in physics, inferences of the historical kind are\nmore precarious and less exact than inferences in many other sciences.\n\nBut if there is any special reason to suspect the character of the\npersons who wrote or transmitted certain books, the case becomes\naltered. If a group of documents give internal evidence that they\nwere produced among people who forged books in the names of others,\nand who, in describing events, suppressed those things which did not\nsuit them, while they amplified such as did suit them; who not only\ncommitted these crimes, but gloried in them as proofs of humility and\nzeal; then we must say that upon such documents no true historical\ninference can be founded, but only unsatisfactory conjecture.\n\nWe may, then, add to our experience on the assumption of a uniformity\nin nature; we may fill in our picture of what is and has been, as\nexperience gives it us, in such a way as to make the whole consistent\nwith this uniformity. And practically demonstrative inference--that\nwhich gives us a right to believe in the result of it--is a clear\nshowing that in no other way than by the truth of this result can\nthe uniformity of nature be saved.\n\nNo evidence, therefore, can justify us in believing the truth of\na statement which is contrary to, or outside of, the uniformity\nof nature. If our experience is such that it cannot be filled up\nconsistently with uniformity, all we have a right to conclude is that\nthere is something wrong somewhere; but the possibility of inference\nis taken away; we must rest in our experience, and not go beyond it at\nall. If an event really happened which was not a part of the uniformity\nof nature, it would have two properties: no evidence could give the\nright to believe it to any except those whose actual experience it was;\nand no inference worthy of belief could be founded upon it at all.\n\nAre we then bound to believe that nature is absolutely and universally\nuniform? Certainly not; we have no right to believe anything of this\nkind. The rule only tells us that in forming beliefs which go beyond\nour experience, we may make the assumption that nature is practically\nuniform so far as we are concerned. Within the range of human action\nand verification, we may form, by help of this assumption, actual\nbeliefs; beyond it, only those hypotheses which serve for the more\naccurate asking of questions.\n\nTo sum up:--\n\nWe may believe what goes beyond our experience, only when it is\ninferred from that experience by the assumption that what we do not\nknow is like what we know.\n\nWe may believe the statement of another person, when there is\nreasonable ground for supposing that he knows the matter of which he\nspeaks, and that he is speaking the truth so far as he knows it.\n\nIt is wrong in all cases to believe on insufficient evidence; and\nwhere it is presumption to doubt and to investigate, there it is\nworse than presumption to believe.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIV. THE ETHICS OF RELIGION.\n\n\nThe word religion is used in many different meanings, and there have\nbeen not a few controversies in which the main difference between the\ncontending parties was only this, that they understood by religion\ntwo different things. I will therefore begin by setting forth as\nclearly as I can one or two of the meanings which the word appears\nto have in popular speech.\n\nFirst, then, it may mean a body of doctrines, as in the common\nphrase, 'The truth of the Christian religion;' or in this sentence,\n'The religion of the Buddha teaches that the soul is not a distinct\nsubstance.' Opinions differ upon the question what doctrines may\nproperly be called religious; some people holding that there can be no\nreligion without belief in a God and in a future life, so that in their\njudgment the body of doctrines must necessarily include these two;\nwhile others would insist upon other special dogmas being included,\nbefore they could consent to call the system by this name. But the\nnumber of such people is daily diminishing, by reason of the spread and\nthe increase of our knowledge about distant countries and races. To me,\nindeed, it would seem rash to assert of any doctrine or its contrary\nthat it might not form part of a religion. But, fortunately, it is\nnot necessary to any part of the discussion on which I propose to\nenter that this question should be settled.\n\nSecondly, religion may mean a ceremonial or cult, involving an\norganized priesthood and a machinery of sacred things and places. In\nthis sense we speak of the clergy as ministers of religion, or of\na state as tolerating the practice of certain religions. There is\na somewhat wider meaning which it will be convenient to consider\ntogether with this one, and as a mere extension of it, namely, that\nin which religion stands for the influence of a certain priesthood. A\nreligion is sometimes said to have been successful when it has got its\npriests into power; thus some writers speak of the wonderfully rapid\nsuccess of Christianity. A nation is said to have embraced a religion\nwhen the authorities of that nation have granted privileges to the\nclergy, have made them as far as possible the leaders of society,\nand have given them a considerable share in the management of public\naffairs. So the northern nations of Europe are said to have embraced\nthe Catholic religion at an early date. The reason why it seems to\nme convenient to take these two meanings together is, that they are\nboth related to the priesthood. Although the priesthood itself is\nnot called religion, so far as I know, yet the word is used for the\ngeneral influence and professional acts of the priesthood.\n\nThirdly, religion may mean a body of precepts or code of rules,\nintended to guide human conduct, as in this sentence of the authorized\nversion of the New Testament: 'Pure religion and undefiled before\nGod and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in\ntheir affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world'\n(James, i. 27). It is sometimes difficult to draw the line between\nthis meaning and the last, for it is a mark of the great majority of\nreligions that they confound ceremonial observances with duties having\nreal moral obligation. Thus in the Jewish decalogue the command to\ndo no work on Saturdays is found side by side with the prohibition of\nmurder and theft. It might seem to be the more correct as well as the\nmore philosophical course to follow in this matter the distinction\nmade by Butler between moral and positive commands, and to class all\nthose precepts which are not of universal moral obligation under\nthe head of ceremonial. And, in fact, when we come to examine the\nmatter from the point of view of morality, the distinction is of the\nutmost importance. But from the point of view of religion there are\ndifficulties in making it. In the first place, the distinction is not\nmade, or is not understood, by religious folk in general. Innumerable\ntracts and pretty stories impress upon us that Sabbath-breaking is\nrather worse than stealing, and leads naturally on to materialism\nand murder. Less than a hundred years ago sacrilege was punishable\nby burning in France, and murder by simple decapitation. In the next\nplace, if we pick out a religion at haphazard, we shall find that it is\nnot at all easy to divide its precepts into those which are really of\nmoral obligation and those which are indifferent and of a ceremonial\ncharacter. We may find precepts unconnected with any ceremonial, and\nyet positively immoral; and ceremonials may be immoral in themselves,\nor constructively immoral on account of their known symbolism. On the\nwhole, it seems to me most convenient to draw the plain and obvious\ndistinction between those actions which a religion prescribes to all\nits followers, whether the actions are ceremonial or not, and those\nwhich are prescribed only as professional actions of a sacerdotal\nclass. The latter will come under what I have called the second\nmeaning of religion, the professional acts and the influence of a\npriesthood. In the third meaning will be included all that practically\nguides the life of a layman, in so far as this guidance is supplied\nto him by his religion.