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6^333
N 65
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
Thoughts
Theology,
on Science,
and
Ethics.
BY
JOHN WILSON, M.A.,
TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN.
“ Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitum que Acherontis avari.
“ Happy the man who, studying Nature’s laws,
Through known effects can trace the secret cause,
His mind possessing in a quiet state,
Fearless of Fortune, and resigned to Fate.”
—Virgilius, Georgies II., 490.
LONDON:
WATTS & Co., 17,. JOHNSON’S COURT, FLEET St.
All rights reserved.
��PAGE
CHAP.
PREFACE
...
...
...
...
..
5
PART I.
I. WHAT IS SCIENCE?
II.
III.
...
...
...
...
9
WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?...
...
...
33
THE METHODS OF SCIENCE
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50
...
PART II.
I. ETHICS—INTRODUCTION...
II.
...
THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF ETHICS
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79
...’
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91
III.
THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE ...
IV.
THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE
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IOI
116
��PREFACE.
The object of this little book is to give a correct sketch
of the main lines of modern thought in small compass
and in language simple enough to be easily understood.
It is intended specially for those who, taking an interest
in liberal questions, have not leisure to study the large
and learned books in which they are treated.
From
this it will be apparent that no claim is made to origi
nality of thought.
The writer will be quite satisfied if
his readers are led to take greater interest in the grand
principles of Science, Theology, and Ethics, and are
aided in forming clearer conceptions of them.
The fol
lowing words are defined in the sense intended by the
writer, although they may be used by others in senses
different from his.
It will be noticed that the word
Science is used in a much more extended sense than what
is generally attached to it; while the word Theology is
�6
PREFACE.
used in a more restricted sense than what is often under
stood to be within its scope :—
GOD.
The Omnipresent Power which exists behind the
facts of the universe.
Of this Power Science asserts the existence to
be a necessary supposition, but the nature to be
to us unknowable and inconceivable. Theology,
on the other hand, asserts its nature to be
known, and conceives it to be man-like.
Theology.
The supposed knowledge as to God and what exists
beyond the horizon of the verifiable.
Subjective.
Relating to our own states of consciousness-—to self.
Objective.
Relating to what exists outside of our own states of
consciousness—to the not-self.
Fact.
Anything capable of being a subject of thought, or
of which we can think.
It is necessary to observe that the word fact
will be used in the very widest sense, embracing
both the objective and the subjective. For
example : A unicorn is a fact in the subjective
though not in the objective sense. The mental
picture is a fact, though there is no objective
reality corresponding to it.
�PART I.
��CHAPTER I.
WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
A piece of common charcoal and a diamond are in
one sense the same. They are composed of the same
material—viz., carbon. Yet, by the different arrange
ment of their particles, they are very different in quality
and value. So, likewise, are science and common
knowledge composed of the same material—viz., facts.
Common knowledge, however, consists of facts, un
organised and unconnected ; science, of facts organised
—connected by the bands of law. It is this organisa
tion which gives them scientific value. A collection of
separate, unconnected facts resembles the raw material
of manufactories. Lumps of iron are of little value in
an unorganised state; but they become invaluable in the
form of machinery—that is, when brought into a state
of organisation. One pound of iron, when made into
watch hair-springs, is worth ^12,500. An army and a
mob are both collections of individuals; but one is
organised, the other is not. A confused, unarranged
heap of books differs from a library. So common
knowledge differs from science. Science makes use of
separate facts as her raw material; they serve her only
as means to an end. Her object is to arrange them
under the laws of nature by which they are governed.
This, then, is her ultimate goal.
�IO
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
Having been told that the distinguishing characteristic
of science is the discovery of the laws of nature, an in
quirer would naturally ask, “What is a law of nature?-’
Here, again, we must notice the difference between the
popular meaning of a word and its scientific meaning.
The word law, in popular language, means “ the com
mand of a superior to an inferior.” Law is the expres
sion of the will of a stronger to a weaker, and is always
associated with the idea of personality. The scientific
meaning of the word law is entirely different. The idea
of personality is altogether absent. Law, in a scientific
sense, means simply order.
A law of nature is a formula which expresses correctly
the invariable order in which facts occur. For example,
the formula, “Every particle of matter attracts every
other particle of matter with a force proportional directly
to its mass and indirectly to the square of the distance,”
is a law of nature—that is, it expresses correctly the
invariable order in which certain facts always occur. A
law of nature is simply a statement that certain facts
always have, and always will occur in, a certain order.
The idea of personality is entirely absent. There are
but two things implied : (i) an invariable order among
facts; (2) a correct statement of that order. If one
single exception can be found to the statement, it cannot
be a law of nature in the scientific sense. Science
assumes that the universe is a cosmos ; that all is order,
invariable and eternal; that chaos is nowhere to be
found in time or space; that every fact, mental and
material, exists or occurs in accordance with the invari
able law of cause and effect, the same cause being in
variably followed by the same effect. In a scientific
sense, therefore, a law of nature cannot be broken; it
would be a contradiction in terms. If there is invariable
order, and if the formula correctly expresses this order,
it follows that no exception can be found.
�WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
II
We have said that science assumes that the universe is
a cosmos—a region where invariable order reigns. Some
may be astonished at the idea of science being founded
on an assumption. “We have always heard,” they may
say, “ that the great characteristic of science is, that
she demands convincing evidence of everything before
admitting it to be true.”
Here it will be necessary to explain the nature of
truth. Truth is divisible into two kinds : (i) Subjective ;
(2) Objective.
By the first is meant knowledge of our own states of
consciousness. In strict language, these are all we can
correctly say we know. Of the existence of a feeling
or an idea we can have no doubt; our knowledge is
absolute. In fact, in this case knowledge and existence
are one and the same. But of everything outside of
self, or objective, we can have only inferential know
ledge. In scientific language, we do not know that
anything outside of ourselves exists; we infer it. All we
know or can know of matter is the mode in which it
affects our states of consciousness. Its existence is a
matter of inference. We infer or assume that certain
states of our consciousness are caused by something
external to self. That supposed something is what
we call matter. Of it we can know nothing, except as
it affects us. Hence objective knowledge is said to be
“ relative.” For example, we see a rose to be red, we
smell it and perceive it to be fragrant, we touch it and
feel it to be soft. Now, all we know is that we had the
states of consciousness called redness, fragrance, and
softness. That a something external to self exists which
caused these states of consciousness we do not know,
but infer or assume. Practically, an inference, if con
firmed sufficiently by experience, becomes as certain as
absolute knowledge. No one practically doubts of the
existence of things outside of self. But it is most
�12
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
important to recognise the distinction between absolute
knowledge and inference, or, in other words, between
subjective and objective truth.
Of the first it is impossible to doubt; the second,
being in its nature a matter of inference, varies accord
ing to the amount of evidence from a mere guess to a
practical certainty. It is true, therefore, that science is
based on an assumption; but on an assumption verified
by experience to such an extent that, to those capable of
understanding it, no practical doubt remains. Still, in
correct language, it is not an absolute certainty that
invariable order exists throughout the universe.
For
us to know that absolutely, it would be necessary for us
to be omniscient both in time and space. Grant that
in all our experience the same cause has invariably pro
duced the same effect, it remains possible that, outside
of our experience, both in time and in space, it may not
be so. All that science asserts is that, as a matter of fact,
no single instance has been verified where uniformity, in
the order of cause and effect, has been interrupted.
Every manifestation of force, exhibited in a certain way
under certain conditions, science assumes will invariably
manifest itself in the same way so long as the conditions
remain the same. To those who feel unable to assent
to this assumption science has nothing to say. If any
spot in the universe can be pointed out where chaos
reigns, science would acknowledge that there she could
not enter; but, having once laid the foundation-stone of
invariable order, science goes on with her work of dis
covering the laws of nature.
The scientific test by which every theory is tried before
it is admitted and acknowledged to be a law of nature
is experience. Not until a theory is found to give the
power of prophecy is it allowed to be a law of nature—
that is to say, not until given certain conditions can we
with certainty foretell the results.
Is there, then, no
�WHAT IS SCIENCE?
T3
such a thing as chance? The answer is, “Objectively,
no; subjectively, yes.”
Chance is a word which expresses a state of our mind,
not a quality in an objective fact. A few examples will
make this plain. A traveller about to cross an unex
plored range of mountains would say that it was a
“ chance ” whether on the other side there was an im
passable precipice or an inclined plane. Having by
experience found out the truth, all chance would vanish.
This change did not take place in the objective fact, the
shape of the mountain, but in the state of mind of the
traveller. The word “ chance ” referred exclusively to
the subjective fact that the traveller was in doubt in con
sequence of his ignorance, and, with the disappearance
of this, chance vanished and certainty took its place.
Again, on a die being shaken in an opaque box and
thrown on the table, it would be said that it was a
chance what number fell uppermost. On the other
hand, if the die had been placed in a transparent glass
box, and the movement had been so slow that the eye
followed every turn of the die until it rested on the table,
the spectator would have said that the number turned
up was a certainty, not a chance. This substitution of
the word certainty for the word chance was evidently
caused by the change in the mind from ignorance to
knowledge, and not by anything in the objective fact.
When we come to speak of “the methods of science”
it will be seen that the not distinguishing the objective
from the subjective, in the meaning of words, is a prolific
source of error. It would save a great deal of confusion
of thought if it was always borne in mind that such words
as chance, necessity, etc., refer to the state of our mind,
not to the objective facts.
In discovering the order of nature, science is said to
“explain things.” Now, what does science undertake
when she tries to explain a thing ?
�14
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
To explain a thing is to bring it into causal con
nection with other things, with the nature of which we
are already familiar. By the nature of anything we mean
the manner in which it behaves in manifesting force.
