The questions which are here to be considered are
especially and peculiarly everybody’s questions. It is not
everybody’s business to be an engineer, or a doctor, or a
carpenter, or a soldier; but it is everybody’s business to be a
citizen. The doctrines and precepts which guide the practice of the
good engineer are of interest to him who uses them and to those whose
business it is to investigate them by mechanical science; the rest of
us neither obey nor disobey them. But the doctrines and precepts of
morality, which guide the practice of the good citizen, are of interest
to all; they must be either obeyed or disobeyed by every human being
who is not hopelessly and forever separated from the rest of mankind.
No one can say, therefore, that in this inquiry we are not minding our
own business, that we are meddling with other men’s affairs. We
are in fact studying the principles of our profession, so far as we are
able; a necessary thing for every man who wishes to do good work in
it.
Along with the character of universal interest which
belongs to our subject there goes another. What is everybody’s
practical business is also to a large extent what everybody knows; and
it may be reasonably expected that a discourse about Right and Wrong
will be full of platitudes and truisms. The expectation is a just one.
The considerations I have to offer are of the very oldest and the very
simplest commonplace and common sense; and no one can be more
astonished than I am that there should be any reason to speak of them
at all. But there is reason to speak of them, because platitudes are
not all of one kind. Some platitudes have a definite meaning and a
practical application, and are established by the uniform and
long-continued experience of all people. Other platitudes, having no
definite meaning and no practical application, seem not to be worth
anybody’s while to test; and these are quite sufficiently
established by mere assertion, if it is audacious enough to begin with
and persistent enough afterward. It is in order to distinguish these
two kinds of platitude from one another, and to make sure that those
which we retain form a body of doctrine consistent with itself and with
the rest of our beliefs, that we undertake this examination of obvious
and widespread principles.
First of all, then, what are the facts?
We say that it is wrong to murder, to steal, to tell
lies, and that it is right to take care of our families. When we say in
this sense that one action is right and another wrong, we have a
certain feeling toward the action which is peculiar and not quite like
any other feeling. It is clearly a feeling toward the action and not
toward the man who does it; because we speak of hating the sin and
loving the sinner. We might reasonably dislike a man whom we knew or
suspected to be a murderer, because of the natural fear that he might
murder us; and we might like our own parents for taking care of us. But
everybody knows that these feelings are something quite different from
the feeling which condemns murder as a wrong thing, and approves
parental care as a right thing. I say nothing here about the
possibility of analyzing this feeling, or proving that it arises by
combination of other feelings; all I want to notice is that it is as
distinct and recognizable as the feeling of pleasure in a sweet taste
or of displeasure at a toothache. In speaking of right and wrong, we
speak of qualities of action which arouse definite feelings that
everybody knows and recognizes. It is not necessary, then, to give a
definition at the outset; we are going to use familiar terms which have
a definite meaning in the same sense in which everybody uses them. We
may ultimately come to something like a definition; but what we have to
do first is to collect the facts and see what can be made of them, just
as if we were going to talk about limestone, or parents and children,
or fuel.
It is easy to conceive that murder and theft and neglect
of the young might be considered wrong in a very simple state of
society. But we find at present that the condemnation of these actions
does not stand alone; it goes with the condemnation of a great number
of other actions which seem to be included with the obviously criminal
action, in a sort of general rule. The wrongness of murder, for
[8]example, belongs in a less degree to any form
of bodily injury that one man may inflict on another; and it is even
extended so as to include injuries to his reputation or his feelings. I
make these more refined precepts follow in the train of the more
obvious and rough ones, because this appears to have been the
traditional order of their establishment. ‘He that makes his
neighbor blush in public,’ says the Mishna, ‘is as if he
had shed his blood.’ In the same way the rough condemnation of
stealing carries with it a condemnation of more refined forms of
dishonesty: we do not hesitate to say that it is wrong for a tradesman
to adulterate his goods, or for a laborer to scamp his work. We not
only say that it is wrong to tell lies, but that it is wrong to deceive
in other more ingenious ways; wrong to use words so that they shall
have one sense to some people and another sense to other people; wrong
to suppress the truth when that suppression leads to false belief in
others. And again, the duty of parents toward their children is seen to
be a special case of a very large and varied class of duties toward
that great family to which we belong—to the fatherland and them
that dwell therein. The word duty which I have here used, has as
definite a sense to the general mind as the words right and
wrong; we say that it is right to do our duty, and wrong to
neglect it. These duties to the community serve in our minds to explain
and define our duties to individuals. It is wrong to kill any one;
unless we are an executioner, when it may be our duty to kill a
criminal; or a soldier, when it may be our duty to kill the enemy of
our country; and in general it is wrong to injure any man in any way in
our private capacity and for our own sakes. Thus if a man injures us,
it is only right to retaliate on behalf of other men. Of two men in a
desert island, if one takes away the other’s cloak, it may or may
not be right for the other to let him have his coat also; but if a man
takes away my cloak while we both live in society, it is my duty to use
such means as I can to prevent him from taking away other
people’s cloaks. Observe that I am endeavoring to describe the
facts of the moral feelings of Englishmen, such as they are now.
The last remark leads us to another platitude of
exceedingly ancient date. We said that it was wrong to injure any man
in our private capacity and for our own sakes. A rule like this differs
from all the others that we have considered, because it not only deals
with physical acts, words and deeds which can be observed and known by
others, but also with thoughts which are known only to the man himself.
Who can tell whether a given act of punishment was done from a private
or from a public motive? Only the agent himself. And yet if the
punishment was just and within the law, we should condemn the man in
the one case and approve him in the other. This pursuit of the actions
of men to their very sources, in the feelings which they only can know,
is as ancient as any morality we know of, and extends to the whole
range of it. Injury to another man arises from anger, malice, hatred,
revenge; these feelings are condemned as wrong. But feelings are not
immediately under our control, in the same way that overt actions are:
I can shake anybody by the hand if I like, but I cannot always feel
friendly to him. Nevertheless we can pay attention to such aspects of
the circumstances, and we can put ourselves into such conditions, that
our feelings get gradually modified in one way or the other; we form a
habit of checking our anger by calling up certain images and
considerations, whereby in time the offending passion is brought into
subjection and control. Accordingly we say that it is right to acquire
and to exercise this control; and the control is supposed to exist
whenever we say that one feeling or disposition of mind is right and
another wrong. Thus, in connection with the precept against stealing,
we condemn envy and covetousness; we applaud a sensitive honesty which
shudders at anything underhand or dishonorable. In connection with the
rough precept against lying, we have built up and are still building a
great fabric of intellectual morality, whereby a man is forbidden to
tell lies to himself, and is commanded to practice candor and fairness
and open-mindedness in his judgments, and to labor zealously in pursuit
of the truth. In connection with the duty to our families, we say that
it is right to cultivate public spirit, a quick sense of sympathy, and
all that belongs to a social disposition.
Two other words are used in this connection which it
seems necessary to mention. When we regard an action as right or wrong
for ourselves, this feeling about the action impels us to do it or not
to do it, as the case may be. We may say that the moral sense acts in
this case as a motive; meaning by moral sense [9]only the feeling in regard to an action which
is considered as right or wrong, and by motive something which impels
us to act. Of course there may be other motives at work at the same
time, and it does not at all follow that we shall do the right action
or abstain from the wrong one. This we all know to our cost. But still
our feeling about the rightness or wrongness of an action does operate
as a motive when we think of the action as being done by us; and when
so operating it is called conscience. I have nothing to do at
present with the questions about conscience, whether it is a result of
education, whether it can be explained by self-love, and so forth; I am
only concerned in describing well-known facts, and in getting as clear
as I can about the meaning of well-known words. Conscience, then, is
the whole aggregate of our feelings about actions as being right or
wrong, regarded as tending to make us do the right actions and avoid
the wrong ones. We also say sometimes, in answer to the question,
‘How do you know that this is right or wrong?’ ‘My
conscience tells me so.’ And this way of speaking is quite
analogous to other expressions of the same form; thus if I put my hand
into water, and you ask me how I know that it is hot, I might say,
‘My feeling of warmth tells me so.’
When we consider a right or a wrong action as done by
another person, we think of that person as worthy of moral approbation
or reprobation. He may be punished or not; but in any case this feeling
toward him is quite different from the feeling of dislike toward a
person injurious to us, or of disappointment at a machine which will
not go.