\n\nFourthly, and lastly, there is a meaning of the word religion which\nhas been coming more and more prominently forward of late years,\ntill it has even threatened to supersede all the others. Religion has\nbeen defined as morality touched with emotion. I will not here adopt\nthis definition, because I wish to deal with the concrete in the first\nplace, and only to pass on to the abstract in so far as that previous\nstudy appears to lead to it. I wish to consider the facts of religion\nas we find them, and not ideal possibilities. 'Yes, but,' every one\nwill say, 'if you mean my own religion, it is already, as a matter\nof fact, morality touched with emotion. It is the highest morality\ntouched with the purest emotion, an emotion directed toward the most\nworthy of objects.' Unfortunately we do not mean your religion alone,\nbut all manner of heresies and heathenisms along with it: the religions\nof the Thug, of the Jesuit, of the South Sea cannibal, of Confucius,\nof the poor Indian with his untutored mind, of the Peculiar People,\nof the Mormons, and of the old cat-worshiping Egyptian. It must be\nclear that we shall restrict ourselves to a very narrow circle of\nwhat are commonly called religious facts, unless we include in our\nconsiderations not only morality touched with emotion, but also\nimmorality touched with emotion. In fact, what is really touched\nwith emotion in any case is that body of precepts for the guidance\nof a layman's life which we have taken to be the third meaning of\nreligion. In that collection of precepts there may be some agreeable\nto morality, and some repugnant to it, and some indifferent, but being\nall enjoined by the religion they will all be touched by the same\nreligious emotion. Shall we then say that religion means a feeling, an\nemotion, an habitual attitude of mind toward some object or objects,\nor toward life in general, which has a bearing upon the way in which\nmen regard the rules of conduct? I think the last phrase should be\nleft out. An habitual attitude of mind, of a religious character,\ndoes always have some bearing upon the way in which men regard the\nrules of conduct; but it seems sometimes as if this were an accident,\nand not the essence of the religious feeling. Some devout people prefer\nto have their devotion pure and simple, without admixture of any such\napplication--they do not want to listen to 'cauld morality.' And it\nseems as if the religious feeling of the Greeks, and partly also of\nour own ancestors, was so far divorced from morality that it affected\nit only, as it were, by a side-wind, through the influence of the\ncharacter and example of the Gods. So that it seems only likely to\ncreate confusion if we mix up morality with this fourth meaning of\nreligion. Sometimes religion means a code of precepts, and sometimes\nit means a devotional habit of mind; the two things are sometimes\nconnected, but also they are sometimes quite distinct. But that the\nconnection of these two things is more and more insisted on, that it\nis the keynote of the apparent revival of religion which has taken\nplace in this century, is a very significant fact, about which there\nis more to be said.\n\nAs to the nature of this devotional habit of mind, there are no doubt\nmany who would like a closer definition. But I am not at all prepared\nto say what attitude of mind may properly be called religious,\nand what may not. Some will hold that religion must have a person\nfor its object; but the Buddha was filled with religious feeling,\nand yet he had no personal object. Spinoza, the God-intoxicated man,\nhad no personal object for his devotion. It might be possible to\nframe a definition which would fairly include all cases, but it would\nrequire the expenditure of vast ingenuity and research, and would not,\nI am inclined to think, be of much use when it was obtained.\n\nNor is the difficulty to be got over by taking any definite and\nwell-organized sect, whose principles are settled in black and white;\nfor example, the Roman Catholic Church, whose seamless unity has just\nbeen exhibited and protected by an OEcumenical Council. Shall we listen\nto Mr. Mivart, who 'execrates without reserve Marian persecutions, the\nMassacre of St. Bartholomew, and all similar acts'? or to the editor\nof the Dublin Review, who thinks that a teacher of false doctrines\n'should be visited by the law with just that amount of severity which\nthe public sentiment will bear'? For assuredly common-sense morality\nwill pass very different judgments on these two distinct religions,\nalthough it appears that experts have found room for both of them\nwithin the limits of the Vatican definitions.\n\nMoreover, there is very great good to be got by widening our view\nof what may be contained in religion. If we go to a man and propose\nto test his own religion by the canons of common-sense morality, he\nwill be, most likely, offended, for he will say that his religion is\nfar too sublime and exalted to be affected by considerations of that\nsort. But he will have no such objection in the case of other people's\nreligion. And when he has found that in the name of religion other\npeople, in other circumstances, have believed in doctrines that were\nfalse, have supported priesthoods that were social evils, have taken\nwrong for right, and have even poisoned the very sources of morality,\nhe may be tempted to ask himself, 'Is there no trace of any of these\nevils in my own religion, or at least in my own conception and practice\nof it?' And that is just what we want him to do. Bring your doctrines,\nyour priesthoods, your precepts, yea, even the inner devotion of your\nsoul, before the tribunal of conscience; she is no man's and no God's\nvicar, but the supreme judge of men and Gods.