When a manifestation of force takes place, either appa
rently uncaused or from causes unconnected with any
thing the nature of which is familiar to us, it startles
us : no one knows how it may behave. An unexplained
fact resembles a loose, untrained horse, kicking, plung
ing, and galloping about in a field in the most erratic
and incalculable ways. The animal is a cause of terror
and of a desire to get him under control, trained, and
harnessed. So it is with an unexplained fact, apparently
unbound by the chain of cause and effect. It creates
uneasiness, because its ways of acting are incalculable ;
and we desire to get it under control—brought from the
unfenced field of ignorance into the highway of know
ledge.
For example, an explosion of a boiler takes
place, and demands an explanation. This is given thus :
We are already familiar with the nature of heat in ex
panding water at and above ordinary temperatures : we
know that the force with which the particles of water
separate from each other increases with every increase
of temperature ; we know that the particles of the iron
boiler cling together with a certain force; we know that,
if the force of cohesion between the particles of the
iron is less than the force of repulsion between the
particles of the water, the particles of iron must be torn
asunder. Now, if we know that the temperature of the
fire rose to such a degree that the particles of water were
repelled by one another with a force greater than the
force of cohesion by which the particles of iron clung
to one another, we know also that the latter were con
sequently compelled to separate.
. Here, then, we have the fact of the explosion shown
to be in causal connection with other facts already familiar
�WHAT IS SCIENCE?
15
to us. The explosion is now scientifically explained
by being thus brought into subjection to law and order.
When this is done the work of science is finished. The
fact is proved to be in accordance with the assumption
of science—viz., that the universe is a cosmos, a field
over which reigns eternal, invariable order. This order
it is the business of science to discover and to express
in formulas (commonly called “ laws of nature ”). When
this knowledge has been gained, and when facts can be
thus explained, the work of science is finished.
Theology, as well as science, is a “ theory of things,”
and in primitive times had precedence of science.
Theology might be called “infantile science.” At the
first dawn of intelligence theology was the first attempt
to explain things, and, like science, was founded on an
assumption (the only possible one under the conditions}
—viz., that the nature of man was double; that there
was a visible person and an invisible.
Many things suggested this idea. Drcams, echoes,
shadows, reflections—all these suggested and supported
the theory that man was duplicate; that within the
visible man there was an invisible ghost. By means of
the assumed existence of this ghost the primitive mind
explained things. All action was similar in nature to
human action. Everything had within it an invisible
ghost as the cause of all its action. This stage of theo
logy is called fetishism. Every object is a god, because
containing an invisible ghost. When man becomes suffi
ciently social as to live in a society the organisation of
which is controlled by a single chief, the idea of one
having authority and power over many becomes familiar
to him. The chief, when alive, had the power to benefit
or injure, and this power remained with his invisible
ghost after his death. From this followed the worship
of local and many gods, or polytheism. As societies
increased in size from tribes to great nations,, and
�16
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
examples were thereby furnished of a single king ruling
over the whole of the known earth, the worship of the
ghost of such king naturally led to the idea of mono
theism, or the worship of one man-like god, “ King of
kings and Lord of lords.”
From this theory it rationally followed that, if things
were to be regulated for our benefit, it must be through
this god or man-like ghost. The ghost of a dead chief
was feared, flattered, and bribed in the same manner as
he had been when alive. If things were to be regulated
for the benefit of the living, this god must be propitiated
kept in a pacific and friendly state of mind, every evil
being the result of his anger, and every good the gift
of his benevolence. As customs differ in different
countries, so the manner of gaining the favour of God
differs in different systems of theology ; but in prin
ciple all theologies are similar. An African does not
flatter in the same manner as a European; his song of
praise, accompanied by the monotonous noise of a tom
tom, differs, it is true, from a European anthem and
organ music ; but that is only a matter of detail. The
character of the gods in the different theologies varies
as the character of the people varies ; but all theologies
agree in ^this—that God is a man-like ghost. That is
their fundamental assumption, and, grant that assump
tion, the conclusions drawn are rational enough. Civi
lised man wonders and smiles at the absurdities of the
theological dogmas of the savage ; but, in reality, they
are quite as rational as his own.
The great question, then, is this, “ Is the fundamental
assumption of theology true ? Have we any evidence
that God is a man-like being ?”
We have seen that science as well as theology is based
on an assumption. Science, however, appeals to facts to
verify it. This theology cannot do. From the nature of
the case experience is excluded. All our experience is
�WHAT IS SCIENCE?
*7
confined to facts as they affect our states of conscious
ness. What lies behind these states is, and must remain,
a mere assumption only. That there exists in every man
a ghost distinct from man as recognisable by our facul
ties is a theory. So is the assumption that the cause of
all things is a man-like ghost describable in terms of
human consciousness, such as wise, good, jealous, angry.
But such theories are unverifiable.
Theologians try to sustain their theories in two ways :
(i) by an appeal to historical evidence of miracles and
of supernatural means of gaining knowledge of an un
seen universe unknowable by our natural faculties ; (2)
by an appeal to facts in nature as demonstrating the
existence of human attributes in God—such attributes
as wisdom, goodness, and anger.
The first it would be impossible for us to consider at
any length. It is sufficient to say that science, by his
torical criticism, has completely destroyed the authority
which in pre-scientific times was attached to tradition,
written and unwritten. Books which were supposed to
have been written in some supernatural manner by the
man-like God communicating knowledge to the writers
are now shown to be most erroneous, so far as they refer
to verifiable facts, and therefore to bear the marks of a
human origin. This is now acknowledged by theologians
themselves. The late Archbishop of Canterbury said on
a recent occasion: “How many of the supposed diffi
culties as to numbers and national or family genealogies,
and even as to geographical, chronological, or physio
logical accuracy, may be allowed quietly to flow away
without our being able to solve them, if we bear this
acknowledged fact (viz., that there is a human element
in the Bible) distinctly in mind ! When laborious in
genuity has exerted itself to collect a whole store of such
difficulties, is it wrong to answer, ‘ Suppose what you say
is true, what on earth does it signify ?’ ” In pre-scientific
�l8
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
days it was thought to be sufficient to show that a doctrine
was sustained by any part of the sacred book. Now it is
acknowledged “ that there is a human element ” in it; so
the fact that a statement is in the Bible or Koran, or other
sacred book, does not, it is admitted, necessarily give the
statement supernatural authority. We are not told by
what means this “ human element ” can be distinguished
from the superhuman. If of the statements in the book
many that can be tested are found to be inaccurate, the
inference is that the ones which cannot may be inaccurate
too. In theological works many questions that should
be satisfactorily answered are seldom even alluded to;
as, for instance, “ What was the nature of the process by
which a writer was inspired?” “ If it was accompanied
by signs capable of being witnessed by others, what were
those signs, and where is the testimony of the wit
nesses ?” “ If inspiration was an eternal process, by
what means did the writer distinguish the inspired from
the uninspired thoughts ?” “ If the writer’s assertion is
the only evidence of his inspiration, how do we know
that both his mental and moral nature were such that we
may rely upon his evidence ?” The fact is that there
does not exist any evidence by which these questions
can be answered. For scarcely any of the so-called
sacred books have we any reliable evidence at all as to
the time in which they were written, or as to their
authors. In this respect they differ in nothing from
other ancient books such as Homer. Yet, on the author
rity of these unknown writers, we are called upon to
believe that a multitude of events took place—events so
improbable and so contradictory to all experience as to
be absolutely incredible even on evidence inconceivably
stronger than any that has ever been produced. His
torical evidence, therefore, falls infinitely short of that on
which an intelligent person could believe in supernatural
events.
�WHAT IS SCIENCE?
19
Instead of the fact that miracles are related in ancient
books being evidence that such events took place, it
would be almost a miracle if they were not related in
such books. Miracles are happening now every day,
always have happened, and will continue to happen
among people ignorant of scientific principles ; but they
are subjective, not objective events. Historical support
for the assumption of supernatural knowledge, therefore,
may be put on one side as worthless.
The second support relied upon as proving that God
is man-like is of a different kind : theologians appeal to
our own experience of natural events as evidence of the
existence of a man-like God. It is said the mechanism
of plants and animals exhibits design. Means are
beautifully adapted to ends. The arrangements are
similar to what the intelligence of man is capable of in
venting. The quantity of the intelligence is larger, but
the quality is the same. The inference, then, is justified
—God, the cause of all things, has man-like intelligence.
This reasoning is plausible and, to minds in some
states, unanswerable. We have already seen that to
primitive man the ghost-theory reasoning was similarly
plausible. When he dreamt of the chase one part of
him was in his hut, the second was miles away hunting.
The sound of the echo was similar to what he himself
produced; it must, therefore, be produced by a being
(invisible indeed, but) similar to himself. We can see
the mistake; but primitive man, ignorant of such things
as physical cause (cerebration, undulation of the air,
reflection, etc.), formed the best theory possible to him
under the circumstances.
So is the argument from design a plausible one, and
to minds in some conditions conclusive; but, as the
principles of science attain influence, its inconclusiveness
is revealed. Moreover, if the conclusion was justifiable
that, wherever we perceived facts which appear to us
�20
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
similar to those that might be due to an intelligent man,
they must have been produced by a being similar to a
wise man, it would be equally justifiable, when we see
facts such as might be the work of a fool, to conclude
that some idiotic being was their cause. To make a
machine adapted to serve a purpose, and then wantonly
destroy it without allowing it to fulfil its functions,
would be conduct such as we could expect only from a
fool. Now, in nature we see the immense majority of
the seeds of plants produced but to perish, and the
immense majority of the young of animals formed but
to die. This prodigality of waste in nature is most
remarkable. But should we be justified in thinking
that this waste was produced by a man-like idiot?