Whenever we can morally approve or disapprove a man for
his action, we say that he is morally responsible for it, and vice
versâ. To say that a man is not morally responsible for his
actions is the same thing as to say that it would be unreasonable to
praise or blame him for them.
The statement that we ourselves are morally responsible
is somewhat more complicated, but the meaning is very easily made out;
namely, that another person may reasonably regard our actions as right
or wrong, and may praise or blame us for them.
We can now, I suppose, understand one another pretty
clearly in using the words right and wrong, conscience, responsibility;
and we have made a rapid survey of the facts of the case in our own
country at the present time. Of course I do not pretend that this
survey in any way approaches to completeness; but it will supply us at
least with enough facts to enable us to deal always with concrete
examples instead of remaining in generalities; and it may serve to show
pretty fairly what the moral sense of an Englishman is like. We must
next consider what account we can give of these facts by the scientific
method.
But first let us stop to note that we really have used
the scientific method in making this first step; and also that to the
same extent the method has been used by all serious moralists. Some
would have us define virtue, to begin with, in terms of some other
thing which is not virtue, and then work out from our definition all
the details of what we ought to do. So Plato said that virtue was
knowledge, Aristotle that it was the golden mean, and Bentham said that
the right action was that which conduced to the greatest happiness of
the greatest number. But so also, in physical speculations, Thales said
that everything was Water, and Heraclitus said it was All-becoming, and
Empedocles said it was made out of Four Elements, and Pythagoras said
it was Number. But we only began to know about things when people
looked straight at the facts, and made what they could out of them; and
that is the only way in which we can know anything about right and
wrong. Moreover, it is the way in which the great moralists have set to
work, when they came to treat of verifiable things and not of theories
all in the air. A great many people think of a prophet as a man who,
all by himself, or from some secret source, gets the belief that this
thing is right and that thing wrong. And then (they imagine) he gets up
and goes about persuading other people to feel as he does about it; and
so it becomes a part of their conscience, and a new duty is created.
This may be in some cases, but I have never met with any example of it
in history. When Socrates puzzled the Greeks by asking them what they
precisely meant by Goodness and Justice and Virtue, the mere existence
of the words shows that the people, as a whole, possessed a moral
sense, and felt that certain things were right and others wrong. What
the moralist did was to show the connection between different virtues,
the likeness of virtue to certain other things, the implications which
a thoughtful man could find in the common [10]language.
Wherever the Greek moral sense had come from, it was there in the
people before it could be enforced by a prophet or discussed by a
philosopher. Again, we find a wonderful collection of moral aphorisms
in those shrewd sayings of the Jewish fathers which are preserved in
the Mishna or oral law. Some of this teaching is familiar to us all
from the popular exposition of it which is contained in the three first
Gospels. But the very plainness and homeliness of the precepts shows
that they are just acute statements of what was already felt by the
popular common sense; protesting, in many cases, against the formalism
of the ceremonial law with which they are curiously mixed up. The
Rabbis even show a jealousy of prophetic interference, as if they knew
well that it takes not one man, but many men, to feel what is right.
When a certain Rabbi Eliezer, being worsted in argument, cried out,
‘If I am right, let heaven pronounce in my favor!’ there
was heard a Bath-kol or voice from the skies, saying, ‘Do you
venture to dispute with Rabbi Eliezer, who is an authority on all
religious questions?’ But Rabbi Joshua rose and said, ‘Our
law is not in heaven, but in the book which dates from Sinai, and which
teaches us that in matters of discussion the majority makes the
law.’2
One of the most important expressions of the moral sense
for all time is that of the Stoic philosophy, especially after its
reception among the Romans. It is here that we find the enthusiasm of
humanity—the caritas generis humani—which
is so large and important a feature in all modern conceptions of
morality, and whose widespread influence upon Roman citizens may be
traced in the Epistles of St. Paul. In the Stoic emperors, also, we
find probably the earliest example of great moral principles
consciously applied to legislation on a large scale. But are we to
attribute this to the individual insight of the Stoic philosophers? It
might seem at first sight that we must, if we are to listen to that
vulgar vituperation of the older culture which has descended to us from
those who had everything to gain by its destruction.3 We hear
enough of the luxurious feasting of the Roman capital, how it would
almost have taxed the resources of a modern pastry-cook; of the cruelty
of gladiatorial shows, how they were nearly as bad as
autos-da-fé, except that a man had his fair chance and
was not tortured for torture’s sake; of the oppression of
provincials by people like Verres, of whom it may even be said that if
they had been the East India Company they could not have been worse; of
the complaints of Tacitus against bad and mad emperors (as Sir Henry
Maine says); and of the still more serious complaints of the modern
historian against the excessive taxation4 which was one
great cause of the fall of the empire. Of all this we are told a great
deal; but we are not told of the many thousands of honorable men who
carried civilization to the ends of the known world, and administered a
mighty empire so that it was loved and worshiped to the furthest corner
of it. It is to these men and their common action that we must
attribute the morality which found its organized expression in the
writings of the Stoic philosophers. From these three cases we may
gather that Right is a thing which must be done before it can be talked
about, although after that it may only too easily be talked about
without being done. Individual effort and energy may insist upon
getting that done which was already felt to be right; and individual
insight and acumen may point out consequences of an action which bring
it under previously known [11]moral rules. There is another
dispute of the Rabbis that may serve to show what is meant by this. It
was forbidden by the law to have any dealings with the Sabæan
idolaters during the week preceding their idolatrous feasts. But the
doctors discussed the case in which one of these idolaters owes you a
bill; are you to let him pay it during that week or not? The school of
Shammai said ‘No; for he will want all his money to enjoy himself
at the feast.’ But the school of Hillel said, ‘Yes, let him
pay it; for how can he enjoy his feast while his bills are
unpaid?’ The question here is about the consequences of an
action; but there is no dispute about the moral principle, which is
that consideration and kindness are to be shown to idolaters, even in
the matter of their idolatrous rites.
It seems, then, that we are no worse off than anybody
else who has studied this subject, in finding our materials ready made
for us; sufficiently definite meanings given in the common speech to
the words right and wrong, good and bad, with which we have to deal; a
fair body of facts familiarly known, which we have to organize and
account for as best we can. But our special inquiry is, what account
can be given of these facts by the scientific method? to which end we
cannot do better than fix our ideas as well as we can upon the
character and scope of that method.
Now the scientific method is a method of getting
knowledge by inference, and that of two different kinds. One kind of
inference is that which is used in the physical and natural sciences,
and it enables us to go from known phenomena to unknown phenomena.
Because a stone is heavy in the morning, I infer that it will be heavy
in the afternoon; and I infer this by assuming a certain uniformity of
nature. The sort of uniformity that I assume depends upon the extent of
my scientific education; the rules of inference become more and more
definite as we go on. At first I might assume that all things are
always alike; this would not be true, but it has to be assumed in a
vague way, in order that a thing may have the same name at different
times. Afterward I get the more definite belief that certain particular
qualities, like weight, have nothing to do with the time of day; and
subsequently I find that weight has nothing to do with the shape of the
stone, but only with the quantity of it. The uniformity which we
assume, then, is not that vague one that we started with, but a
chastened and corrected uniformity. I might go on to suppose, for
example, that the weight of the stone had nothing to do with the place
where it was; and a great deal might be said for this supposition. It
would, however, have to be corrected when it was found that the weight
varies slightly in different latitudes. On the other hand, I should
find that this variation was just the same for my stone as for a piece
of iron or wood; that it had nothing to do with the kind of matter. And
so I might be led to the conclusion that all matter is heavy, and that
the weight of it depends only on its quantity and its position relative
to the earth. You see here that I go on arriving at conclusions always
of this form; that some one circumstance or quality has nothing to do
with some other circumstance or quality. I begin by assuming that it is
independent of everything; I end by finding that it is independent of
some definite things. That is, I begin by assuming a vague uniformity.