\n\nLet us inquire, then, what morality has to say in regard to religious\ndoctrines. It deals with the manner of religious belief directly,\nand with the matter indirectly. Religious beliefs must be founded on\nevidence; if they are not so founded, it is wrong to hold them. The\nrule of right conduct in this matter is exactly the opposite of\nthat implied in the two famous texts: 'He that believeth not shall\nbe damned,' and 'Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have\nbelieved.' For a man who clearly felt and recognized the duty of\nintellectual honesty, of carefully testing every belief before he\nreceived it, and especially before he recommended it to others, it\nwould be impossible to ascribe the profoundly immoral teaching of\nthese texts to a true prophet or worthy leader of humanity. It will\ncomfort those who wish to preserve their reverence for the character\nof a great teacher to remember that one of these sayings is in the\nwell-known forged passage at the end of the second gospel, and that\nthe other occurs only in the late and legendary fourth gospel; both\nbeing described as spoken under utterly impossible circumstances. These\nprecepts belong to the Church and not to the Gospel. But whoever wrote\neither of them down as a deliverance of one whom he supposed to be\na divine teacher, has thereby written down himself as a man void of\nintellectual honesty, as a man whose word cannot be trusted, as a\nman who would accept and spread about any kind of baseless fiction\nfor fear of believing too little.\n\nSo far as to the manner of religious belief. Let us now inquire\nwhat bearing morality has upon its matter. We may see at once that\nthis can only be indirect; for the rightness or wrongness of belief\nin a doctrine depends only upon the nature of the evidence for it,\nand not upon what the doctrine is. But there is a very important\nway in which religious doctrine may lead to morality or immorality,\nand in which, therefore, morality has a bearing upon doctrine. It is\nwhen that doctrine declares the character and actions of the Gods\nwho are regarded as objects of reverence and worship. If a God is\nrepresented as doing that which is clearly wrong, and is still held\nup to the reverence of men, they will be tempted to think that in\ndoing this wrong thing they are not so very wrong after all, but are\nonly following an example which all men respect. So says Plato:--\n\n'We must not tell a youthful listener that he will be doing nothing\nextraordinary if he commit the foulest crimes nor yet if he chastise\nthe crimes of a father in the most unscrupulous manner, but will\nsimply be doing what the first and greatest of the Gods have done\nbefore him....\n\n'Nor yet is it proper to say in any case--what is indeed untrue--that\nGods wage war against Gods, and intrigue and fight among themselves;\nthat is, if the future guardians of our state are to deem it a most\ndisgraceful thing to quarrel lightly with one another: far less ought\nwe to select as subjects for fiction and embroidery the battles of\nthe giants, and numerous other feuds of all sorts, in which Gods\nand heroes fight against their own kith and kin. But if there is any\npossibility of persuading them that to quarrel with one's fellow is a\nsin of which no member of a state was ever guilty, such ought rather\nto be the language held to our children from the first, by old men and\nold women, and all elderly persons; and such is the strain in which\nour poets must be compelled to write. But stories like the chaining\nof Hera by her son, and the flinging of Hephaistos out of heaven for\ntrying to take his mother's part when his father was beating her,\nand all those battles of the Gods which are to be found in Homer,\nmust be refused admittance into our state, whether they be allegorical\nor not. For a child cannot discriminate between what is allegory and\nwhat is not; and whatever at that age is adopted as a matter of belief\nhas a tendency to become fixed and indelible, and therefore, perhaps,\nwe ought to esteem it of the greatest importance that the fictions\nwhich children first hear should be adapted in the most perfect manner\nto the promotion of virtue.'--(Rep. ii. 378. Tr. Davies and Vaughan.)\n\nAnd Seneca says the same thing, with still more reason in his day\nand country: 'What else is this appeal to the precedent of the Gods\nfor, but to inflame our lusts, and to furnish license and excuse\nfor the corrupt act under the divine protection?' And again, of the\ncharacter of Jupiter as described in the popular legends: 'This has\nled to no other result than to deprive sin of its shame in man's eyes,\nby showing him the God no better than himself.' In Imperial Rome, the\nsink of all nations, it was not uncommon to find 'the intending sinner\naddressing to the deified vice which he contemplated a prayer for the\nsuccess of his design; the adulteress imploring of Venus the favors of\nher paramour; ... the thief praying to Hermes Dolios for aid in his\nenterprise, or offering up to him the first fruits of his plunder;\n... youths entreating Hercules to expedite the death of a rich uncle.'\n\nWhen we reflect that criminal deities were worshiped all over the\nempire, we cannot but wonder that any good people were left; that\nman could still be holy, although every God was vile. Yet this was\nundoubtedly the case; the social forces worked steadily on wherever\nthere was peace and a settled government and municipal freedom; and\nthe wicked stories of theologians were somehow explained away and\ndisregarded. If men were no better than their religions, the world\nwould be a hell indeed.\n\nIt is very important, however, to consider what really ought to be\ndone in the case of stories like these. When the poet sings that\nZeus kicked Hephaistos out of heaven for trying to help his mother,\nPlato says that this fiction must be suppressed by law. We cannot\nfollow him there, for since his time we have had too much of trying\nto suppress false doctrines by law. Plato thinks it quite obviously\nclear that God cannot produce evil, and he would stop everybody's\nmouth who ventured to say that he can. But in regard to the doctrine\nitself, we can only ask, 'Is it true?' And that is a question to be\nsettled by evidence. Did Zeus commit this crime, or did he not? We\nmust ask the apologists, the reconcilers of religion and science,\nwhat evidence they can produce to prove that Zeus kicked Hephaistos\nout of heaven. That a doctrine may lead to immoral consequences is\nno reason for disbelieving it. But whether the doctrine were true\nor false, one thing does clearly follow from its moral character:\nnamely this, that if Zeus behaved as he is said to have behaved he\nought not to be worshiped. To those who complain of his violence and\ninjustice it is no answer to say that the divine attributes are far\nabove human comprehension; that the ways of Zeus are not our ways,\nneither are his thoughts our thoughts. If he is to be worshiped, he\nmust do something vaster and nobler and greater than good men do, but\nit must be like what they do in its goodness. His actions must not be\nmerely a magnified copy of what bad men do. So soon as they are thus\nrepresented, morality has something to say. Not indeed about the fact;\nfor it is not conscience, but reason, that has to judge matters of\nfact; but about the worship of a character so represented. If there\nreally is good evidence that Zeus kicked Hephaistos out of heaven, and\nseduced Alkmene by a mean trick, say so by all means; but say also that\nit is wrong to salute his priests or to make offerings in his temple.\n\nWhen men do their duty in this respect, morality has a very curious\nindirect effect on the religious doctrine itself. As soon as the\nofferings become less frequent, the evidence for the doctrine begins to\nfade away; the process of theological interpretation gradually brings\nout the true inner meaning of it, that Zeus did not kick Hephaistos\nout of heaven, and did not seduce Alkmene.