Many facts in nature are just as suggestive of foolish
ness as others are of wisdom : such as organs useless to
the creatures in which they exist; as teeth in the jaw of
the whale. Before the principles of science were under
stood the argument from the adaptation of means to
ends was plausible; but since science has brought for
ward the doctrine of evolution by the survival of the
fittest, even its plausibility is gone.
The argument for the existence of the human attribute
of goodness in God is founded on the same imperfect
reasoning as that we have just considered. Facts pro
ducing results such as a good man might produce are
cited as proofs of the goodness of God; while facts such
as only the most cruel and wicked would or could be
guilty of are either passed over unnoticed, or put aside
labelled “ mysteries.” A healthy and beautiful child is
taken as a proof of God’s goodness ; but nothing is said
of infants born in a state of disease or deformity, and
destined to a short and miserable existence. What,
again, is to be said of creatures so formed that life to
them is possible only by the sickness, pain, and death
of other living creatures ?
�WIIAT IS SCIENCE ?
2I
If facts similar to what human goodness would pro
duce are proofs of God having the attribute of human
goodness, it follows that facts similar to what human
cruelty and wickedness would produce—and they are
just as numerous—are equally proofs of God having the
attributes of human cruelty and wickedness. But the
truth is, neither one nor the other is any proof at all
that the nature of God is man-like.
It is said in the Hebrew Scriptures, “ God made man
in his own image.” Turn the statement upside down,
and it becomes true: “ Man makes God in his own
image.” And whether the representation consists of
the clay figure made by an African negro, or the mental
image constructed by civilised man, it is equally a vain
and foolish idol. The most ignorant savage and the
Archbishop of Canterbury are equally unable to form
any true conception of the nature of God.
Let us suppose one of those small shell-fish in the
slime at the bottom of the ocean trying to form a con
ception of the forms of existence on the surface of the
earth. It knows and can know nothing of light or
colour, of air or sound. Its experience has been con
fined to a few feet of mud two thousand fathoms below
the surface, where there must be utter darkness and
eternal silence. All the forms of existence known to it
have been creatures more or less like itself. Imagine
such a creature trying to form and express a conception
of the forms of existence of the plants and animals as
known to us I—such an attempt must be in vain. Then
suppose further this tiny creature trying to conceive the
idea of God, the cause of all it knew, and to describe
him as an invisible shell-fish, with a shell enormously
large and tentacles infinitely long; in fact, a magnified
image of itself. The folly of this attempt to enter what
was to the shell-fish the region of the unknowable would
be very plain to us. But let us suppose still further that
�22
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
this little creature not only formed this conception of
God, but felt so confident of its virtues as a correct one
that it assured the other little shell-fish that any of them
that did not thus think of the deity would “without
doubt perish everlastingly.'’ The ludicrous presumption
of the creature would amuse a child.
Now, there is really no essential difference between
the folly (thus imagined) of this tiny creature and that
of the theologian. Astronomers, trying to give us a
faint idea of the distance of the fixed stars, tell us that,
if we had set off to travel to one of them, and had got
one hundred and eighty millions of miles on our way,
we might consider that we had not yet begun our
journey, one hundred and eighty millions of miles being
as nothing compared with the entire distance of the star.
So may we say that, though the folly of the little shell
fish at the bottom of the ocean trying to conceive and
express ideas of God in terms of its own experience is
actually greater than that of man, yet the difference
between them may be disregarded, that difference being
as nothing compared with the remoteness of both from
their common object.
The following extract from an ancient Indian writing
shows that the folly of making images of God had been
discovered even in very early times : “ How can any
one teach concerning Brahma [God] ? He is neither
the known nor the unknown. That which cannot be
expressed by words, but through which all expression
comes, this I know to be God. That which cannot be
thought by the mind, but by which all thinking comes,
this I know is God. That which cannot be seen by the
eye, but by which the eye sees, is God. If, then, thou
thinkest thou canst know it, then in truth thou knowest
very little. To whom it is unknown, he knows it. One
cannot attain to it through the word, through the mind,
or through the eye. It is reached only by him who
says, ‘ It is, it is.’ ”
�WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
23
Atheism and Theology are both guilty of the error
of assuming a knowledge of the unknowable. The
Atheist who asserts that there is no God pretends to
knowledge of what lies beyond the horizon of human
thought. He asserts that outside the range of his facul
ties nothing exists. As well might the little shell-fish at
the bottom of the ocean deny the existence of anything
beyond the range of its faculties. The theologian,
again, commits the very same mistake, not by expressing
belief in an existence beyond our horizon, but by
assuming a capability of knowing the nature of such
existence, and by describing it as man-like.
Science, on the other hand, while admitting that what
we know of mind and matter leads us to believe that
behind the infinite and endless forms of facts, mental
and material, there exists a source of power, the cause
of all, asserts that, from the limitation of our faculties, a
knowledge of the nature of this causal power is and
must be impossible to us. To try to conceive or express
it in terms of either matter or mind is and must be futile.
It is a mistake natural to mind in its childhood—a mis
take, however, often carried on by its own vis inertia, so
to speak, into manhood; thus men of great intellect,
and with minds imbued with the principles of science,
sometimes continue to imagine that they believe that
God is man-like in his nature, and can be thought of as
having the attributes of man.
Whether, then, we examine the argument from his
torical evidence or the argument from supposed design,
as proving the man-like nature of God, the proof is
found to fail. It is often said: “Grant that the evidence
available is not fit to bear scientific tests, yet our own
minds tell us that we must cither think of God as man
like, and describe him in terms of human consciousness,
or become practical Atheists by ceasing to think of him
at all.” The only reply to this is, that any one who thus
�24
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
feels will continue to assent to the assumption of
theology without any proof. Such are those who, with
splendid inconsistency, accept science and refuse to
part with theology; who pray to God as if they believed
that everything would happen during the day just as he
would at each moment personally determine, and then,
prayer over, expect all things to happen in accordance
with the law of cause and effect as revealed by science.
It is well, in one sense, in this age of transition from
the principles of theology to the principles of science,
that many minds are little, if at all, disturbed by their
own inconsistency. The same person is able to think
at one time as a theologian, and at another as a scien
tist, though the principles of the one are exactly the
reverse of the other. This power of dividing the mind
into separate compartments is a source of safety, just
as it is for a ship to be built on the plan of water-tight
sections. The idea of being in the dark, either mental
or material, is to many minds terrifying. Any argu
ment does to convince those who wish to be convinced;
and those who are afraid of being in the dark wish to be
convinced by theology. To such it is a great comfort
to think that they know that the invisible Cause of all
things is such a one as themselves; that they can talk
to him, sing to him, please him by flattery and other
means, and so get him to act for them as a friend—aye,
even to have him bound by a covenant.
Theologians, when they accuse others of Atheism,
should not be understood as meaning that their oppo
nents deny the existence of God. To a theologian an
Atheist is any one who denies that we have reason to
believe in the existence of the God the image of which
has been drawn by that theologian. Suppose a blind
man drew a picture of a cow, and a spectator said that
he did not believe there ever was any animal at all like
the picture, the blind man would not be justified in
�WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
25
accusing him of “ acowism ”—that is, of expressing dis
belief in the existence of any cow. The Pagans accused
the primitive Christians of Atheism because the latter
denied the existence of Jupiter, Jupiter being the Pagan
picture of God. It must be acknowledged that this
theological mistake is a natural one. The only deity a
theologian knows is one corresponding to his own pic
ture ; wipe that out, and to him there ensues a complete
void, and hence, naturally though erroneously, he
accuses of Atheism the man who has wiped his picture
out.
We have now considered sufficiently the main argu
ments for the existence of a man-like God, and are
forced to the conclusion that this assumption, the funda
mental assumption of all theology, is unverifiable. It
may be said, perhaps: “Grant that, strictly speaking,
there is no proof of the man-like nature of God, still
surely the fact that almost the whole human race have
held the belief is a strong presumption that it is true.”
On the contrary, the presumption is that it is false.
Girls, when very young, naturally and inevitably attribute
to their dolls the same states of consciousness that they
experience themselves. A broken leg in the doll brings
a copious flow of tears. But, when older and more
experienced, girls abandon this belief, notwithstanding
that all the younger girls of the race continue to hold it.
The race itself, as a whole, is still in mental infancy; its
assumption in regard to God is, consequently, no more
worthy of belief than the assumption of the infant girl
in regard to her doll.
It may be truly said we are all born theologians.
Imagination is strong and active long before reason, and,
while thus uncontrolled, builds many a structure which
reason afterwards finds to be a castle in the air. The
works of the imagination, while unchecked by verification,
appear just as strong and substantial as if they were real
�26
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
(witness dreams); but, in the presence of reason, these
become “the baseless fabric of a vision.” Into the
territory behind facts (as they appear to us) reason
cannot enter, and verification is impracticable. There
imagination has the field to herself. The intellect of
man can penetrate a certain distance, and no further.
Beyond the scope of his faculties hangs a veil of abso
lute blackness of darkness. On this black veil theology
throws her images from the magic lantern of her imagi
nation, and fancies that the light comes from beyond
instead of from herself. All the beings inhabiting this
region—God, angels, devils, and human souls—are
images of man. Like the pictures of the kaleidoscope,
the combinations are new; but all are made up exclu
sively from the same original materials.
Theology is a “ theory of things ” based, as we have
seen, upon an error natural and inevitable to the infancy
of man—the error of trying to know what must remain
unknowable, and thereby deceiving oneself, of not recog
nising the difference between dreams and realities, of
furnishing the invisible world with the facts of experi
ence, of creating God after our own image.
We may now contrast science with theology. In two
respects they are similar; in all others they are opposed.
Science and theology are both “ theories of things,” and
are both based upon assumptions.
>
The assumption of science is “that eternal, invariable
order reigns over the whole universe; that no fact,
mental or material, exists except as a link in an endless
chain of cause and effect, the same antecedents being
invariably followed by the same consequents.”