I always use this assumption to infer from some one fact a great number
of other facts; but as my education proceeds, I get to know what sort
of things may be inferred and what may not. An observer of scientific
mind takes note of just those things from which inferences may be
drawn, and passes by the rest. If an astronomer, observing the sun,
were to record the fact that at the moment when a sun-spot began to
shrink there was a rap at his front door, we should know that he was
not up to his work. But if he records that sun-spots are thickest every
eleven years, and that this is also the period of extra cloudiness in
Jupiter, the observation may or may not be confirmed, and it may or may
not lead to inferences of importance; but still it is the kind of thing
from which inferences may be drawn. There is always a certain instinct
among instructed people which tells them in this way what kinds of
inferences may be drawn; and this is the unconscious effect of the
definite uniformity which they have been led to assume in nature. It
may subsequently be organized into a law or general truth, and no doubt
becomes a surer guide by that process. Then it goes to form the more
precise instinct of the next generation.
What we have said about this first kind of inference,
which goes from phenomena to phenomena, is shortly this. It proceeds
upon an assumption of uniformity in nature; and this assumption is not
fixed and made once for all, but is a [12]changing and
growing thing, becoming more definite as we go on.
If I were told to pick out some one character which
especially colors this guiding conception of uniformity in our present
stage of science, I should certainly reply, Atomism. The form of this
with which we are most familiar is the molecular theory of bodies;
which represents all bodies as made up of small elements of uniform
character, each practically having relations only with the adjacent
ones, and these relations the same all through—namely, some
simple mechanical action upon each other’s motions. But this is
only a particular case. A palace, a cottage, the tunnel of the
underground railway, and a factory chimney, are all built of bricks;
the bricks are alike in all these cases, each brick is practically
related only to the adjacent ones, and the relation is throughout the
same, namely, two flat sides are stuck together with mortar. There is
an atomism in the sciences of number, of quantity, of space; the
theorems of geometry are groupings of individual points, each related
only to the adjacent ones by certain definite laws. But what concerns
us chiefly at present is the atomism of human physiology. Just as every
solid is built up of molecules, so the nervous system is built up of
nerve-threads and nerve-corpuscles. We owe to Mr. Lewes our very best
thanks for the stress which he has laid on the doctrine that
nerve-fiber is uniform in structure and function, and for the word
neurility, which expresses its common properties. And similar
gratitude is due to Dr. Hughlings Jackson for his long defense of the
proposition that the element of nervous structure and function is a
sensori-motor process. In structure, this is two fibers or bundles of
fibers going to the same gray corpuscle; in function it is a message
traveling up one fiber or bundle to the corpuscle, and then down the
other fiber or bundle. Out of this, as a brick, the house of our life
is built. All these simple elementary processes are alike, and each is
practically related only to the adjacent ones; the relation being in
all cases of the same kind, viz., the passage from a simple to a
complex message, or vice versâ.
The result of atomism in any form, dealing with any
subject, is that the principle of uniformity is hunted down into the
elements of things; it is resolved into the uniformity of these
elements or atoms, and of the relations of those which are next to each
other. By an element or an atom we do not here mean something
absolutely simple or indivisible, for a molecule, a brick, and a
nerve-process are all very complex things. We only mean that, for the
purpose in hand, the properties of the still more complex thing which
is made of them have nothing to do with the complexities or the
differences of these elements. The solid made of molecules, the house
made of bricks, the nervous system made of sensori-motor processes, are
nothing more than collections of these practically uniform elements,
having certain relations of nextness, and behavior uniformly depending
on that nextness.
The inference of phenomena from phenomena, then, is
based upon an assumption of uniformity, which in the present stage of
science may be called an atomic uniformity.
The other mode of inference which belongs to the
scientific method is that which is used in what are called the mental
and moral sciences; and it enables us to go from phenomena to the facts
which underlie phenomena, and which are themselves not phenomena at
all. If I pinch your arm, and you draw it away and make a face, I infer
that you have felt pain. I infer this by assuming that you have a
consciousness similar to my own, and related to your perception of your
body as my consciousness is related to my perception of my body. Now is
this the same assumption as before, a mere assumption of the uniformity
of nature? It certainly seems like it at first; but if we think about
it we shall find that there is a very profound difference between them.
In physical inference I go from phenomena to phenomena; that is, from
the knowledge of certain appearances or representations actually
present to my mind I infer certain other appearances that might be
present to my mind. From the weight of a stone in the
morning—that is, from my feeling of its weight, or my perception
of the process of weighing it, I infer that the stone will be heavy in
the afternoon—that is, I infer the possibility of similar
feelings and perceptions in me at another time. The whole process
relates to me and my perceptions, to things contained in my mind. But
when I infer that you are conscious from what you say or do, I pass
from that which is my feeling or perception, which is in my mind
and part of me, to that which is not my feeling at all, which is
outside me altogether, namely, your feelings and perceptions.
[13]Now there is no possible physical inference,
no inference of phenomena from phenomena, that will help me over that
gulf. I am obliged to admit that this second kind of inference depends
upon another assumption, not included in the assumption of the
uniformity of phenomena.
How does a dream differ from waking life? In a fairly
coherent dream everything seems quite real, and it is rare, I think,
with most people to know in a dream that they are dreaming. Now, if a
dream is sufficiently vivid and coherent, all physical inferences are
just as valid in it as they are in waking life. In a hazy or imperfect
dream, it is true, things melt into one another unexpectedly and
unaccountably; we fly, remove mountains, and stop runaway horses with a
finger. But there is nothing in the mere nature of a dream to hinder it
from being an exact copy of waking experience. If I find a stone heavy
in one part of my dream, and infer that it is heavy at some subsequent
part, the inference will be verified if the dream is coherent enough; I
shall go to the stone, lift it up, and find it as heavy as before. And
the same thing is true of all inferences of phenomena from phenomena.
For physical purposes a dream is just as good as real life; the only
difference is in vividness and coherence.
What, then, hinders us from saying that life is all a
dream? If the phenomena we dream of are just as good and real phenomena
as those we see and feel when we are awake, what right have we to say
that the material universe has any more existence apart from our minds
than the things we see and feel in our dreams? The answer which
Berkeley gave to that question was, No right at all. The physical
universe which I see and feel, and infer, is just my dream and nothing
else; that which you see is your dream; only it so happens that all our
dreams agree in many respects. This doctrine of Berkeley’s has
now been so far confirmed by the physiology of the senses, that it is
no longer a metaphysical speculation, but a scientifically established
fact.
But there is a difference between dreams and waking
life, which is of far too great importance for any of us to be in
danger of neglecting it. When I see a man in my dream, there is just as
good a body as if I were awake; muscles, nerves, circulation,
capability of adapting means to ends. If only the dream is coherent
enough, no physical test can establish that it is a dream. In both
cases I see and feel the same thing. In both cases I assume the
existence of more than I can see and feel, namely, the consciousness of
this other man. But now here is a great difference, and the only
difference—in a dream this assumption is wrong; in waking life it
is right. The man I see in my dream is a mere machine, a bundle
of phenomena with no underlying reality; there is no consciousness
involved except my consciousness, no feeling in the case except my
feelings. The man I see in waking life is more than a bundle of
phenomena; his body and its actions are phenomena, but these phenomena
are merely the symbols and representatives in my mind of a reality
which is outside my mind, namely, the consciousness of the man himself
which is represented by the working of his brain, and the simpler
quasi-mental facts, not woven into his consciousness, which are
represented by the working of the rest of his body. What makes life not
to be a dream is the existence of those facts which we arrive at by our
second process of inference; the consciousness of men and the higher
animals, the sub-consciousness of lower organisms and the quasi-mental
facts which go along with the motions of inanimate matter. In a book
which is very largely and deservedly known by heart, ‘Through the
Looking-glass,’ there is a very instructive discussion upon this
point. Alice has been taken to see the Red King as he lies snoring; and
Tweedledee asks, ‘Do you know what he is dreaming about?’
‘Nobody can guess that,’ replies Alice. ‘Why, about
you,’ he says triumphantly. ‘And if he stopped
dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?’
‘Where I am now of course,’ said Alice. ‘Not
you,’ said Tweedledee, ‘you’d be nowhere. You are
only a sort of thing in his dream.’ ‘If that there King was
to wake,’ added Tweedledum, ‘you’d go out, bang! just
like a candle.’ Alice was quite right in regarding these remarks
as unphilosophical. The fact that she could see, think, and feel was
proof positive that she was not a sort of thing in anybody’s
dream. This is the meaning of that saying, Cogito ergo sum, of
Descartes. By him, and by Spinoza after him, the verb cogito and
the substantive cogitatio were used to denote consciousness in
general, any kind of feeling, even what we now call sub-consciousness.