\n\nIs this a merely theoretical discussion about far-away things? Let us\ncome back for a moment to our own time and country, and think whether\nthere can be any lesson for us in this refusal of common-sense morality\nto worship a deity whose actions are a magnified copy of what bad men\ndo. There are three doctrines which find very wide acceptance among\nour countrymen at the present day: the doctrines of original sin,\nof a vicarious sacrifice, and of eternal punishments. We are not\nconcerned with any refined evaporations of these doctrines which are\nexhaled by courtly theologians, but with the naked statements which\nare put into the minds of children and of ignorant people, which are\ntaught broadcast and without shame in denominational schools. Father\nFaber, good soul, persuaded himself that after all only a very few\npeople would be really damned, and Father Oxenham gives one the\nimpression that it will not hurt even them very much. But one learns\nthe practical teaching of the Church from such books as 'A Glimpse\nof Hell,' where a child is described as thrown between the bars upon\nthe burning coals, there to writhe forever. The masses do not get the\nelegant emasculations of Father Faber and Father Oxenham; they get\n'a Glimpse of Hell.'\n\nNow to condemn all mankind for the sin of Adam and Eve; to let the\ninnocent suffer for the guilty; to keep any one alive in torture\nforever and ever; these actions are simply magnified copies of what\nbad men do. No juggling with 'divine justice and mercy' can make them\nanything else. This must be said to all kinds and conditions of men:\nthat if God holds all mankind guilty for the sin of Adam, if he has\nvisited upon the innocent the punishment of the guilty, if he is to\ntorture any single soul forever, then it is wrong to worship him.\n\nBut there is something to be said also to those who think that\nreligious beliefs are not indeed true, but are useful for the masses;\nwho deprecate any open and public argument against them, and think\nthat all skeptical books should be published at a high price; who\ngo to church, not because they approve of it themselves, but to set\nan example to the servants. Let us ask them to ponder the words of\nPlato, who, like them, thought that all these tales of the Gods were\nfables, but still fables which might be useful to amuse children with:\n'We ought to esteem it of the greatest importance that the fictions\nwhich children first hear should be adapted in the most perfect\nmanner to the promotion of virtue.' If we grant to you that it is\ngood for poor people and children to believe some of these fictions,\nis it not better, at least, that they should believe those which are\nadapted to the promotion of virtue? Now the stories which you send\nyour servants and children to hear are adapted to the promotion of\nvice. So far as the remedy is in your own hands, you are bound to apply\nit; stop your voluntary subscriptions and the moral support of your\npresence from any place where the criminal doctrines are taught. You\nwill find more men and better men to preach that which is agreeable\nto their conscience, than to thunder out doctrines under which their\nminds are always uneasy, and which only a continual self-deception\ncan keep them from feeling to be wicked.\n\nLet us now go on to inquire what morality has to say in the matter of\nreligious ministrations, the official acts and the general influence\nof a priesthood. This question seems to me a more difficult one than\nthe former; at any rate it is not so easy to find general principles\nwhich are at once simple in their nature and clear to the conscience\nof any man who honestly considers them. One such principle, indeed,\nthere is, which can hardly be stated in a Protestant country without\nmeeting with a cordial response; being indeed that characteristic\nof our race which made the Reformation a necessity, and became the\nsoul of the Protestant movement. I mean the principle which forbids\nthe priest to come between a man and his conscience. If it be true,\nas our daily experience teaches us, that the moral sense gains in\nclearness and power by exercise, by the constant endeavor to find out\nand to see for ourselves what is right and what is wrong, it must\nbe nothing short of a moral suicide to delegate our conscience to\nanother man. It is true that when we are in difficulties and do not\naltogether see our way, we quite rightly seek counsel and advice of\nsome friend who has more experience, more wisdom begot by it, more\ndevotion to the right than ourselves, and who, not being involved in\nthe difficulties which encompass us, may more easily see the way out\nof them. But such counsel does not and ought not to take the place of\nour private judgment; on the contrary, among wise men it is asked and\ngiven for the purpose of helping and supporting private judgment. I\nshould go to my friend, not that he may tell me what to do, but that\nhe may help me to see what is right.\n\nNow, as we all know, there is a priesthood whose influence is not to\nbe made light of, even in our own land, which claims to do two things:\nto declare with infallible authority what is right and what is wrong,\nand to take away the guilt of the sinner after confession has been\nmade to it. The second of these claims we shall come back upon in\nconnection with another part of the subject. But that claim is one\nwhich, as it seems to me, ought to condemn the priesthood making it\nin the eyes of every conscientious man. We must take care to keep\nthis question to itself, and not to let it be confused with quite\ndifferent ones. The priesthood in question, as we all know, has taught\nthat as right which is not right, and has condemned as wrong some\nof the holiest duties of mankind. But this is not what we are here\nconcerned with. Let us put an ideal case of a priesthood which, as a\nmatter of fact, taught a morality agreeing with the healthy conscience\nof all men at a given time; but which, nevertheless, taught this as\nan infallible revelation. The tendency of such teaching, if really\naccepted, would be to destroy morality altogether, for it is of the\nvery essence of the moral sense that it is a common perception by\nmen of what is good for man. It arises, not in one man's mind by a\nflash of genius or a transport of ecstasy, but in all men's minds,\nas the fruit of their necessary intercourse and united labor for a\ncommon object. When an infallible authority is set up, the voice of\nthis natural human conscience must be hushed and schooled, and made\nto speak the words of a formula. Obedience becomes the whole duty of\nman; and the notion of right is attached to a lifeless code of rules,\ninstead of being the informing character of a nation. The natural\nconsequence is that it fades gradually out and ends by disappearing\naltogether. I am not describing a purely conjectural state of things,\nbut an effect which has actually been produced at various times and in\nconsiderable populations by the influence of the Catholic Church. It\nis true that we cannot find an actually crucial instance of a pure\nmorality taught as an infallible revelation, and so in time ceasing\nto be morality for that reason alone. There are two circumstances\nwhich prevent this. One is that the Catholic priesthood has always\npractically taught an imperfect morality, and that it is difficult\nto distinguish between the effects of precepts which are wrong in\nthemselves, and precepts which are only wrong because of the manner in\nwhich they are enforced. The other circumstance is that the priesthood\nhas very rarely found a population willing to place itself completely\nand absolutely under priestly control. Men must live together and\nwork for common objects even in priest-ridden countries; and those\nconditions which in the course of ages have been able to create the\nmoral sense cannot fail in some degree to recall it to men's minds\nand gradually to re-enforce it. Thus it comes about that a great\nand increasing portion of life breaks free from priestly influences,\nand is governed upon right and rational grounds. The goodness of men\nshows itself in time more powerful than the wickedness of some of\ntheir religions.