Theology assumes that God is a being in nature
similar to man; that invariable order does not exist;
that miracles have happened, do still happen, and may
happen at any time; that no fact exists except as a
product of the will of the man-like God.
�WHAT IS SCIENCE?
27
Science regards it as the proper object of inquiry—
to ascertain, and to express in correct formulas, the
order in which facts occur. These formulas, when found
by invariable experience to be correct, she calls “ laws
of nature.” A broken law of nature is, from a scientific
point of view, a contradiction in terms.
Theology asserts that the proper aim and object of all
inquiry is to know what is the will of the man-like God;
that this knowledge is to be found in books called col
lectively “ Divine Revelation,” written by men of old
time, who were inspired in a miraculous manner, or in
the word-of-mouth utterances of men of a certain class
set apart to communicate it, and that all other knowledge
is at best comparatively useless and, if opposed to this,
detrimental. The breaking of God’s laws by man is not
only possible, but constant ; and a large proportion of
theological forms and ceremonies consists but of devices
to propitiate God, with a view to escape the punishment
which his anger thus caused would certainly bring.
These forms and modes of propitiation, identical in
principle with the means adopted by peoples to pro
pitiate earthly rulers, include sacrifice, prayer, flattery,
self-abasement, and self-inflicted pain, such as fasting,
injury to the body, wearing of filthy clothing, living away
from friends—in fact, all forms of misery—all of them
self-inflicted in this world to gain the favour of God in
the next. And, granting that the nature of God is man
like, these theological customs are rational.
In the theologies of people in the same stage of intel
lectual and moral development as the Hebrew Abraham,
whose God was supposed to be compelled to come down
from heaven to investigate by personal inquiry rumours
of bad conduct which he had heard (Gen. xviii. 20, 21),
there is no incongruity in the supposition of men being
able to break God’s laws as they had the power to break
the laws of their earthly king. But, when the attributes
�28
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
of omniscience and omnipotence came to be conceived,
the idea of man breaking the laws of God became
absurd. “ No man can enter a strong man’s house and
spoil his goods unless he first bind the strong man.” If
two forces meet, the weaker cannot prevail. To suppose
so is as much a contradiction in terms as it is to talk of
a broken law of nature in the scientific sense. If God
wills that man shall not do a certain act, and man says
he will do it, and does it, it follows that man’s will is
stronger than God’s will. This contradiction is veiled
by the supposition that, although man can for a time
overcome God, yet ultimately God’s superior strength
will be proved. Another explanatory supposition is that
God has created in man a thing called “ free will,’’
which has been left unconditioned by any cause. Still
another mode of treating the difficulty is to put it aside
■with the remark that the fact of man acting contrary to
the will of God is a “ deep mystery.” “ When crime
is committed, if it was allowed that man could not break
a law of God, nor act contrary to his will, God would
be made a direct participator in the crime—a supposi
tion that would be blasphemy. Yet, on the other hand,
it is a contradiction in terms to say that a creature
could overcome his Almighty Creator. This is a great
mystery, and as such it must be left.”
In theology this resource for getting rid of a difficulty
by labelling it a “ mystery,” and so putting it on one
side, is a very necessary one. In science, when facts
and theory do not agree, the theory is at once and
without hesitation rejected. In theology this is impos
sible. The fundamental theory, that God is man-like,
is contained in a miraculous revelation. Touch that
with the hand of criticism, and theology ceases to exist.
Hence the origin of the theological dogma, that of all
virtues faith is the greatest, and that of all sins doubt is
the most fatal. “ He that believeth and is baptised
�WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
29
shall be saved; and he that believeth not shall be
damned.” Science says: “ All I assume is that facts
exist, and will continue to exist, in an invariable order.
My dogmas are to be accepted not absolutely, but
always subject to verification by experience; and, if any
of them do not stand that test, they are at once to be
discarded.” Theology, on the other hand, deals with a
subject in which verification is impossible, the nature of
God not being a subject of experience.
The contrast between science and theology has been
very tersely expressed by Dr. Magee, the present Bishop
of Peterborough : “ Science abhors finality in belief;
but that is just what theologians like. Science discovers
facts, but theology accepts revelation, and clings to
creeds.” Science, as the Bishop most truly says, could
not accept “ finality in belief,” seeing that her dogmas
rest entirely on the verification of experience. Theo
logy, on the other hand, dealing as she does with things
outside the range of verification, can accept this finality ;
and, feeling instinctively that her feet rest upon the
ground, not of reason, but of imagination, she naturally
hates the idea of being liable at any moment to criti
cism and correction. Science is content to spend all
her time in laboriously searching for facts—that is, for
truth—within the horizon of the knowable. In the eyes
of a theologian this is miserable work. While science
is grubbing (as he thinks) in the earth—in the narrow
field of experience—theology is soaring in the sky, in
the boundless universe of existence, seeing what eye
has never seen, hearing what ear has never heard, and
learning what it is impossible for the unaided human
mind to conceive. Here indeed, in her natural element,
beyond the realms of experience, theology does enjoy
the freedom she desires : she is beyond the reach of
criticism, and exempt from all necessity to change.
Seeing, then, that science and theology are the very
�3°
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
opposites of each other, it must be a futile task to re
concile them. The one is the product of reason and
experience, the other of imagination and feeling. Yet
repeated failure does not seem to discourage the attempt.
The explanation of this is simple. A person born,
reared, and schooled under the influence of theology
naturally clings to the creed of his mother. To pull up
what has its roots deep in the feeling necessarily causes
great pain. On the other hand, it is impossible to deny
the triumphs of science. The evidence for her truths
is overwhelming. What, then, in this age of transition,
more natural than the wish to accept the teachings of
science without giving up the dogmas of theology ?
They both profess to be true, and truth is single ; there
must, therefore, be only a seeming contradiction. Let
us find out the way of reconciliation. The task, like the
discovery of perpetual motion, is a fascinating one; but
it is equally hopeless. Science and theology are mutually
opposed: the “discovery and acceptance of facts” is,
from the nature of things, incompatible with the “accept
ing of revelation and clinging to a creed.”
There is but one plan by which one and the same
person may be both a scientist and a theologian, and
that plan is to make a division of time and become each
in turn. A certain time—generally a very small fraction
of the whole—is told off to theology, and during it the
person tries to talk, think, and act as a theologian.
The remainder of the time is devoted to the service of
science, and to acting in accordance with the facts she
has discovered. The great Faraday himself, one of the
most eminent scientists of the century, lived in this two
fold existence. During the day he thought and acted
on the strictest principles of science, while in the
evening he would talk and act as a member of the
obscure theological sect called Sandemanians. Faraday
during the day and Faraday in the evening were prac-
�WHAT IS SCIENCE ?
31
tically two distinct persons. But, in this, Faraday only
represents the vast majority of men. People go to
church on Sunday, and there, with grave and solemn
faces, “ accept revelation,” assenting to the dogmas and
legends of an age when theology was in its prime and
science an infant, and then for the rest of the week they
think and act without hesitation, as if they had never
heard of revelation and had no faith in ancient legends.
This inconsistency, if conscious, would be productive of
great moral deterioration by lessening the love of truth ;
but as it is for the most part unconscious—people
generally not really believing what they think they
believe—this evil is much less than might be expected.
The attempt at reconciliation by twisting and stretching
revealed doctrines to make them fit perforce with the
facts discovered by science is much more deteriorating
morally than unconscious inconsistency. It is really
melancholy to see attempts made to stretch twenty-four
hours into millions of years; to transmute the legends
of Noah and Jonah into history ; and to try to force the
word “ creation ” to mean its opposite, “ evolution.”
These and such-like endeavours to reconcile modern
science with ancient theology are worse than futile; they
have a distinct tendency to destroy the greatest of all
virtues—truthfulness.
Why not let the wheat and the tares grow together
until the harvest? The law of the survival of the fittest
will be the true reconciler. Theology and science are
both “ theories of things.” The one the natural product
of imagination, the other of reason. The conditions in
which theology germinates and grows luxuriantly are
absolutely stifling to science. Where science thrives,
theology dwindles away. When science first began to
occupy the ground where theology had hitherto undis
puted possession, an angry and determined struggle
could not be avoided ; but that period in this country
�32
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
is nearly ended. They both exist; but the one must
increase and the other decrease. The fears, however,
of those who imagine that this change may come with a
suddenness which might be destructive are not well
founded. This change, like all evolutionary changes,
must be slow. Such changes as the Protestant Refor
mation and the French Revolution are sudden only in a
subjective sense—that is to say, the suddenness they
appeared to have was due solely to our ignorance of
the long chain of causal facts which preceded them, and
of the length of time they were gathering strength.
Science and theology will long co-exist, though they be
antagonistic. Those who recognise in science the great
means of human progress naturally feel impatient at the
influence of her antagonist and her power to retard.
But we must be satisfied in knowing that, just as surely
as each individual, when a child, spoke as a child,
thought as a child, and then as he became a man
gradually threw away childish things, so surely will the
race gradually take more and more interest in science
and less and less in theology.
Even in the present day we are- struck with the pro
gress of the change. Faith, in the revealed pictures of
the unseen, it is true, remains; but, if we look back a
few generations, it is manifest that our faith at its
strongest is but weak compared with the faith of our
fathers. Creeds are still “ clung tobut the clasp is
not so firm. The nature of science is better understood
now than it was; though still, in the education of the
young in school and college, the time given to the teach
ing of real knowledge is but too small compared with that
devoted to the legends of theology, ancient and modern.
The value of real knowledge, however, is surely though
slowly being recognised; though the speed with which
this is taking place is not proportional either to the san
guine hopes of the scientist or the fears of the theologian.
�CHAPTER II.
WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE ?