The saying means that feeling exists in and for itself, not as a
quality or modification or state or manifestation of anything else.
[14]
We are obliged in every hour of our lives to act upon
beliefs which have been arrived at by inferences of these two kinds;
inferences based on the assumption of uniformity in nature, and
inferences which add to this the assumption of feelings which are not
our own. By organizing the ‘common sense’ which embodies
the first class of inferences, we build up the physical sciences; that
is to say, all those sciences which deal with the physical, material,
or phenomenal universe, whether animate or inanimate. And so by
organizing the common sense which embodies the second class of
inferences, we build up various sciences of mind. The description and
classification of feelings, the facts of their association with each
other, and of their simultaneity with phenomena of
nerve-action,—all this belongs to psychology, which may be
historical and comparative. The doctrine of certain special classes of
feelings is organized into the special sciences of those feelings; thus
the facts about the feelings which we are now considering, about the
feelings of moral approbation and reprobation, are organized into the
science of ethics and the facts about the feeling of beauty or ugliness
are organized into the science of æsthetics, or, as it is
sometimes called, the philosophy of art. For all of these the
uniformity of nature has to be assumed as a basis of inference; but
over and above that it is necessary to assume that other men are
conscious in the same way that I am. Now in these sciences of mind,
just as in the physical sciences, the uniformity which is assumed in
the inferred mental facts is a growing thing which becomes more
definite as we go on, and each successive generation of observers knows
better what to observe and what sort of inferences may be drawn from
observed things. But, moreover, it is as true of the mental sciences as
of the physical ones that the uniformity is in the present stage of
science an atomic uniformity. We have learned to regard our
consciousness as made up of elements practically alike, having
relations of succession in time and of contiguity at each instant,
which relations are in all cases practically the same. The element of
consciousness is the transference of an impression into the beginning
of action. Our mental life is a structure made out of such elements,
just as the working of our nervous system is made out of sensori-motor
processes. And accordingly the interaction of the two branches of
science leads us to regard the mental facts as the realities or
things-in-themselves, of which the material phenomena are mere pictures
or symbols. The final result seems to be that atomism is carried beyond
phenomena into the realities which phenomena represent; and that the
observed uniformities of nature, in so far as they can be expressed in
the language of atomism, are actual uniformities of things in
themselves.
So much for the two things which I have promised to
bring together; the facts of our moral feelings, and the scientific
method. It may appear that the latter has been expounded at more length
than was necessary for the treatment of this particular subject; but
the justification for this length is to be found in certain common
objections to the claims of science to be the sole judge of mental and
moral questions. Some of the chief of these objections I will now
mention.
It is sometimes said that science can only deal with
what is, but that art and morals deal with what ought to be. The saying
is perfectly true, but it is quite consistent with what is equally
true, that the facts of art and morals are fit subject-matter of
science. I may describe all that I have in my house, and I may state
everything that I want in my house; these are two very different
things, but they are equally statements of facts. One is a statement
about phenomena, about the objects which are actually in my possession;
the other is a statement about my feelings, about my wants and desires.
There are facts, to be got at by common sense, about the kind of thing
that a man of a certain character and occupation will like to have in
his house, and these facts may be organized into general statements on
the assumption of uniformity in nature. Now the organized results of
common sense dealing with facts are just science and nothing else. And
in the same way I may say what men do at the present day, how we live
now, or I may say what we ought to do, namely, what course of conduct,
if adopted, we should morally approve; and no doubt these would be two
very different things. But each of them would be a statement of facts.
One would belong to the sociology of our time; in so far as men’s
deeds could not be adequately described to us without some account of
their feelings and intentions, it would involve facts belonging to
psychology as well as facts belonging to the physical sciences. But the
other would be an account of a particular class of our feelings,
namely, those which [15]we feel toward an action when
it is regarded as right or wrong. These facts may be organized by
common sense on the assumption of uniformity in nature just as well as
any other facts. And we shall see farther on that not only in this
sense, but in a deeper and more abstract sense, ‘what ought to be
done’ is a question for scientific inquiry.
The same objection is sometimes put into another form.
It is said that laws of chemistry, for example, are general statements
about what happens when bodies are treated in a certain way, and that
such laws are fit matter for science; but that moral laws are
different, because they tell us to do certain things, and we may or may
not obey them. The mood of the one is indicative, of the other
imperative. Now it is quite true that the word law in the
expression ‘law of nature,’ and in the expressions
‘law of morals,’ ‘law of the land,’ has two
totally different meanings, which no educated person will confound; and
I am not aware that any one has rested the claim of science to judge
moral questions on what is no better than a stale and unprofitable pun.
But two different things may be equally matters of scientific
investigation, even when their names are alike in sound. A telegraph
post is not the same thing as a post in the War Office, and yet the
same intelligence may be used to investigate the conditions of the one
and the other. That such and such things are right or wrong, that such
and such laws are laws of morals or laws of the land, these are facts,
just as the laws of chemistry are facts; and all facts belong to
science, and are her portion forever.
Again, it is sometimes said that moral questions have
been authoritatively settled by other methods; that we ought to accept
this decision, and not to question it by any method of scientific
inquiry; and that reason should give way to revelation on such matters.
I hope before I have done to show just cause why we should pronounce on
such teaching as this no light sentence of moral condemnation: first,
because it is our duty to form those beliefs which are to guide our
actions by the two scientific modes of inference, and by these alone;
and, secondly, because the proposed mode of settling ethical questions
by authority is contrary to the very nature of right and wrong.
Leaving this, then, for the present, I pass on to the
most formidable objection that has been made to a scientific treatment
of ethics. The objection is that the scientific method is not
applicable to human action, because the rule of uniformity does not
hold good. Whenever a man exercises his will, and makes a voluntary
choice of one out of various possible courses, an event occurs whose
relation to contiguous events cannot be included in a general statement
applicable to all similar cases. There is something wholly capricious
and disorderly, belonging to that moment only; and we have no right to
conclude that if the circumstances were exactly repeated, and the man
himself absolutely unaltered, he would choose the same course.
It is clear that if the doctrine here stated is true,
the ground is really cut from under our feet, and we cannot deal with
human action by the scientific method. I shall endeavor to show,
moreover, that in this case, although we might still have a feeling of
moral approbation or reprobation toward actions, yet we could not
reasonably praise or blame men for their deeds, nor regard them as
morally responsible. So that, if my contention is just, to deprive us
of the scientific method is practically to deprive us of morals
altogether. On both grounds, therefore, it is of the greatest
importance that we should define our position in regard to this
controversy; if, indeed, that can be called a controversy in which the
practical belief of all mankind and the consent of nearly all serious
writers are on one side.
Let us in the first place consider a little more closely
the connection between conscience and responsibility. Words in common
use, such as these two, have their meanings practically fixed before
difficult controversies arise; but after the controversy has arisen
each party gives that slight tinge to the meaning which best suits its
own view of the question. Thus it appears to each that the common
language obviously supports their own view, that this is the natural
and primary view of the matter, and that the opponents are using words
in a new meaning and wrestling them from their proper sense. Now this
is just my position. I have endeavored so far to use all words in their
common every-day sense, only making this as precise as I can; and, with
two exceptions, of which due warning will be given, I shall do my best
to continue this practice in future. I seem to myself to be talking the
most obvious platitudes; but it must be remembered that those who take
the opposite view will think I am perverting the English language.
[16]
There is a common meaning of the word
‘responsible,’ which though not the same as that of the
phrase ‘morally responsible,’ may throw some light upon it.
If we say of a book, ‘A is responsible for the preface and the
first half, and B is responsible for the rest,’ we mean that A
wrote the preface and the first half. If two people go into a shop and
choose a blue silk dress together, it might be said that A was
responsible for its being silk and B for its being blue. Before they
chose, the dress was undetermined both in color and in material.
A’s choice fixed the material, and then it was undetermined only
in color. B’s choice fixed the color; and if we suppose that
there were no more variable conditions (only one blue silk dress in the
shop), the dress was then completely determined. In this sense of the
word we say that a man is responsible for that part of an event which
was undetermined when he was left out of account, and which became
determined when he was taken account of. Suppose two narrow streets,
one lying north and south, one east and west, and crossing one another.