\n\nThe practical inference is, then, that we ought to do all in our\npower to restrain and diminish the influence of any priesthood which\nclaims to rule consciences. But when we attempt to go beyond this plain\nProtestant principle, we find that the question is one of history and\npolitics. The question which we want to ask ourselves--'Is it right\nto support this or that priesthood?'--can only be answered by this\nother question, 'What has it done or got done?'\n\nIn asking this question, we must bear in mind that the word priesthood,\nas we have used it hitherto, has a very wide meaning--namely, it means\nany body of men who perform special ceremonies in the name of religion;\na ceremony being an act which is prescribed by religion to that body\nof men, but not on account of its intrinsic rightness or wrongness. It\nincludes, therefore, not only the priests of Catholicism, or of the Obi\nrites, who lay claim to a magical character and powers, but the more\nfamiliar clergymen or ministers of Protestant denominations, and the\nmembers of monastic orders. But there is a considerable difference,\npointed out by Hume, between a priest who lays claim to a magical\ncharacter and powers, and a clergymen, in the English sense, as it\nwas understood in Hume's day, whose office was to remind people of\ntheir duties every Sunday, and to represent a certain standard of\nculture in remote country districts. It will, perhaps, conduce to\nclearness if we use the word priest exclusively in the first sense.\n\nThere is another confusion which we must endeavor to avoid, if we\nwould really get at the truth of this matter. When one ventures to\ndoubt whether the Catholic clergy has really been an unmixed blessing\nto Europe, one is generally met by the reply, 'You cannot find any\nfault with the Sermon on the Mount.' Now it would be too much to say\nthat this has nothing to do with the question we were proposing to\nask, for there is a sense in which the Sermon on the Mount and the\nCatholic clergy have something to do with each other. The Sermon on the\nMount is admitted on all hands to be the best and most precious thing\nthat Christianity has offered to the world; and it cannot be doubted\nthat the Catholic clergy of East and West were the only spokesmen\nof Christianity until the Reformation, and are the spokesmen of the\nvast majority of Christians at this moment. But it must surely be\nunnecessary to say in a Protestant country that the Catholic Church\nand the Gospel are two very different things. The moral teaching of\nChrist, as partly preserved in the three first gospels, or--which\nis the same thing--the moral teaching of the great Rabbi Hillel,\nas partly preserved in the Pirke Aboth, is the expression of the\nconscience of a people who had fought long and heroically for their\nnational existence. In that terrible conflict they had learned the\nsupreme and overwhelming importance of conduct, the necessity for\nthose who would survive of fighting manfully for their lives and\nmaking a stand against the hostile powers around; the weakness and\nuselessness of solitary and selfish efforts, the necessity for a man\nwho would be a man to lose his poor single personality in the being of\na greater and nobler combatant--the nation. And they said all this,\nafter their fashion of short and potent sayings, perhaps better than\nany other men have said it before or since. 'If I am not for myself,'\nsaid the great Hillel, 'who is for me? And if I am only for myself,\nwhere is the use of me? And if not now, when?' It would be hard to\nfind a more striking contrast than exists between the sturdy unselfish\nindependence of this saying, and the abject and selfish servility of\nthe priest-ridden claimant of the skies. It was this heroic people that\nproduced the morality of the Sermon on the Mount. But it was not they\nwho produced the priests and the dogmas of Catholicism. Shaven crowns,\nlinen vestments, and the claim to priestly rule over consciences,\nthese were dwellers on the banks of the Nile. The gospel indeed came\nout of Jud\u00e6a, but the Church and her dogmas came out of Egypt. Not,\nas it is written, 'Out of Egypt have I called my son,' but 'Out of\nEgypt have I called my daughter.' St. Gregory of Nazianzum remarked\nwith wonder that Egypt, having so lately worshiped bulls, goats, and\ncrocodiles, was now teaching the world the worship of the Trinity in\nits truest form. Poor, simple St. Gregory! it was not that Egypt had\nrisen higher, but that the world had sunk lower. The empire, which\nin the time of Augustus had dreaded, and with reason, the corrupting\ninfluence of Egyptian superstitions, was now eaten up by them, and\nrapidly rotting away.\n\nThen, when we ask what has been the influence of the Catholic clergy\nupon European nations, we are not inquiring about the results of\naccepting the morality of the Sermon on the Mount; we are inquiring\ninto the effect of attaching an Egyptian priesthood, which teaches\nEgyptian dogmas, to the life and sayings of a Jewish prophet.\n\nIn this inquiry, which requires the knowledge of facts beyond our\nown immediate experience, we must make use of the great principle\nof authority, which enables us to profit by the experience of other\nmen. The great civilized countries on the continent of Europe at the\npresent day--France, Germany, Austria, and Italy--have had an extensive\nexperience of the Catholic clergy for a great number of centuries, and\nthey are forced by strong practical reasons to form a judgment upon\nthe character and tendencies of an institution which is sufficiently\npowerful to command the attention of all who are interested in public\naffairs. We might add the experience of our forefathers three centuries\nago, and of Ireland at this moment; but home politics are apt to be\nlooked upon with other eyes than those of reason. Let us hear, then,\nthe judgment of the civilized people of Europe on this question.