1 he answer which many would give has been expressed
by the poet thus :—
“ What is truth or knowledge but a kind
Of wantonness and luxury of the mind ;
A greediness and gluttony of the brain,
That longs to eat forbidden fruit again ;
And grows more desperate like the worst diseases
Upon the nobler part, the mind it seizes?”
Again, the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes says : “ In
much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth
knowledge increaseth sorrow.”
Ihere is a great deal of truth in these opinions if the
word “knowledge” is used in the popular sense. But
we have seen (page 9) that there is a difference between
“ common knowledge ” and “ science.” Common know
ledge consists of unconnected and unrelated facts only ;
whereas science consists not only of facts, but of facts
organised on the basis of their connections and relations,
and not only of these, but of laws—laws of nature as
they are called—the product of such organisation.
The question, then, to which we have to seek an
answer resolves itself ultimately into this : What is the
use of a knowledge of the laws of nature ? By the
word “ use ” is meant the power of satisfying some want
of our nature. A thing is of use so far as it is the means
�34
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
of satisfying some desire. How, then, does science give
us the power of satisfying our desires ?
Let us first take a general view of man’s position on
the earth. In personal strength man is inferior to many
other animals; while, compared with the material forces
of nature which surround him, his strength is as nothing.
Judged, indeed, by what he accomplishes directly by his
own strength, man is contemptible. Yet judged, on the
other hand, by what he accomplishes through the use of
means, man is the most powerful, and incomparably the
most marvellous, creature in the universe as known to
us. The description given of him by the poet is no
exaggeration: “What a piece of work is man! how
noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in form and
moving how express and admirable 1 in action how like
an angel! in apprehension how like a God 1 the beauty
of the world, the paragon of animals !” Of infinitesimal
force, from one point of view, he is from another a
creature “ infinite in faculties,” towering in strength
beyond others towards infinite power. He can ascend
above the clouds, he can descend into the bowels of
the earth and to the bottom of the sea. He can make
his voice heard for hundreds of miles, and, with the
speed of lightning, his thoughts known all round the
globe. He is not to be stopped in his course either by
the highest mountains or by the deepest oceans. He
forces a way through the solid rock, and along this way
and across the storm-tossed waters he can pass, carry
ing with him thousands of tons—and that with a speed
like that of the swiftest of his fellow-creatures. He has
increased his food a hundred-fold, turning one grain of
corn into a hundred; he can replace a desert by a
garden. Such and so vast is the physical power of man.
The vastness of his power over mind, again, is shown
by the influence that a single mind can exercise over
multitudes of others. Founders of empires and of
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?
35
religions move and control the thoughts and feelings of
millions. The orator can excite to fury the passions of
vast audiences or soothe into calm the tempest of anger,
as Antony did over the dead body of Ciesar. The writer,
again, by his books, in which are stored up the thought
and feeling of his individual mind, can sway the lives
of myriads for generations to come.
Here, then, we have a paradox. How can deeds so
mighty be achieved by a creature so puny ? It is by
commanding other forces than his own. The personal
capability of man is confined within a narrow boundary.
The multitudinous effects produced by him in mind and
matter are the result of the exercise of one single per
sonal power—viz., the power of transfer. That is to
say, man can transfer matter from one position to
another by muscular power, and transfer ideas from his
own mind to the minds of others by speech or signs;
but, when this operation of transfer is over, man’s direct
personal power is exhausted. By the exercise, however,
of this power of transfer it is possible for him to call
forth and command all the mighty, inexhaustible forces
of nature.
This single power of transfer is like the wand of the
magician—insignificant in itself, yet, by various motions,
capable of calling forth tremendous manifestations of
force. It is strange—indeed, at first incredible—that
man’s direct and personal share in all the mighty and
marvellous work done by him is confined to this one
operation of transfer; but analysis verifies it in every
instance.
Let us take a few examples. Rocks are riven and
hills laid low by the force of explosives. When examined,
the process of the chemist by which this mighty force is
evoked consists of transfers : particles of sulphur, char
coal, and saltpetre are, by transfer, placed in certain
positions, forming the substance called gunpowder;
�36
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
next, a particle of matter of a certain temperature is
transferred to the gunpowder, and, with this latter
transfer, man’s share in the work is exhausted; the
natural force of the explosive now bursts forth, not
created, but only evoked by man. Again, a steamship
carrying ten thousand tons at a speed of twenty miles
an hour over a stormy ocean is a mighty manifestation
of force. What direct personal share in it has man ?
From the moment the metal was dug from the mine,
and the wood cut in the forest, until the construction of
the ship and her machinery was complete, the personal
share of man consisted solely in the transfer of matter.
Again, in causing the engines to act with the power of
ten thousand horses, he transferred coal and water into
certain relative positions; transferred ignited matter to
the coal, transferred a lever from one position to another,
thereby allowing the steam to rush into the cylinders,
and that huge ship is driven against wind and wave, not
by man’s power, but by the forces of nature. Again,
from the time the farmer transfers his seed from his
barns to the ground, until the harvest of a hundred-fold
is brought home, his personal part consists exclusively
of transferring seed, manure, and earth into certain
relative positions; the marvellous work of growth is
done by the forces of nature. In the mental world,
again, we know that the direct personal action of mind
on mind is confined to transfer. Ideas and feelings can
be transferred by signs and sounds ; but there ends the
direct personal power of one mind on others. The
after-effects are the results of the natural working of
the recipient mind under the influence of the transferred
ideas or feelings. No preacher, teacher, or orator can
directly compel the mind of another to think or feel in
a certain manner. They, like farmers, can sow the
seed : what the harvest may be they have no power to
influence by direct interference.
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?
37
We are now in a position to see the use of science.
Science discovers the order of facts—the laws of nature.
With this knowledge we gain the gift of prophecy, the
order of nature being invariable. The forces of nature
are manifested under certain conditions, and, under
those conditions, always in the same manner. Science,
by discovering these conditions, places it in the power
of man to command the forces of nature, to call them
into activity at any time and set them to work to fulfil
his desires. All man has to do is to bring about the
conditions, placing things by transfer in certain relative
positions, and the forces of nature leap into activity to
do his work. Science thus gives to man, in relation to
these forces, the position of a monarch. A monarch, as
a man, has no more personal power than any other
man ; his power as a monarch is his ability to bring to
his aid his mighty hosts—to command his servants “ to
do this, and they do it.” Exactly similar is the sove
reignty with which science has invested man: she has
subjected to his service the forces of nature—converting
them, it may be, from enemies into friends; and so has
rendered him not only the most powerful of living
creatures, but the veritable master of the world.
The forces of nature are practically infinite both in
quantity and quality; no one, therefore, can place a
limit to the gifts of science in the future. If we want to
measure the benefit of science in the past, we have
only to compare the capabilities of civilised with savage
man. The difference between the capabilities of the
Andamanese, the Bosjesmans, the Fuegians. and Eng
lishmen, French, or Germans, is the measure of what
science has done for man. Compare the capability of
a canoe with an Atlantic steamship lit with the electric
light. These are posts marking the distance travelled
on the road of evolution entirely by the means of
science. It is by the discovery of a law of nature—the
�SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
law that wood will float on water, and by faith in its
always doing so, that the savage can pass across his
river. The Atlantic steamship, also, is the product of
the discovery of the laws of nature and faith in theninvariability. But the discovery of the laws of nature
and faith in their invariability is science. Just in pro
portion as man becomes scientific does he advance in
power and capability. The rapidity of this advance is
greatly increased when man becomes conscious of the
source of his strength, recognising intelligently what he
acted on practically indeed, but unintelligently, before—
viz., the fact that the universe is a cosmos, not a chaos;
that invariable order everywhere exists, could we but
perceive it; and that almost all our power is derived
from our knowledge of it, and faith in its stability.
The following parable may illustrate the use of science.
A traveller who was compelled to pass through a strange,
unknown country sought some information of its nature
and the character of its inhabitants. He was fortunate
enough to meet a friend who told him : “ The country
you have to pass through is one in which you may enjoy
yourself very much; on the other hand, you may find it
a most dangerous and disagreeable place. If you know
the roads to take and how to approach the inhabitants,
you may become a king among them. By keeping on
the roads marked out as safe you will escape all acci
dents, and by treating the inhabitants in certain ways
they will not only not harm you, but become your most
willing servants, working for you night and day; and,
as they are infinitely stronger than you, it is difficult to
say what you may or may not be able to do with their
help. Your enjoyment during your stay will depend
upon the number of introductions you have to the in
habitants, and on your acting exactly as I am about to
direct. I will give you cards of introduction. Each
card has a formula written upon it, describing how you
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?
39
are to behave and how the inhabitant to whom it is
addressed will respond. The inhabitants have a pecu
liarity which makes these cards of great value. They
are perfect Tories—so conservative in all their ways that,
from time immemorial, not one of them has ever once
been known to act except in strict accordance with the
formula on the card of introduction. Again, there is
no danger of these cards getting out of date, by giving
you information true at one time, but true no longer
owing to change in the nature and manner of the
people: neither the people nor the formulas ever
change. I have a large collection of these cards, which
I have accumulated during a number of years. For a
long time very few knew there were such things as these
formulas. Travellers depended upon different modes
of gaining the favour of a supposed king, in nature
similar to themselves, who lived in some undiscovered
place. This king was supposed to make all the inhabi
tants act in accordance with his will, and therefore the
only way of getting anything done was to get into his
favour. So long as people were under this impression
they did not come to me for my cards and formulas.
Latterly, however, the number of people who have been
applying to me has greatly increased. The reason of
this is the success of my plan proved by experience.