A man is put down where they cross, and has to walk. Then he must walk
either north, south, east, or west, and he is not responsible for that;
what he is responsible for is the choice of one of these four
directions. May we not say in the present sense of the word that the
external circumstances are responsible for the restriction on his
choice? We should mean only that the fact of his going in one or other
of the four directions was due to external circumstances, and not to
him. Again, suppose I have a number of punches of various shapes, some
square, some oblong, some oval, some round, and that I am going to
punch a hole in a piece of paper. Where I shall punch the hole
may be fixed by any kind of circumstances; but the shape of the hole
depends on the punch I take. May we not say that the punch is
responsible for the shape of the hole, but not for the position of
it?
It may be said that this is not the whole of the meaning
of the word ‘responsible,’ even in its loosest sense; that
it ought never to be used except of a conscious agent. Still this is
part of its meaning; if we regard an event as determined by a variety
of circumstances, a man’s choice being among them, we say that he
is responsible for just that choice which is left him by the other
circumstances.
When we ask the practical question, ‘Who is
responsible for so-and-so?’ we want to find out who is to be got
at in order that so-and-so may be altered. If I want to change the
shape of the hole I make in my paper, I must change my punch; but this
will be of no use if I want to change the position of the hole. If I
want the color of the dress changed from blue to green, it is B, and
not A, that I must persuade.
We mean something more than this when we say that a man
is morally responsible for an action. It seems to me that moral
responsibility and conscience go together, both in regard to the man
and in regard to the action. In order that a man may be morally
responsible for an action, the man must have a conscience, and the
action must be one in regard to which conscience is capable of acting
as a motive, that is, the action must be capable of being right or
wrong. If a child were left on a desert island and grew up wholly
without a conscience, and then were brought among men, he would not be
morally responsible for his actions until he had acquired a conscience
by education. He would of course be responsible, in the sense
just explained, for that part of them which was left undetermined by
external circumstances, and if we wanted to alter his actions in these
respects we should have to do it by altering him. But it would be
useless and unreasonable to attempt to do this by means of praise or
blame, the expression of moral approbation or disapprobation, until he
had acquired a conscience which could be worked upon by such means.
It seems, then, that in order that a man may be morally
responsible for an action, three things are necessary:—
1. He might have done something else; that is to say,
the action was not wholly determined by external circumstances, and he
is responsible only for the choice which was left him.
2. He had a conscience.
3. The action was one in regard to the doing or not
doing of which conscience might be a sufficient motive.
These three things are necessary, but it does not follow
that they are sufficient. It is very commonly said that the action must
be a voluntary one. It will be found, I think, that this is
contained in my third condition, and also that the form of statement I
have adopted exhibits more clearly the reason why the condition is
necessary. We may say that an action is involuntary either when it is
instinctive, or when one motive is so strong that there is no voluntary
choice between [17]motives. An involuntary cough produced by
irritation of the glottis is no proper subject for blame or praise. A
man is not responsible for it, because it is done by a part of his body
without consulting him. What is meant by him in this case
will require further investigation. Again, when a dipsomaniac has so
great and overmastering an inclination to drink that we cannot conceive
of conscience being strong enough to conquer it, he is not responsible
for that act, though he may be responsible for having got himself into
the state. But if it is conceivable that a very strong conscience fully
brought to bear might succeed in conquering the inclination, we may
take a lenient view of the fall and say there was a very strong
temptation, but we shall still regard it as a fall, and say that the
man is responsible and a wrong has been done.
But since it is just in this distinction between
voluntary and involuntary action that the whole crux of the
matter lies, let us examine more closely into it. I say that when I
cough or sneeze involuntarily, it is really not I that cough or sneeze,
but a part of my body which acts without consulting me. This action is
determined for me by the circumstances, and is not part of the choice
that is left to me, so that I am not responsible for it. The question
comes then to determining how much is to be called
circumstances, and how much is to be called me. Now I
want to describe what happens when I voluntarily do anything, and there
are two courses open to me. I may describe the things in themselves, my
feelings and the general course of my consciousness, trusting to the
analogy between my consciousness and yours to make me understood; or I
may describe these things as nature describes them to your senses,
namely in terms of the phenomena of my nervous system, appealing to
your memory of phenomena and your knowledge of physical action. I shall
do both, because in some respects our knowledge is more complete from
the one source, and in some respects from the other. When I look back
and reflect upon a voluntary action, I seem to find that it differs
from an involuntary action in the fact that a certain portion of my
character has been consulted. There is always a suggestion of some
sort, either the end of a train of thought or a new sensation; and
there is an action ensuing, either the movement of a muscle or set of
muscles, or the fixing of attention upon something. But between these
two there is a consultation, as it were, of my past history. The
suggestion is viewed in the light of everything bearing on it that I
think of at the time, and in virtue of this light it moves me to act in
one or more ways. Let us first suppose that no hesitation is involved,
that only one way of acting is suggested, and I yield to this impulse
and act in the particular way. This is the simplest kind of voluntary
action. It differs from involuntary or instinctive action in the fact
that with the latter there is no such conscious consultation of past
history. If we describe these facts in terms of the phenomena which
picture them to other minds, we shall say that in involuntary action a
message passes straight through from the sensory to the motor center,
and so on to the muscles, without consulting the cerebrum; while
involuntary action the message is passed on from the sensory center to
the cerebrum, there translated into appropriate motor stimuli, carried
down to the motor center, and so on to the muscles. There
may be other differences, but at least there is this difference. Now on
the physical side that which determines, what groups of cerebral fibers
shall be set at work by the given message, and what groups of motor
stimuli shall be set at work by these, is the mechanism of my brain at
the time; and on the mental side that which determines what memories
shall be called up by the given sensation, and what motives these
memories shall bring into action, is my mental character. We may say,
then, in this simplest case of voluntary action, that when the
suggestion is given it is the character of me which determines
the character of the ensuing action; and consequently that I am
responsible for choosing that particular course out of those which were
left open to me by the external circumstances.
This is when I yield to the impulse. But suppose I do
not; suppose that the original suggestion, viewed in the light of
memory, sets various motives in action, each motive belonging to a
certain class of things which I remember. Then I choose which of these
motives shall prevail. Those who carefully watch themselves find out
that a particular motive is made to prevail by the fixing of the
attention upon that class of remembered things which calls up the
motive. The physical side of this is the sending of blood to a certain
set of nerves—namely, those whose action corresponds to the
memories which are to be attended to. The sending of blood is
accomplished by [18]the pinching of arteries; and
there are special nerves, called vaso-motor nerves, whose business it
is to carry messages to the walls of the arteries and get them pinched.
Now this act of directing the attention may be voluntary or involuntary
just like any other act. When the transformed and re-enforced
nerve-message gets to the vaso-motor center, some part of it may be so
predominant that a message goes straight off to the arteries, and sends
a quantity of blood to the nerves supplying that part; or the call for
blood may be sent back for revision by the cerebrum, which is thus
again consulted. To say the same thing in terms of my feelings, a
particular class of memories roused by the original suggestion may
seize upon my attention before I have time to choose what I will attend
to; or the appeal may be carried to a deeper part of my character
dealing with wider and more abstract conceptions, which views the
conflicting motives in the light of a past experience of motives, and
by that light is drawn to one or the other of them.
We thus get to a sort of motive of the second order or
motive of motives. Is there any reason why we should not go on to a
motive of the third order, and the fourth, and so on? None whatever
that I know of, except that no one has ever observed such a thing.
There seems plenty of room for the requisite mechanism on the physical
side; and no one can say, on the mental side, how complex is the
working of his consciousness. But we must carefully distinguish between
the intellectual deliberation about motives, which applies to the
future and the past, and the practical choice of motives in the moment
of will. The former may be a train of any length and complexity: we
have no reason to believe that the latter is more than engine and
tender.
We are now in a position to classify actions in respect
of the kind of responsibility which belongs to them; namely we
have—
1. Involuntary or instinctive actions.
2. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is
involuntary.
3. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is
voluntary.
In each of these cases what is responsible is that part
of my character which determines what the action shall be. For
instinctive actions we do not say that I am responsible, because
the choice is made before I know anything about it. For voluntary
actions I am responsible, because I make the choice; that is, the
character of me is what determines the character of the action. In
me, then, for this purpose, is included the aggregate of links
of association which determines what memories shall be called up by a
given suggestion, and what motives shall be set at work by these
memories. But we distinguish this mass of passions and pleasures,
desire and knowledge and pain, which makes up most of my character at
the moment, from that inner and deeper motive-choosing self which is
called Reason, and the Will, and the Ego; which is only responsible
when motives are voluntarily chosen by directing attention to them. It
is responsible only for the choice of one motive out of those presented
to it, not for the nature of the motives which are presented.