\n\nIt is a matter of notoriety that an aider and abettor of clerical\npretensions is regarded in France as an enemy of France and of\nFrenchmen; in Germany as an enemy of Germany and of Germans; in Austria\nas an enemy of Austria and Hungary, of both Austrians and Magyars; and\nin Italy as an enemy of Italy and the Italians. He is so regarded, not\nby a few wild and revolutionary enthusiasts who have cast away all the\nbeliefs of their childhood and all bonds connecting them with the past,\nbut by a great and increasing majority of sober and conscientious men\nof all creeds and persuasions, who are filled with a love for their\ncountry, and whose hopes and aims for the future are animated and\nguided by the examples of those who have gone before them, and by a\nsense of the continuity of national life. The profound conviction and\ndetermination of the people in all these countries, that the clergy\nmust be restricted to a purely ceremonial province, and must not be\nallowed to interfere, as clergy, in public affairs--this conviction\nand determination, I say, are not the effect of a rejection of the\nCatholic dogmas. Such rejection has not in fact been made in Catholic\ncountries by the great majority. It involves many difficult speculative\nquestions, the profound disturbance of old habits of thought, and\nthe toilsome consideration of abstract ideas. But such is the happy\ninconsistency of human nature, that men who would be shocked and pained\nby a doubt about the central doctrines of their religions are far more\nreally and practically shocked and pained by the moral consequences\nof clerical ascendency. About the dogmas they do not know; they were\ntaught them in childhood, and have not inquired into them since, and\ntherefore they are not competent witnesses to the truth of them. But\nabout the priesthood they do know, by daily and hourly experience;\nand to its character they are competent witnesses. No man can express\nhis convictions more forcibly than by acting upon them in a great\nand solemn matter of national importance. In all these countries\nthe conviction of the serious and sober majority of the people\nis embodied, and is being daily embodied, in special legislation,\nopenly and avowedly intended to guard against clerical aggression. The\nmore closely the legislature of these countries reflects the popular\nwill, the more clear and pronounced does this tendency become. It\nmay be thwarted or evaded for the moment by constitutional devices\nand parliamentary tricks, but sooner or later the nation will be\nthoroughly represented in all of them: and as to what is then to be\nexpected, let the panic of the clerical parties make answer.\n\nThis is a state of opinion and of feeling which we in our own\ncountry find it hard to understand, although it is one of the most\npersistent characters of our nation in past times. We have spoken\nso plainly and struck so hard in the past, that we seem to have won\nthe right to let this matter alone. We think our enemies are dead,\nand we forget that our neighbor's enemies are plainly alive: and\nthen we wonder that he does not sit down and be quiet as we are. We\nare not much accustomed to be afraid, and we never know when we are\nbeaten. But those who are nearer to the danger feel a very real and,\nit seems to me, well-grounded fear. The whole structure of modern\nsociety, the fruit of long and painful efforts, the hopes of further\nimprovement, the triumphs of justice, of freedom, and of light,\nthe bonds of patriotism which make each nation one, the bonds of\nhumanity which bring different nations together--all these they see\nto be menaced with a great and real and even pressing danger. For\nmyself I confess that I cannot help feeling as they feel. It seems to\nme quite possible that the moral and intellectual culture of Europe,\nthe light and the right, what makes life worth having and men worthy\nto have it, may be clean swept away by a revival of superstition. We\nare, perhaps, ourselves not free from such a domestic danger; but\nno one can doubt that the danger would speedily arise if all Europe\nat our side should become again barbaric, not with the weakness and\ndocility of a barbarism which has never known better, but with the\nstrength of a past civilization perverted to the service of evil.\n\nThose who know best, then, about the Catholic priesthood at present,\nregard it as a standing menace to the state and to the moral fabric\nof society.\n\nSome would have us believe that this condition of things is quite new,\nand has in fact been created by the Vatican Council. In the Middle\nAges, they say, the Church did incalculable service; or even if you\ndo not allow that, yet the ancient Egyptian priesthood invented many\nuseful arts; or if you have read anything which is not to their credit,\nthere were the Babylonians and Assyrians who had priests, thousands of\nyears ago; and in fact, the more you go back into prehistoric ages,\nand the further you go away into distant countries, the less you can\nfind to say against the priesthoods of those times and places. This\nstatement, for which there is certainly much foundation, may be put\ninto another form: the more you come forward into modern times and\nneighboring countries, where the facts can actually be got at, the\nmore complete is the evidence against the priesthoods of these times\nand places. But the whole argument is founded upon what is at least a\ndoubtful view of human nature and of society. Just as an early school\nof geologists were accustomed to explain the present state of the\nearth's surface by supposing that in primitive ages the processes of\ngeologic change were far more violent and rapid than they are now--so\ncatastrophic, indeed, as to constitute a thoroughly different state of\nthings--so there is a school of historians who think that the intimate\nstructure of human nature, its capabilities of learning and of adapting\nitself to society, have so far altered within the historic period as\nto make the present processes of social change totally different in\ncharacter from those even of the moderately distant past. They think\nthat institutions and conditions which are plainly harmful to us now\nhave at other times and places done good and serviceable work. War,\npestilence, priestcraft, and slavery have been represented as positive\nboons to an early state of society. They are not blessings to us,\nit is true; but then times have altered very much.\n\nOn the other hand, a later school of geologists have seen reason to\nthink that the processes of change have never, since the earth finally\nsolidified, been very different from what they are now. More rapid,\nindeed, they must have been in early times, for many reasons; but\nnot so very much more rapid as to constitute an entirely different\nstate of things. And it does seem to me in like manner that a wider\nand more rational view of history will recognize more and more of\nthe permanent, and less and less of the changeable, element in human\nnature. No doubt our ancestors of a thousand generations back were very\ndifferent beings from ourselves; perhaps fifty thousand generations\nback they were not men at all. But the historic period is hardly to\nbe stretched beyond two hundred generations; and it seems unreasonable\nto expect that in such a tiny page of our biography we can trace with\nclearness the growth and progress of a long life. Compare Egypt in\nthe time of King Menes, say six thousand years ago, with Spain in this\npresent century, before Englishmen made any railways there: I suppose\nthe main difference is that the Egyptians washed themselves. It seems\nmore analogous to what we find in other fields of inquiry to suppose\nthat there are certain great broad principles of human life which have\nbeen true all along; that certain conditions have always been favorable\nto the health of society, and certain other conditions always hurtful.