In response to the increased demand, I am every day
engaged writing out the formulas on cards of introduc
tion to new people.” The traveller asked this friend
how he got the information which enabled him to write
out the cards ? His reply was : “ I get all my knowledge
by worshipping and loving with all my heart and soul a
certain lady called ‘ Truth.’ I follow her everywhere,
and try never to lose sight of her. Seeing my devotion
to her is so constant, she every now and again hands
me another card of introduction with a formula written
upon it. This remains a treasure for ever.”
�40
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
It is scarcely necessary to add the explanation. Man
is the traveller bound to pass during his life through a
strange country. The inhabitants are the Forces of
Nature; and the formulas written on the cards of intro
duction are “ The Laws of Naturethe friend who
supplies these cards is Science. The use of science is
to enable us during our passage through life, on the one
hand, to escape hurtful collision with the forces of nature
which surround us; and, on the other hand, to gain
their aid. As we may see from savage life, man,
dependent upon his own personal powers, is a miserable
creature. Every step he has risen from that low estate
to the level of Newton, Spencer, Darwin, Watt, or
Faraday, he owes to the aid of the forces of nature.
For that aid and addition to his powers he is indebted
to his knowledge and faith—knowledge of the unvarying
order of facts, and faith in its persistence. For long
ages this knowledge and faith were exercised, so to
speak, unconsciously. It is only in very recent times
that man has become conscious of the fact that the
universe is a cosmos—that in his knowledge of this
universal order, and in his faith in its eternal stability,
lie the only means of his advance from lower to higher
on the road of evolution.
This knowledge and this faith is what we call
Science. It is she who has bestowed upon our race
all the benefits by which man has become “ the
paragon of animals.” It is she who has placed in
our hands the chain of cause and effect by which, as
with a bridle, we guide the powers of nature for our
use, or save ourselves from injury by their action.
Electricity, which under the form of lightning is, in
the absence of science, a source of terror and death,
becomes in her presence not only perfectly harmless,
but a gentle Ariel engaged in carrying our messages
round the earth.
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE ?
41
“ Lo ! the world is rich in blessings ;
Earth and ocean, flame and wind,
Have unnumbered secrets still,
To be ransacked when you will,
For the service of mankind.
Science is a child as yet,
But her power and scope shall grow,
And her triumphs in the future
Shall diminish toil and woe,
Shall extend the bounds of pleasure,
With an ever-widening ken,
And of dens and wildernesses
Make the happy homes of men.”
Having explained how science is of use to man, we
have now to consider the question, “ What is the use of
theology ?” In considering the nature of science and
theology, we came to the conclusion that, as “ theories
of things,” they are the opposites of each other. The
one is the product of reason and experience, the other
of imagination and emotion. The one employs herself
in “ discovering facts,” the other in “ accepting revela
tions and clinging to creeds.” The one confines herself
entirely within the bounds of the knowable and the verifi
able ; the other lives beyond that horizon, guessing at what
“ eye has not seen nor ear heard,” and what to the mind
of man is inconceivable. This being so, it would appear
that there could be only one reply to the question,
“What is the use of theology ?”—viz., “ None at all.’’
Directly—that is, as regarding the performing of what
she intends and what she believes herself capable of—
theology is not only useless, but pernicious : by her
representations leading men astray, and causing him to
waste his time and energies in the pursuit of a phantom.
Indirectly, however, she is of use. A squirrel turning a
barrel cage in the hope of getting out is engaged in a
useless way, if we consider his chance of succeeding in
his direct object of getting out; but indirectly his efforts
are of some use, affording, as they do, amusement to us
�42
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
and healthy exercise to himself. A theologian, in a
similar way, is engaged in the task of finding a passage
by which he may get from the knowable to the unknow
able. So far his work is and must be useless. But in
some indirect way theology is of use, otherwise it would
not continue to exist; that is to say, it satisfies some
desires, though not the one principally intended.
What are some of the desires of man satisfied by
theology ? There seems to be, from the dawn of intel
ligence in man, a desire for a “ theory of things.” If
there are any people who have never felt any craving
for an explanation—of some sort—of the facts of expe
rience, they are the very lowest and most brutal.
Theology is universally the first attempt to satisfy this
craving. The existence of invisible man-like nature as
the cause of facts is the guess which is naturally first
made, and which first serves as an explanation. The
number of different “revelations accepted and creeds
clung to ” by different people is great; but the central
core of all is, as we have seen, the man-like nature of
God. Now, there is no doubt that comfort is derived
from this idea. It is pleasing to think that the reins of
the universe are in the hands of such an one as our
selves. Again, theology allays the dread that generally
arises from the feeling of being in the dark, though no
doubt she creates much of the terror she gets the credit
of allaying.
Man, being now in course of transition from the soli
tary, selfish, and savage state to the social, sympathetic,
and civilised, carries in his nature the qualities suitable
to both states. The theological image of God, being a
reflection or copy of man, partakes accordingly of this
his dual nature, and the terror created by the anger and
revenge of God is equal to the pleasure anticipated from
his love. Although, as the Bishop of Peterborough
says, “ finality in belief is just what theologians like,”
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE ?
43
the fact remains that the image of God changes as the
nature of the people changes. The verbal description
of God which literally expressed the ideas of savages
may remain in the “ accepted revelation ” of civilised
peoples; but practically it is wiped out, so that the
extreme terror which one would expect, if faith was real
instead of nominal, does not result. Besides, every one
thinks of the savage element of deity as a danger to
others rather than to himself, each expecting salvation
for himself by use of the means provided by the par
ticular theology to which he “clings.”
Science and theology have existed together from the
earliest dawn of intelligence in man. When a savage
proceeds to cross a river in his canoe, or to light his
fire by friction, he acts from faith in science ; he expects
that what happened before will, under the same circum
stances, happen again. But this faith is unconscious
and inarticulate. The eye of his mind will have to
increase greatly in strength before it can perceive the
universal and invariable order of nature, and in the
meantime theology serves as a “ theory of things.”
In a later stage, when science has completely sup
planted theology in the mind, a feeling of irritation is
often felt where veneration existed before. The exist
ence of theology is felt to be an impediment to progress,
and it is asserted that theology is not only of no use, but
a serious evil. Those especially devoted to the service
of theology are looked upon as a set of cunning hypo
crites, who have devised the theological dogmas as a
means of making money and gaining power. In the
main this is untrue and unjust. One might as well get
angry at the sight of a baby’s long petticoat, because he
felt that, if he was obliged to wear such clothes, it would
be a great obstruction, forgetting that, under certain
circumstances, and for a time, these clothes are a com
fort and no impediment! Just as the child grows its.
�44
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
skirts are made shorter, and of a shape adapted to its
needs; as war, slavery, and polygamy have come to be
recognised evils, though at other times, and under
different circumstances, they were of use ; so with theo
logy : it is and has been of use to minds in a certain
state, and, like war, slavery, and polygamy, will gradually
die out as, from change of circumstances, it is felt to be
not only useless, but an evil. It is interesting to note
the progress that has been made in our own country.
Two centuries ago theology was a subject of such
interest to even the most intelligent that they took an
active part in theological discussion : even Newton, the
greatest scientist of his age, spent his time in writing on
the Jewish prophecies. Faith in a man-like God and
his constant personal interference in affairs was every
where as strong as it is now in the Celtic parts of Ireland.
Not only did the faith of the time accept the existence
of this man-like God as a very grave reality, but it filled
the world, indeed all space, with a multitude of witches,
fairies, goblins, ghosts, angels, and devils—in short, a
host of miniature gods. The intensity of faith in their
existence, and in their causal connection with events,
was shown by the flames of the many poor wretches
burnt on the charge of holding intercourse with them.
The most learned judges had no hesitation in saying
that there could be no doubt in the mind of any rational
creature as to the existence of these beings. And cer
tainly, if their existence could have been established by
human testimony, this is true. It might be truly said
that, if all the sworn testimony as to the existence of
witches and other imaginary beings was written, “ the
whole world could not contain the books.”
But, though “ finality in belief is just what theologians
like,” see what a change science and her methods have
made in a few generations. All that mighty mass of
testimony is swept away as rubbish. Poor creatures
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?
45
trying to make a penny by pretending to have influence
over the unseen are sent to the treadmill, not as witches,
but as rogues. This is a change due to the influence of
scepticism, as the burning was to the influence of faith.
Better let it alone, and leave experience to teach the
truth.* Only harm is done when force is used to influ
ence opinion. “ Let every one be fully persuaded in
his own mind.” The fact that this principle is now
very largely acted upon is a notable sign of the change
wrought by science. Grant that “ heretics cause eternal
pain to their fellow creatures,” and you justify the con
tention that they ought to be killed.
In the days of our fathers theology was a very serious
affair. Great wars were carried on and kingdoms upset
by its influence. A theological war in Europe at present
would be an impossibility. The answer of any one to
the question, What is the use of theology ? would formerly
have been that it was the guide of conduct in everything
here, and the only ground of hope hereafter. The value
of it seemed so great that everything else was contempt
ible. Now great masses never enter a house of worship.
Though a few have faith as fervid as that of our fore
fathers, the great majority attend public worship from
custom more than from conviction; from the motive
* It is difficult to see the principle upon which a poor gipsy
fortune-teller can be justly punished, while clergymen, who like
wise profess to knowledge of the future and power over the unseen,
are not only not punished for their pretensions, but honoured on
account of them. If it is said the one is honest and the other dis
honest, the question arises, How do you get this knowledge?
The clergyman who professes to work on a child at baptism an
invisible change, by repeating some words and sprinkling some
water, that will save it from great danger of eternal pain, may be
quite sincere; but why may not the fortune-teller be the same ?
Both processes give pleasure to certain minds, and, as they are not
forced on any one, surely both had better be left unnoticed by the
law.
�46
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
that it is esteemed, not by themselves, but by others, the
proper thing. Theology has now become, to a great
many, a matter of emotion and nothing more. To them
it is a mere source of pleasure. It acts as a stimulus to
the feelings, such as awe, wonder, hope, pride; these
and other emotions are pleasantly excited, just as music
gives pleasure by exciting a pleasant flow of feeling,
while the intelligence is at rest.