But again, I may reasonably be blamed for what I did
yesterday, or a week ago, or last year. This is because I am permanent;
in so far as from my actions of that date an inference may be drawn
about my character now, it is reasonable that I should be treated as
praiseworthy or blamable. And within certain limits I am for the same
reason responsible for what I am now, because within certain limits I
have made myself. Even instinctive actions are dependent in many cases
upon habits which may be altered by proper attention and care; and
still more the nature of the connections between sensation and action,
the associations of memory and motive, may be voluntarily modified if I
choose to try. The habit of choosing among motives is one which may be
acquired and strengthened by practice, and the strength of particular
motives, by continually directing attention to them, may be almost
indefinitely increased or diminished. Thus, if by me is meant
not the instantaneous me of this moment, but the aggregate me of my
past life, or even of the last year, the range of my responsibility is
very largely increased. I am responsible for a very large portion of
the circumstances which are now external to me; that is to say, I am
responsible for certain of the restrictions on my own freedom. As the
eagle was shot with an arrow that flew on its own feather, so I find
myself bound with fetters of my proper forging.
Let us now endeavor to conceive an action which is not
determined in any way by the character of the agent. If we ask,
‘What makes it to be that action and no other?’ we are
told, ‘The man’s Ego.’ The words are here used, it
seems [19]to me, in some non-natural sense, if in any
sense at all. One thing makes another to be what it is when the
characters of the two things are connected together by some general
statement or rule. But we have to suppose that the character of the
action is not connected with the character of the Ego by any general
statement or rule. With the same Ego and the same circumstances of all
kinds, anything within the limits imposed by the circumstances may
happen at any moment. I find myself unable to conceive any distinct
sense in which responsibility could apply in this case; nor do I see at
all how it would be reasonable to use praise or blame. If the action
does not depend on the character, what is the use of trying to alter
the character? Suppose, however, that this indeterminateness is only
partial; that the character does add some restrictions to those already
imposed by circumstances, but leaves the choice between certain actions
undetermined, and to be settled by chance or the transcendental Ego. Is
it not clear that the man would be responsible for precisely that part
of the character of the action which was determined by his character,
and not for what was left undetermined by it? For it is just that part
which was determined by his character which it is reasonable to try to
alter by altering him.
We who believe in uniformity are not the only people
unable to conceive responsibility without it. These are the words of
Sir W. Hamilton, as quoted by Mr. J. S. Mill:—5
‘Nay, were we even to admit as true what we cannot
think as possible, still the doctrine of a motiveless volition would be
only casualism; and the free acts of an indifferent are, morally and
rationally, as worthless as the pre-ordered passions of a determined
will.’
‘That, though inconceivable, a motiveless volition
would, if conceived, be conceived as morally worthless, only shows our
impotence more clearly.’
‘Is the person an original undetermined
cause of the determination of his will? If he be not, then he is not a
free agent, and the scheme of Necessity is admitted. If he be,
in the first place, it is impossible to conceive the possibility
of this; and in the second, if the fact, though inconceivable, be
allowed, it is impossible to see how a cause, undetermined by any
motive, can be a rational, moral, and accountable cause.’
It is true that Hamilton also says that the scheme of
necessity is inconceivable, because it leads to an infinite
non-commencement; and that ‘the possibility of morality depends
on the possibility of liberty; for if a man be not a free agent, he is
not the author of his actions, and has, therefore, no
responsibility—no moral personality at all.’
I know nothing about necessity; I only believe that
nature is practically uniform even in human action. I know nothing
about an infinitely distant past; I only know that I ought to base on
uniformity those inferences which are to guide my actions. But that man
is a free agent appears to me obvious, and that in the natural sense of
the words. We need ask for no better definition than
Kant’s:—
‘Will is a kind of causality belonging to living
agents, in so far as they are rational; and freedom is such a property
of that causality as enables them to be efficient agents independently
of outside causes determining them; as, on the other hand, necessity
(Naturnothwendigkeit) is that property of all irrational beings
which consists in their being determined to activity by the influence
of outside causes.’ (‘Metaphysics of Ethics,’ chap.
iii.)
I believe that I am a free agent when my actions are
independent of the control of circumstances outside me; and it seems a
misuse of language to call me a free agent if my actions are determined
by a transcendental Ego who is independent of the circumstances inside
me—that is to say, of my character. The expression ‘free
will’ has unfortunately been imported into mental science from a
theological controversy rather different from the one we are now
considering. It is surely too much to expect that good and serviceable
English words should be sacrificed to a phantom.
In an admirable book, ‘The Methods of
Ethics,’ Mr. Henry Sidgwick has stated, with supreme fairness and
impartiality, both sides of this question. After setting forth the
‘almost overwhelming cumulative proof’ of uniformity in
human action, he says that it seems ‘more than balanced by a
single argument on the other side: the immediate affirmation of
consciousness in the moment of deliberate volition.’ ‘No
amount of experience of the sway of motives ever tends to make me
distrust my intuitive consciousness that in resolving, after
[20]deliberation, I exercise free choice as to
which of the motives acting upon me shall prevail.’
The only answer to this argument is that it is not
‘on the other side.’ There is no doubt about the
deliverance of consciousness; and even if our powers of
self-observation had not been acute enough to discover it, the
existence of some choice between motives would be proved by the
existence of vaso-motor nerves. But perhaps the most instructive way of
meeting arguments of this kind is to inquire what consciousness ought
to say in order that its deliverances may be of any use in the
controversy. It is affirmed, on the side of uniformity, that the
feelings in my consciousness in the moment of voluntary choice have
been preceded by facts out of my consciousness which are related to
them in a uniform manner, so that if the previous facts had been
accurately known the voluntary choice might have been predicted. On the
other side this is denied. To be of any use in the controversy, then,
the immediate deliverance of my consciousness must be competent to
assure me of the non-existence of something which by hypothesis is not
in my consciousness. Given an absolutely dark room, can my sense of
sight assure me that there is no one but myself in it? Can my sense of
hearing assure me that nothing inaudible is going on? As little can the
immediate deliverance of my consciousness assure me that the uniformity
of nature does not apply to human actions.
It is perhaps necessary, in connection with this
question, to refer to that singular Materialism of high authority and
recent date which makes consciousness a physical agent,
‘correlates’ it with Light and Nerve-force, and so reduces
it to an objective phenomenon. This doctrine is founded on a common and
very useful mode of speech, in which we say, for example, that a good
fire is a source of pleasure on a cold day, and that a man’s
feeling of chill may make him run to it. But so also we say that the
sun rises and sets every morning and night, although the man in the
moon sees clearly that this is due to the rotation of the earth. One
cannot be pedantic all day. But if we choose for once to be pedantic,
the matter is after all very simple. Suppose that I am made to run by
feeling a chill. When I begin to move my leg, I may observe if I like a
double series of facts. I have the feeling of effort, the sensation of
motion in my leg; I feel the pressure of my foot on the ground. Along
with this I may see with my eyes, or feel with my hands, the motion of
my leg as a material object. The first series of facts belongs to me
alone; the second may be equally observed by anybody else. The mental
series began first; I willed to move my leg before I saw it move. But
when I know more about the matter, I can trace the material series
further back, and find nerve-messages going to the muscles of my leg to
make it move. But I had a feeling of chill before I chose to move my
leg. Accordingly, I can find nerve-messages, excited by the contraction
due to the low temperature, going to my brain from the chilled skin.