\n\nNow, although I have many times asked for it from those who said\nthat somewhere and at some time mankind had derived benefits from a\npriesthood laying claim to a magical character and powers, I have\nnever been able to get any evidence for their statement. Nobody\nwill give me a date, and a latitude and longitude, that I may\nexamine into the matter. 'In the Middle Ages the priests and monks\nwere the sole depositaries of learning.' Quite so; a man burns your\nhouse to the ground, builds a wretched hovel on the ruins, and then\ntakes credit for whatever shelter there is about the place. In the\nMiddle Ages nearly all learned men were obliged to become priests and\nmonks. 'Then again, the bishops have sometimes acted as tribunes of\nthe people, to protect them against the tyranny of kings.' No doubt,\nwhen Pope and C\u00e6sar fall out, honest men may come by their own. If\ntwo men rob you in a dark lane, and then quarrel over the plunder,\nso that you get a chance to escape with your life, you will of course\nbe very grateful to each of them for having prevented the other from\nkilling you; but you would be much more grateful to a policeman who\nlocked them both up. Two powers have sought to enslave the people,\nand have quarreled with each other; certainly we are very much obliged\nto them for quarreling, but a condition of still greater happiness\nand security would be the non-existence of both.\n\nI can find no evidence that seriously militates against the rule\nthat the priest is at all times and in all places the enemy of all\nmen--Sacerdos semper, ubique, et omnibus inimicus. I do not deny\nthat the priest is very often a most earnest and conscientious man,\ndoing the very best that he knows of as well as he can do it. Lord\nAmberley is quite right in saying that the blame rests more with the\nlaity than with the priesthood; that it has insisted on magic and\nmysteries, and has forced the priesthood to produce them. But then,\nhow dreadful is the system that puts good men to such uses!\n\nAnd although it is true that in its origin a priesthood is the effect\nof an evil already existing, a symptom of social disease rather than\na cause of it, yet, once being created and made powerful, it tends in\nmany ways to prolong and increase the disease which gave it birth. One\nof these ways is so marked and of such practical importance that we\nare bound to consider it here: I mean the education of children. If\nthere is one lesson which history forces upon us in every page, it is\nthis: Keep your children away from the priest, or he will make them the\nenemies of mankind. It is not the Catholic clergy and those like them\nwho are alone to be dreaded in this matter; even the representatives\nof apparently harmless religions may do incalculable mischief if they\nget education into their hands. To the early Mohammedans the mosque was\nthe one public building in every place where public business could be\ntransacted; and so it was naturally the place of primary education,\nwhich they held to be a matter of supreme importance. By and by,\nas the clergy grew up, the mosque was gradually usurped by them,\nand primary education fell into their hands. Then ensued a 'revival\nof religion;' religion became a fanaticism: books were burnt and\nuniversities were closed; the empire rotted away in East and West,\nuntil it was conquered by Turkish savages in Asia and by Christian\nsavages in Spain.\n\nThe labors of students of the early history of institutions--notably\nSir Henry Maine and M. de Laveleye--have disclosed to us an element\nof society which appears to have existed in all times and places, and\nwhich is the basis of our own social structure. The village community,\nor commune, or township, found in tribes of the most varied race and\ntime, has so modified itself as to get adapted in one place or another\nto all the different conditions of human existence. This union of men\nto work for a common object has transformed them from wild animals into\ntame ones. Century by century the educating process of the social life\nhas been working at human nature; it has built itself into our inmost\nsoul. Such as we are--moral and rational beings--thinking and talking\nin general conceptions about the facts that make up our life, feeling\na necessity to act, not for ourselves, but for Ourself, for the larger\nlife of Man in which we are elements; such moral and rational beings,\nI say, Man has made us. By Man I mean men organized into a society,\nwhich fights for its life, not only as a mere collection of men who\nmust separately be kept alive, but as a society. It must fight not\nonly against external enemies, but against treason and disruption\nwithin it. Hence comes the unity of interest of all its members;\neach of them has to feel that he is not himself only but a part of\nall the rest. Conscience--the sense of right and wrong--springs out\nof the habit of judging things from the point of view of all and not\nof one. It is Ourself, not ourselves, that makes for righteousness.\n\nThe codes of morality, then, which are adopted into various religions,\nand afterward taught as parts of religious systems, are derived from\nsecular sources. The most ancient version of the Ten Commandments,\nwhatever the investigations of scholars may make it out to be,\noriginates, not in the thunders of Sinai, but in the peaceful life of\nmen on the plains of Chald\u00e6a. Conscience is the voice of Man ingrained\ninto our hearts, commanding us to work for Man.\n\nReligions differ in the treatment which they give to this most\nsacred heirloom of our past history. Sometimes they invert its\nprecepts--telling men to be submissive under oppression because the\npowers that be are ordained of God; telling them to believe where they\nhave not seen, and to play with falsehood in order that a particular\ndoctrine may prevail, instead of seeking for truth whatever it may be;\ntelling them to betray their country for the sake of their church. But\nthere is one great distinction to which I wish, in conclusion, to\ncall special attention--a distinction between two kinds of religious\nemotion which bear upon the conduct of men.\n\nWe said that conscience is the voice of Man within us, commanding\nus to work for Man. We do not know this immediately by our own\nexperience; we only know that something within us commands us to work\nfor Man. This fact men have tried to explain; and they have thought,\nfor the most part, that this voice was the voice of a God. But the\nexplanation takes two different forms: the God may speak in us for\nMan's sake, or for his own sake. If he speaks for his own sake--and\nthis is what generally happens when he has priests who lay claim to\na magical character and powers--our allegiance is apt to be taken\naway from Man, and transferred to the God. When we love our brother\nfor the sake of our brother, we help all men to grow in the right;\nbut when we love our brother for the sake of somebody else, who is\nvery likely to damn our brother, it very soon comes to burning him\nalive for his soul's health. When men respect human life for the sake\nof Man, tranquillity, order and progress go hand in hand; but those\nwho only respected human life because God had forbidden murder have\nset their mark upon Europe in fifteen centuries of blood and fire.