It is a humiliating and depressing thought that the
nature of God is and must remain to us incomprehen
sible ; that there are bounds to our capabilities beyond
which there is absolute darkness. Now, theology gives
pleasure by affecting us with a delusive sensation of
knowledge.
Further, it gives pleasure by persuading
us that God is in his nature such an one as ourselves,
that we possess means of making him our friend, and
that he is, in fact, bound by covenant to ensure our
future happiness; and so far as it gives pleasure, so far
it is of use, especially in the time of sickness and
approaching death. There are many natures to which
the sensation of darkness is repulsive and terrorising,
and to which, in the absence of light, a trustful calmness
is impossible. Theology is of use to all such.
Perhaps it may be thought strange that we have not
mentioned the promotion of morality as the great use of
theology ; that we have gone into holes and corners, as
it were, searching for minute benefits, when the great
good stood before us, in comparison with which all the
benefits we have mentioned are insignificant. It is very
generally taken for granted that it is in theology we find
both the origin and sanction of morality; and it is to
this supposition that theology in the present day owes
its principal support. The rapidity with which numbers
would openly abandon it would be astonishing if they
could only rid themselves entirely of this traditional idea,
that morality could no more exist without theology than
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE?
47
a limb if cut off from connection with the heart. When
we come to speak of Ethics it will be necessary to con
sider both the origin and the sanction of morality, and
to contrast the scientific with the theological theories.
It has, therefore, seemed better to postpone all discus
sion of this subject for the present. We do not deny
that theology, with minds in a certain stage of develop
ment, has been and is of some benefit for the regulation
of conduct. But when we come to examine the matter
closely, reasons will be given for thinking that the
amount of aid morality receives from theology is very
much less than is generally supposed.
But whether we are right or wrong in detail as to the
ways in which theology is or has been of use to man,
there can be no doubt—this the doctrine of evolution
would teach us—that the fact of its being a natural
product proves it to have served at some time some
purpose or other. That purpose seems to have been
to answer the question, put when intelligence became
sufficiently developed to shape the inquiry, “ How can
these things be ?” As we have already pointed out, the
growing reason demands a “ theory of things,” and the
first and most natural theory is the theological one—viz.,
that the unseen cause of motion of everything objective
is similar to the subjective cause of motion in ourselves.
Behind each fact is a mind. First comes fetishism, when
every event has a soul for its cause; then polytheism,
when one spirit can control many facts, as little chiefs
can command a number of men ; and, finally, mono
theism, universal monarchy, when one single spirit is
supposed to be the universal cause.
This “theory of things” satisfies the craving of the
mind during certain stages of its development. By
degrees, however, the theory, or, in other words, theo
logy, becomes inadequate and unsatisfactory. Facts
are recognised which cannot be made to fit with it.
�48
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
Another—the true—theory is sought, and, after long
search, is at last found in science—viz., that of a cause
beyond experience xve know and can know nothing; that
our boundary of knowledge is the law that facts follow
each other in invariable order; that, in that order, cause
is but the name we give a fact which invariably and
necessarily precedes another ; and that of a cause we
know nothing more than this, that every similar cause is
invariably followed by a similar effect. Gradually theo
logy becomes not only of less use, but an evil—as an
obstacle to the progress of science. Organs of the body
which are of service when first evolved may by change
of conditions become useless, and by want of exercise
gradually dwindle away ; but during this process, though
a process of nature, they are a burden and an evil. So
with theology. By the rise of intelligence it gradually
becomes useless and dwindles away. The conception of
God, as the unseen cause of all facts, has been gradually
losing its human qualities. In the times of the writers
of the Pentateuch (Gen. iii. 8, xviii.; Exod. xxiv. 9-11)
God had the bodily as well as mental qualities of man.
In the time of Christ the bodily qualities are becoming
extinct, the mental alone remain. These, again, have
been since gradually decaying and dropping off. Anger,
jealousy, sorrow, joy, and such-like emotions are used
now by the most advanced only in a figurative sense.
Love and intelligence are the chief remnants left of the
original human conception.
Finally, Science is heard saying : “ All attempts to
know the unknowable, which reason leads us to believe
in as existing behind knowable facts, are and must be
futile.” Theology, or the creation of God in the image
of man, is, no doubt, as we have said, a natural product
of the earlier stages of the human mind, and is, then,
of use; but, as the intelligence advances, its benefit
decreases, and, finally, when science arrives, it becomes
�WHAT IS THE USE OF SCIENCE ?
49
a direct evil as an antagonist. The time and energy
spent in “ accepting revelations and clinging to creeds,”
which might be used in “ the discovery of facts,” is so far
a loss to science; but, besides this serious loss, she has
at times to sustain the active opposition of theology—
an opposition by which she is delayed in her beneficent
work of giving man command over the forces of nature,
and so enabling him, on the one hand, to relieve the
sufferings, and, on the other, to multiply the pleasures
of human life.
�CHAPTER III,
THE METHODS OF SCIENCE.
By the methods of science we mean the ways and means
that science employs to accomplish her object—viz., the
attainment of truth. A picture is a true picture when it
is a correct representation of the facts symbolised. So
is a mental picture true when it is a correct representa
tion of facts. A proposition is true when it suggests or
symbolises a true mental picture. Truth is the corres
pondence between a symbol and the fact or facts sym
bolised. Verification is the process of proving this
correspondence. When complete correspondence is
found between our thoughts and the facts they represent,
we are said to know the truth.
Now, as there are two distinct classes of facts, so
knowledge is of two distinct kinds. One class of facts
consists of our states of consciousness; these we call
“subjective the other class consists of facts other than
our states of consciousness—that is, of facts outside of
and distinct from self; these we call “ objective.” Our
knowledge of subjective facts has one characteristic
which clearly distinguishes it from our knowledge of
objective facts. Subjective knowledge is absolute. There
is never room for doubt: the symbol and the fact sym
bolised coalesce, as it were, so that disagreement is
impossible. If we have a state of consciousness, an
�THE METHODS OF SCIENCE.
51
idea or a feeling, we cannot doubt that we have it:
having the idea or feeling, and knowing that we have it,
is one and the same thing. On the other hand, our
knowledge of objective facts, whether it be correct or
incorrect, never can be absolute ; it is only inferential,
not immediate; it is always more or less open to doubt,
and our faith in it may vary from practical certainty to
the feeling that it is a mere possibility. We can always
imagine the negative of an objective proposition, never
of a subjective.
Nothing is more important than a clear perception of
the difference between the nature of subjective and
objective knowledge; the confounding of the two is a
frequent cause of error. Many things which we think
are absolutely certain as matters of subjective experience
are really not so, being but matters of inference. Take,
for example, the statement, “ I saw the sun rise this
morning.” This statement in its subjective sense means,
“ I had the states of consciousness called ‘ seeing the
sun,’ and the image of the sun appeared to rise above
the earththe fact asserted is a subjective experience;
that I had those states of consciousness there was not,
and could not be, any doubt, and hence the truth of the
statement is to me an absolute certainty. But the state
ment in its objective sense, on the other hand, means,
“ I saw the object, the sun, move and rise above the
earth, therefore I know without a doubt that it actually
didand in the statement in this sense there is a con
fusion between what is subjective and absolutely certain
and what is objective and only a matter of inference.
That the subjective sensations of the images of the sun
and the earth separating were felt by me was absolutely
certain, but the inference that these sensations were
produced by the motion of the sun was not certain; it
might or might not be true. The sensations and the
cause of those sensations are two things—different and
�52
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, ANO ETHIC>.
distinct. The first is a matter solely of subjective ex
perience, the second a guess or inference as to the
cause of that experience. This inference, that the
movement of the sun was the cause of the sensations at
sunrise, was made for ages by the human race; yet it
was false, as science has proved. No evidence is re
quired—no evidence is, indeed, possible—for subjective
facts except their existence. We cither have certain
states of consciousness or we have not. Their exist
ence is the only possible proof; but it is absolutely
certain. On the other hand, an inference may or may
not be correct, and depends entirely upon verifying
evidence. This evidence may be so convincing as to
leave no practical doubt; but in precise language no
objective inference can be absolutely certain. The
inference that matter—or, in other words, an objective
cause of our subjective states of consciousness—exists
is practically, but not absolutely, certain.
The fact that we cannot be absolutely certain of the
existence of matter, and cannot prove it to a demonstra
tion, leads some to deny its existence. These idealists,
so called, are right in saying that all we know for certain
is our present states of consciousness, and that the
belief in the existence of something called matter outside
of self as a cause of our states of consciousness is only
an assumption. This is true, and, if the idealists
stopped here, they would be unassailable. But, although
it is not accurate to say that an assumption can ever be
absolutely certain, yet it may by verifying evidence
become practically certain. That the sun will rise to
morrow is an assumption, and practically certain, though
not absolutely so. We have already stated that the
so-called laws of nature are assumptions. "That the
order of facts observed in the past will continue in the
future is not absolutely certain; but practically we have
no doubt on the subject.
�THE METHODS OF SCIENCE.