Assuming the uniformity of nature, I carry forward and backward both
the mental and the material series. A uniformity is observed in each,
and a parallelism is observed between them, whenever observations can
be made. But sometimes one series is known better, and sometimes the
other; so that in telling a story we quite naturally speak sometimes of
mental facts and sometimes of material facts. A feeling of chill made a
man run; strictly speaking, the nervous disturbance which co-existed
with that feeling of chill made him run, if we want to talk about
material facts; or the feeling of chill produced the form of
sub-consciousness which co-exists with the motion of legs, if we want
to talk about mental facts. But we know nothing about the special
nervous disturbance which co-exists with a feeling of chill, because it
has not yet been localized in the brain; and we know nothing about the
form of sub-consciousness which co-exists with the motion of legs;
although there is very good reason for believing in the existence of
both. So we talk about the feeling of chill and the running, because in
one case we know the mental side, and in the other the material side. A
man might show me a picture of the battle of Gravelotte, and say,
‘You can’t see the battle, because it’s all over, but
there is a picture of it.’ And then he might put a chassepot into
my hand, and say, ‘We could not represent the whole construction
of a chassepot in the picture, but you can examine this one, and find
it out.’ If I now insisted on mixing up the two modes of
communication of knowledge, if I expected that the chassepots in the
picture would go off, and said that the one in my hand was painted on
heavy canvas, I should be acting exactly in the spirit of the new
materialism. For the material facts are [21]a
representation or symbol of the mental facts, just as a picture is a
representation or symbol of a battle. And my own mind is a reality from
which I can judge by analogy of the realities represented by other
men’s brains, just as the chassepot in my hand is a reality from
which I can judge by analogy of the chassepots represented in the
picture. When, therefore, we ask, ‘What is the physical link
between the ingoing message from chilled skin and the outgoing message
which moves the leg?’ and the answer is, ‘A man’s
Will,’ we have as much right to be amused as if we had asked our
friend with the picture what pigment was used in painting the cannon in
the foreground, and received the answer, ‘Wrought iron.’ It
will be found excellent practice in the mental operations required by
this doctrine to imagine a train, the fore part of which is an engine
and three carriages linked with iron couplings, and the hind part three
other carriages linked with iron couplings; the bond between the two
parts being made out of the sentiments of amity subsisting between the
stoker and the guard.
To sum up: the uniformity of nature in human actions has
been denied on the ground that it takes away responsibility, that it is
contradicted by the testimony of consciousness, and that there is a
physical correlation between mind and matter. We have replied that the
uniformity of nature is necessary to responsibility, that it is
affirmed by the testimony of consciousness whenever consciousness is
competent to testify, and that matter is the phenomenon or symbol of
which mind or quasi-mind is the symbolized and represented thing. We
are now free to continue our inquiries on the supposition that nature
is uniform.
We began by describing the moral sense of an Englishman.
No doubt the description would serve very well for the more civilized
nations of Europe; most closely for Germans and Dutch. But the fact
that we can speak in this way discloses that there is more than one
moral sense, and that what I feel to be right another man may feel to
be wrong. Thus we cannot help asking whether there is any reason for
preferring one moral sense to another; whether the question,
‘What is right to do?’ has in any one set of circumstances
a single answer which can be definitely known.
Clearly, in the first rough sense of the word, this is
not true. What is right for me to do now, seeing that I am here with a
certain character, and a certain moral sense as part of it, is just
what I feel to be right. The individual conscience is, in the moment of
volition, the only possible judge of what is right; there is no
conflicting claim. But if we are deliberating about the future, we know
that we can modify our conscience gradually by associating with people,
reading certain books, and paying attention to certain ideas and
feelings; and we may ask ourselves, ‘How shall we modify our
conscience, if at all? what kind of conscience shall we try to get?
what is the best conscience?’ We may ask similar questions
about our sense of taste. There is no doubt at present that the nicest
things to me are the things I like; but I know that I can train myself
to like some things and dislike others, and that things which are very
nasty at one time may come to be great delicacies at another. I may
ask, ‘How shall I train myself? What is the best
taste?’ And this leads very naturally to putting the question in
another form, namely, ‘What is taste good for? What is the
purpose or function of taste?’ We should probably
find as the answer to that question that the purpose or function of
taste is to discriminate wholesome food from unwholesome; that it is a
matter of stomach and digestion. It will follow from this that the best
taste is that which prefers wholesome food, and that by cultivating a
preference for wholesome and nutritious things I shall be training my
palate in the way it should go. In just the same way our question about
the best conscience will resolve itself into a question about the
purpose or function of the conscience—why we have got it, and
what it is good for.
Now to my mind the simplest and clearest and most
profound philosophy that was ever written upon this subject is to be
found in the 2d and 3d chapters of Mr. Darwin’s ‘Descent of
Man.’ In these chapters it appears that just as most physical
characteristics of organisms have been evolved and preserved because
they were useful to the individual in the struggle for existence
against other individuals and other species, so this particular feeling
has been evolved and preserved because it is useful to the tribe or
community in the struggle for existence against other tribes, and
against the environment as a whole. The function of conscience is the
preservation of the tribe as a tribe. And we shall rightly train our
consciences if we learn to approve those actions which tend to
[22]the advantage of the community in the struggle
for existence.
There are here some words, however, which require
careful definition. And first the word purpose. A thing serves a
purpose when it is adapted to some end; thus a corkscrew is adapted to
the end of extracting corks from bottles, and our lungs are adapted to
the end of respiration. We may say that the extraction of corks is the
purpose of the corkscrew, and that respiration is the purpose of the
lungs. But here we shall have used the word in two different senses. A
man made the corkscrew with a purpose in his mind, and he knew and
intended that it should be used for pulling out corks. But nobody made
our lungs with a purpose in his mind, and intended that they should be
used for breathing. The respiratory apparatus was adapted to its
purpose by natural selection—namely, by the gradual preservation
of better and better adaptations, and the killing off of the worse and
imperfect adaptations. In using the word purpose for the result of this
unconscious process of adaptation by survival of the fittest, I know
that I am somewhat extending its ordinary sense, which implies
consciousness. But it seems to me that on the score of convenience
there is a great deal to be said for this extension of meaning. We want
a word to express the adaptation of means to an end, whether involving
consciousness or not; the word purpose will do very well, and the
adjective purposive has already been used in this sense. But if
the use is admitted, we must distinguish two kinds of purpose. There is
the unconscious purpose which is attained by natural selection, in
which no consciousness need be concerned; and there is the conscious
purpose of an intelligence which designs a thing that it may serve to
do something which he desires to be done. The distinguishing mark of
this second kind, design or conscious purpose, is that in the
consciousness of the agent there is an image or symbol of the end which
he desires, and this precedes and determines the use of the means. Thus
the man who first invented a corkscrew must have previously known that
corks were in bottles, and have desired to get them out. We may
describe this if we like in terms of matter, and say that a purpose of
the second kind implies a complex nervous system, in which there can be
formed an image or symbol of the end, and that this symbol determines
the use of the means. The nervous image or symbol of anything is that
mode of working of part of my brain which goes on simultaneously and is
correlated with my thinking of the thing.
Aristotle defines an organism as that in which the part
exists for the sake of the whole. It is not that the existence of the
part depends on the existence of the whole, for every whole exists only
as an aggregate of parts related in a certain way; but that the shape
and nature of the part are determined by the wants of the whole. Thus
the shape and nature of my foot are what they are, not for the sake of
my foot itself, but for the sake of my whole body, and because it wants
to move about. That which the part has to do for the whole is called
its function. Thus the function of my foot is to support me, and assist
in locomotion. Not all the nature of the part is necessarily for the
sake of the whole: the comparative callosity of the skin of my sole is
for the protection of my foot itself.
Society is an organism, and man in society is part of an
organism according to this definition, in so far as some portion of the
nature of man is what it is for the sake of the whole—society.
Now conscience is such a portion of the nature of man, and its function
is the preservation of society in the struggle for existence. We may be
able to define this function more closely when we know more about the
way in which conscience tends to preserve society.
Next let us endeavor to make precise the meaning of the
words community and society. It is clear that at
different times men may be divided into groups of greater or less
extent—tribes, clans, families, nations, towns. If a certain
number of clans are struggling for existence, that portion of the
conscience will be developed which tends to the preservation of the
clan; so, if towns or families are struggling, we shall get a moral
sense adapted to the advantage of the town or the family. In this way
different portions of the moral sense may be developed at different
stages of progress. Now it is clear that for the purpose of the
conscience the word community at any time will mean a group of that
size and nature which is being selected or not selected for survival as
a whole. Selection may be going on at the same time among many
different kinds of groups. And ultimately the moral sense will be
composed of various portions relating to various groups, the function
or purpose of each portion being the advantage of that group
[23]to which it relates in the struggle for
existence. Thus we have a sense of family duty, of municipal duty, of
national duty, and of duties toward all mankind.