\n\nThese are only two examples of a general rule. Wherever the allegiance\nof men has been diverted from Man to some divinity who speaks to men\nfor his own sake and seeks his own glory, one thing has happened. The\nright precepts might be enforced, but they were enforced upon wrong\ngrounds, and they were not obeyed. But right precepts are not always\nenforced; the fact that the fountains of morality have been poisoned\nmakes it easy to substitute wrong precepts for right ones.\n\nTo this same treason against humanity belongs the claim of the\npriesthood to take away the guilt of a sinner after confession has\nbeen made to it. The Catholic priest professes to act as an embassador\nfor his God, and to absolve the guilty man by conveying to him the\nforgiveness of heaven. If his credentials were ever so sure, if he\nwere indeed the embassador of a superhuman power, the claim would be\ntreasonable. Can the favor of the Czar make guiltless the murderer of\nold men and women and children in Circassian valleys? Can the pardon\nof the Sultan make clean the bloody hands of a Pasha? As little can\nany God forgive sins committed against man. When men think he can,\nthey compound for old sins which the God did not like by committing\nnew ones which he does like. Many a remorseful despot has atoned for\nthe levities of his youth by the persecution of heretics in his old\nage. That frightful crime, the adulteration of food, could not possibly\nbe so common among us if men were not taught to regard it as merely\nobjectionable because it is remotely connected with stealing, of which\nGod has expressed his disapproval in the Decalogue; and therefore\nas quite, naturally set right by a punctual attendance at church\non Sundays. When a Ritualist breaks his fast before celebrating the\nHoly Communion, his deity can forgive him if he likes, for the matter\nconcerns nobody else; but no deity can forgive him for preventing his\nparishioners from setting up a public library and reading-room for\nfear they should read Mr. Darwin's works in it. That sin is committed\nagainst the people, and a God cannot take it away.\n\nI call those religions which undermine the supreme allegiance of the\nconscience to Man ultramontane religions, because they seek their\nsprings of action ultra montes, outside of the common experience and\ndaily life of man. And I remark about them that they are especially\napt to teach wrong precepts, and that even when they command men to\ndo the right things they put the command upon wrong motives, and do\nnot get the things done.\n\nBut there are forms of religious emotion which do not thus undermine\nthe conscience. Far be it from me to under-value the help and strength\nwhich many of the bravest of our brethren have drawn from the thought\nof an unseen helper of men. He who, wearied or stricken in the fight\nwith the powers of darkness, asks himself in a solitary place, 'Is\nit all for nothing? shall we indeed be overthrown?'--he does find\nsomething which may justify that thought. In such a moment of utter\nsincerity, when a man has bared his own soul before the immensities\nand the eternities, a presence in which his own poor personality is\nshriveled into nothingness arises within him, and says, as plainly\nas words can say, 'I am with thee, and I am greater than thou.' Many\nnames of Gods, of many shapes, have men given to this presence;\nseeking by names and pictures to know more clearly and to remember\nmore continually the guide and the helper of men. No such comradeship\nwith the Great Companion shall have anything but reverence from me,\nwho have known the divine gentleness of Denison Maurice, the strong\nand healthy practical instinct of Charles Kingsley, and who now revere\nwith all my heart the teaching of James Martineau. They seem to me,\none and all, to be reaching forward with loving anticipation to a\nclearer vision which is yet to come--tendentesque manus rip\u00e6 ulterioris\namore. For, after all, such a helper of men, outside of humanity,\nthe truth will not allow us to see. The dim and shadowy outlines of\nthe superhuman deity fade slowly away from before us; and as the mist\nof his presence floats aside, we perceive with greater and greater\nclearness the shape of a yet grander and nobler figure--of Him who\nmade all Gods and shall unmake them. From the dim dawn of history,\nand from the inmost depth of every soul, the face of our father Man\nlooks out upon us with the fire of eternal youth in his eyes, and says,\n'Before Jehovah was, I am!'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                          PAGE\n\n      I. The Scientific Basis of Morals      1\n     II. Right and Wrong                     7\n    III. The Ethics of Belief               25\n     IV. The Ethics of Religion             36\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n[1] Sunday Lecture Society, November 7, 1875.\n\n[2] Treatise Baba Bathra, 59 b.\n\n[3] Compare these passages from Merivale ('Romans under the Empire,'\nvi.), to whom 'it seems a duty to protest against the common tendency\nof Christian moralists to dwell only on the dark side of Pagan society,\nin order to heighten by contrast the blessings of the Gospel':--\n\n'Much candor and discrimination are required in comparing the sins\nof one age with those of another ... the cruelty of our inquisitions\nand sectarian persecutions, of our laws against sorcery, our serfdom\nand our slavery; the petty fraudulence we tolerate in almost every\nclass and calling of the community; the bold front worn by our open\nsensuality; the deeper degradation of that which is concealed; all\nthese leave us little room for boasting of our modern discipline, and\nmust deter the thoughtful inquirer from too confidently contrasting\nthe morals of the old world and the new.'\n\n'Even at Rome, in the worst of times ... all the relations of life\nwere adorned in turn with bright instances of devotion, and mankind\ntransacted their business with an ordinary confidence in the force of\nconscience and right reason. The steady development of enlightened\nlegal principles conclusively proves the general dependence upon\nlaw as a guide and corrector of manners. In the camp, however,\nmore especially, as the chief sphere of this purifying activity,\nthe great qualities of the Roman character continued to be plainly\nmanifested. This history of the C\u00e6sars presents to us a constant\nsuccession of brave, patient, resolute, and faithful soldiers, men\ndeeply impressed with a sense of duty, superior to vanity, despisers\nof boasting, content to toil in obscurity and shed their blood at\nthe frontiers of the empire, unrepining at the cold mistrust of their\nmasters, not clamorous for the honors so sparingly awarded to them,\nbut satisfied in the daily work of their hands, and full of faith in\nthe national destiny which they were daily accomplishing.'\n\n[4] Finlay, 'Greece under the Romans.'\n\n[5] Examination, p. 495, 2d ed.","title":"The Scientific Basis of Morals, and Other Essays: Viz.: Right and Wrong, The Ethics of Belief, The Ethics of Religion","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":40434}