It is to be noticed that part of the nature of a smaller
group may be what it is for the sake of a larger group to which it
belongs; and then we may speak of the function of the smaller
group. Thus it appears probable that the family, in the form in which
it now exists among us, is determined by the good of the nation; and we
may say that the function of the family is to promote the advantage of
the nation or larger society in some certain ways. But I do not think
it would be right to follow Auguste Comte in speaking of the function
of humanity; because humanity is obviously not a part of any larger
organism for whose sake it is what it is.
Now that we have cleared up the meanings of some of our
words, we are still a great way from the definite solution of our
question, ‘What is the best conscience? or what ought I to think
right?’ For we do not yet know what is for the advantage of the
community in the struggle for existence. If we choose to learn by the
analogy of an individual organism, we may see that no permanent or
final answer can be given, because the organism grows in consequence of
the struggle, and develops new wants while it is satisfying the old
ones. But at any given time it has quite enough to do to keep alive and
to avoid dangers and diseases. So we may expect that the wants and even
the necessities of the social organism will grow with its growth, and
that it is impossible to predict what may tend in the distant future to
its advantage in the struggle for existence. But still, in this vague
and general statement of the functions of conscience, we shall find
that we have already established a great deal.
In the first place, right is an affair of the community,
and must not be referred to anything else. To go back to our analogy of
taste: if I tried to persuade you that the best palate was that which
preferred things pretty to look at, you might condemn me à
priori without any experience, by merely knowing that taste is an
affair of stomach and digestion—that its function is to select
wholesome food. And so, if any one tries to persuade us that the best
conscience is that which thinks it right to obey the will of some
individual, as a deity or a monarch, he is condemned à
priori in the very nature of right and wrong. In order that the
worship of a deity may be consistent with natural ethics, he must be
regarded as the friend and helper of humanity, and his character must
be judged from his actions by a moral standard which is independent of
him. And this, it must be admitted, is the position which has been
taken by most English divines, as long as they were Englishmen first
and divines afterward. The worship of a deity who is represented as
unfair or unfriendly to any portion of the community is a wrong thing,
however great may be the threats and promises by which it is commended.
And still worse, the reference of right and wrong to his arbitrary will
as a standard, the diversion of the allegiance of the moral sense from
the community to him, is the most insidious and fatal of social
diseases. It was against this that the Teutonic conscience protested in
the Reformation. Again, in monarchical countries, in order that
allegiance to the sovereign may be consistent with natural ethics, he
must be regarded as the servant and symbol of the national unity,
capable of rebellion and punishable for it. And this has been the
theory of the English constitution from time immemorial.
The first principle of natural ethics, then, is the sole
and supreme allegiance of conscience to the community. I venture to
call this piety in accordance with the older meaning of the
word. Even if it should turn out impossible to sever it from the
unfortunate associations which have clung to its later meaning, still
it seems worth while to try.
An immediate deduction from our principle is that there
are no self-regarding virtues properly so called; those qualities which
tend to the advantage and preservation of the individual being only
morally right in so far as they make him a more useful citizen.
And this conclusion is in some cases of great practical importance. The
virtue of purity, for example, attains in this way a fairly exact
definition: purity in a man is that course of conduct which makes him
to be a good husband and father, in a woman that which makes her to be
a good wife and mother, or which helps other people so to prepare and
keep themselves. It is easy to see how many false ideas and pernicious
precepts are swept away by even so simple a definition as that.
Next, we may fairly define our position in regard to
that moral system which has deservedly found favor with the great mass
of our countrymen. In the common [24]statement of
utilitarianism the end of right action is defined to be the greatest
happiness of the greatest number. It seems to me that the reason and
the ample justification of the success of this system is that it
explicitly sets forth the community as the object of moral allegiance.
But our determination of the purpose of the conscience will oblige us
to make a change in the statement of it. Happiness is not the end of
right action. My happiness is of no use to the community except in so
far as it makes me a more efficient citizen; that is to say, it is
rightly desired as a means and not as an end. The end may be described
as the greatest efficiency of all citizens as such. No doubt happiness
will in the long run accrue to the community as a consequence of right
conduct; but the right is determined independently of the happiness,
and, as Plato says, it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.
In conclusion, I would add some words on the relation of
Veracity to the first principle of Piety. It is clear that veracity is
founded on faith in man; you tell a man the truth when you can trust
him with it and are not afraid. This perhaps is made more evident by
considering the case of exception allowed by all
moralists—namely, that if a man asks you the way with a view to
committing a murder, it is right to tell a lie and misdirect him. The
reason why he must not have the truth told him is that he would make a
bad use of it; he cannot be trusted with it. About these cases of
exception an important remark must be made in passing. When we hear
that a man has told a lie under such circumstances, we are indeed ready
to admit that for once it was right, mensonge admirable; but we always
have a sort of feeling that it must not occur again. And the same thing
applies to cases of conflicting obligations, when for example the
family conscience and the national conscience disagree. In such cases
no general rule can be laid down; we have to choose the less of two
evils; but this is not right altogether in the same sense as it is
right to speak the truth. There is something wrong in the
circumstances, that we should have to choose an evil at all. The actual
course to be pursued will vary with the progress of society; that evil
which at first was greater will become less, and in a perfect society
the conflict will be resolved into harmony. But meanwhile these cases
of exception must be carefully kept distinct from the straightforward
cases of right and wrong, and they always imply an obligation to mend
the circumstances if we can.
Veracity to an individual is not only enjoined by piety
in virtue of the obvious advantage which attends a straightforward and
mutually trusting community as compared with others, but also because
deception is in all cases a personal injury. Still more is this true of
veracity to the community itself. The conception of the universe or
aggregate of beliefs which forms the link between sensation and action
for each individual is a public and not a private matter; it is formed
by society and for society. Of what enormous importance it is to the
community that this should be a true conception I need not attempt to
describe. Now to the attainment of this true conception two things are
necessary.
First, if we study the history of those methods by which
true beliefs and false beliefs have been attained, we shall see that it
is our duty to guide our beliefs by inference from experience on the
assumption of uniformity of nature and consciousness in other men,
and by this only. Only upon this moral basis can the foundations
of the empirical method be justified.
Secondly, veracity to the community depends upon faith
in man. Surely I ought to be talking platitudes when I say that it is
not English to tell a man a lie, or to suggest a lie by your silence or
your actions, because you are afraid that he is not prepared for the
truth, because you don’t quite know what he will do when he knows
it, because perhaps after all this lie is a better thing for him than
the truth would be, this same man being all the time an honest
fellow-citizen whom you have every reason to trust. Surely I have heard
that this craven crookedness is the object of our national detestation.
And yet it is constantly whispered that it would be dangerous to
divulge certain truths to the masses. ‘I know the whole thing is
untrue: but then it is so useful for the people; you don’t know
what harm you might do by shaking their faith in it.’ Crooked
ways are none the less crooked because they are meant to deceive great
masses of people instead of individuals. If a thing is true, let us all
believe it, rich and poor, men, women, and children. If a thing is
untrue, let us all disbelieve it, rich and poor, men, women, and
children. Truth is a thing to be shouted from the housetops, not to be
whispered over rose-water after dinner when the ladies are gone away.
[25]
Even in those whom I would most reverence, who would
shrink with horror from such actual deception as I have just mentioned,
I find traces of a want of faith in man. Even that noble thinker, to
whom we of this generation owe more than I can tell, seemed to say in
one of his posthumous essays that in regard to questions of great
public importance we might encourage a hope in excess of the evidence
(which would infallibly grow into a belief and defy evidence) if we
found that life was made easier by it. As if we should not lose
infinitely more by nourishing a tendency to falsehood than we could
gain by the delusion of a pleasing fancy. Life must first of all be
made straight and true; it may get easier through the help this brings
to the commonwealth. And Lange, the great historian of materialism,
says that the amount of false belief necessary to morality in a given
society is a matter of taste. I cannot believe that any falsehood
whatever is necessary to morality. It cannot be true of my race and
yours that to keep ourselves from becoming scoundrels we must needs
believe a lie. The sense of right grew up among healthy men and was
fixed by the practice of comradeship. It has never had help from
phantoms and falsehoods, and it never can want any. By faith in man and
piety toward men we have taught each other the right hitherto; with
faith in man and piety toward men we shall never more depart from
it.