53
It may be thought mere trifling to draw these fine
distinctions between absolutely certain knowledge and
more or less certain inference; but it is not so, as igno
rance of this distinction between subjective and objective
knowledge is a fertile source of error. For instance,
nothing is more common than for people to believe in
the existence of ghosts, because they have been told by
some one (of whose veracity there can be no doubt)
that he “saw a ghost.” Now, that the person saw, in a
subjective sense, a ghost, there need be no doubt. That
is to say, the person had certain states of consciousness,
called visual images, and of this fact his veracity does
not permit us to doubt. But whether these visual images
were caused by something outside of himself, or by some
particular state of his brain, is a matter of inference
only, and the believability of it depends on the character
of the verifying evidence. In such cases it is said that
“our senses sometimes deceive us.” This statement,
however, is not correct: when we look at a straight
stick one-half of which is in water, and conclude that it
is crooked, we are no doubt led into error; the source
of deception, however, was not in our eye, though the
eye gave us a bent image of the stick. Where the
error began was in our inferring that that bent image
was caused by a bend in the stick, whereas it was caused
by refraction. It must always be borne in mind that
the existence of states of consciousness is one thing, and
the cause of these is another. If the first exist, it is
impossible for us to doubt the subjective fact; but that
is all we can be absolutely certain of. Any inference
we may. draw as to what is objective depends upon
verifying evidence, and this may vary both in quantity
and quality to any extent, thus producing faith of varying
strength as to the truth of the inference.
Another error (referred to on page n) that similarly
arises from the confounding of subjective and objective
�54
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
truth is the regarding the qualities of an object as in
herent in it, instead of being subjective conditions in
ourselves; for instance, when looking at a rose we say,
“ That rose is red,” or “ That rose is fragrant.” Taken
in a subjective sense, these propositions are true. They
then mean, “ That rose gives me the sensation of red
ness,” or the sensation called “ fragrance,” and I infer
that the matter of the rose is of such a nature as to be
capable of causing in me those sensations ; but all I can
assert to be absolutely certain is that those states of
consciousness called “redness” and “fragrance” exist
in me. But, if these propositions are taken in an objec
tive sense, and understood as asserting that the redness
and the fragrance are in the rose, they are not true. Of
this we can easily satisfy ourselves. If we put on a pair
of spectacles with green glasses, the rose is no longer
red, but of a very different colour; yet this change was,
clearly, not made by any alteration in the rose. And, if
we have a cold in the head, the rose loses its fragrance;
but the alteration was entirely in ourselves, not in the
rose. We see now very clearly that the common suppo
sition, that the qualities of an object are inherent in it,
is erroneous.
All the axiomatic truths on which we base our reason
ing are subjective truths. We cannot conceive their
negatives. The proposition stating the negative of an
axiom is a contradiction in terms, or, in other words,
affirms that we have certain thoughts which we know
we have not. For example, the axiom, “A part is less
than the whole,” affirms that my idea or mental picture
of a part is not, and cannot by any endeavour be made
to appear, as equal to or greater than the whole. The
negative of this axiom, stating that “ a part is not less
than the whole,” is but affirming that my idea of the
part is different from what I know it to be. This nega
tive is also a contradiction in terms. It first affirms that
�THE METHODS OF SCIENCE.
55
a part is a portion less than the whole from which it was
taken, for that is the definition of the word “ part,” and
then affirms that it is not less. The same is true of all
axioms; their negatives are inconceivable, stating that
we have ideas which we have not, and they are also
contradictions in terms. All such propositions are
incapable of any proof or verification : assent follows
immediately on their statement. They are, in fact,
nothing but affirmations that we have or have not certain
states of consciousness, and whether we have or not
admits of no doubt at all. Such is the nature of
absolute knowledge. All other so-called knowledge is
of a different nature altogether. Once we step out of
self we are out of the land of certainty and into that of
inference and doubt. When we affirm anything of the
non-self, or objective, we make a guess, which may or
may not be true; our assent depends upon verification
or proof. If we put our finger into the fire, we have
certain states of consciousness which we call pain. This
is subjective and absolute truth. That there exists
something outside of us called matter; that this matter
was in a certain state which we call hot; that this hot
matter was the cause of our feeling of pain—all these
propositions are inferential, may or may not be true.
Their truth rests upon evidence, and this varies in pro
portion to the amount of verification.
There are in scientific method two great processes in
regard to inferential truths—viz., induction and deduc
tion.
Induction is the process by which from particulars we
infer generals—by which from some known facts we
infer others which we do not know. For instance, when
we burn our hand by placing it on red-hot iron, and find
that the same result occurs every time we touch it, we
draw from these particular cases the general conclusion
that all red-hot iron has the property of burning us.
�56
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
Extending our experiments from red-hot iron to red-hot
copper, red-hot platinum, &c., we have in each case the
same result as before : we now draw accordingly the
more general conclusion, that all red-hot metal has the
property of burning us. Again, extending our experi
ments to still other substances in the red-hot state, we
have again the same result: we now draw accordingly
the still more general conclusion, that all red-hot matter
has the property of burning us. This process of in
ferring that what is true of all the individuals we know
of a class is true of the whole class, or that what is true
of certain classes of facts—classes that we know—is true
of the whole class to which these classes belong : this is
the process of induction. In its practical application
all danger of error is excluded by aid of precautionary
formulas known as the canons of induction.
Deduction, on the other hand, is the process by which
we proceed from generals to particulars. It is thus in
order of procedure the reverse of induction—the latter
beginning with particulars and ascending to generals.
If from the general proposition, that all “ red-hot matter
has the property of burning us,” we proceed to infer
the particular fact that a red-hot coal will burn us, the
process is that of deduction. If the general proposition
from which we start is true, and we can show that the
particular comes under it, that particular must also be
true. Thus, if it be true that “ all red-hot matter burns,”
and if it be true that a “ coal is red-hot matter,” it must
be true that red-hot coal burns, for this was really implied,
though not expressly stated, in the general proposition.
If, on the other hand, the particular be shown to be
implied in the general, and at the same time false, it
must follow that the general proposition itself is false.
In this way the deductive process, incessantly applied as
it is to all general propositions, serves as a constant test
of their truth. Found false in a single instance, they
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must at once be discarded. The deductive process is
used, again, not so much to test the truth of general
propositions as to render the truth implied in them
■apparent—and so, in this sense, to discover it in regard
to particular cases. The general proposition, that “ the
three angles of a triangle are together equal to two right
angles,” states nothing more than was already stated by
implication in the axioms and definitions. What the
deductive reasoning does, and all that it does, is to
make this apparent. Mathematical truth is absolute for
this reason, that its propositions are built up of nothing
but definitions and axioms—axioms the negatives of
which are contradictions in terms, or which, in fact,
assert that we have thoughts which we know we have
not. On the other hand, when a general proposition is
derived from particulars which are inferential truths only,
it cannot be anything else itself than inferential. Thus
the following syllogism (or argument stated at full length
and in logical form) is composed of propositions each
of which is inferential only :—“ All animals are mortal.
Man is an animal; therefore, man is mortal.” This
mode of reasoning is perfect—that is to say, if the first
and second propositions (the premises) are true, the
third must be true, as a necessity of thought; but it
must be always kept in mind that a syllogism does not
create any truth ; it merely exhibits it. If the links in a
chain are perfect, the chain will be perfect; but its
strength is no greater than that of any of the links.
Induction and deduction, then, are modes of dis
covering and testing truths. In induction we begin
with particular facts, and from these we construct general
propositions; in deduction we begin with a general pro
position, and proceed to find out the particulars of which
it is composed. The process of induction resembles the
work of building a house with certain materials, and
deduction an investigation of the house to see of what
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material it is built and what are its internal arrange
ments.
If a proposition stands the tests of both induction
and deduction, we have the best warrant possible for
believing in its truth—that is to say, for the truth of a
general proposition we have the best verification when
all the particular facts known to us are in accordance
with it, and when experience verifies all the particular
propositions logically deducible from it. What all veri
fication consists in is appeal to experience. When
Newton first formed the conception of the general pro
position, that “ every particle of matter attracts every
other particle with a force directly proportional to its
mass and inversely as the square of the distance,” he
proceeded to test its truth by experience. Assuming
the truth of the general proposition, he found from
deduction that the motion of the moon must be of a
certain nature. An appeal to experience—or, rather,
supposed experience—failed to verify this deduction,
and Newton put aside, for a time, as untrue the so-called
“ law ” of gravitation. Some years afterwards he learnt
that the reputed length of the earth’s radius—an im
portant element in the calculation—was not correct, and
also what, approximately at least, the true length is.
Newton now again tested his general proposition by an
appeal to the particular fact of the moon’s motion, and
so found in experience the verification he sought. Ex
perience since Newton’s time having been, without
exception, in verification of his general proposition, it is
now called “ a law of naturebefore verification it was
only a theory. Theories built upon facts lying outside
the range of experience—that is, upon imaginary facts—
must remain theories, or castles in the air, possible (if
not a contradiction in terms) only so long as they are
not inconsistent with some fact or facts of experience;
but belief in them is entirely irrational.
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Let us suppose that the following proposition is held
by any one to be true :—“ There is, exactly in the centre
of the moon, a being who is in nature similar to man,
and who, in unseen ways, affects circumstances on the
earth.” All that could be properly said of this theory
would be, that until we could appeal to experience in its
verification, it was a mere theory, faith in which would
be irrational. If there were facts known to us which
appeared consistent with the theory, these would give a
certain amount of probability to it, and our faith in it
would be proportional to the difficulty we felt in suppos
ing these facts to be true and the theory false at the
same time. On the other hand, if known facts appeared
inconsistent with the theory, a feeling of improbability
would be attached to it, and our incredulity would be
proportional to the difficulty we felt in supposing the
theory and the facts to be both true.
This balancing of probabilities is the process by which
we accept or reject all inferential or objective proposi
tions to which we are not able or not disposed to apply
any direct process of. test. Such are the mass of pro
positions that come to us on testimony, and have as
their subject-matter personal and other incidents of
ordinary life. If a person of veracity states that he met
in the street to-day one whom we know to be alive and
well, the probability that the statement is true is much
greater than that such a person is lying—so much greater
that we believe what he has said. But, on the other
hand, had he stated that the person he met was Shake
speare the poet, the probability that the statement was
false would be immensely greater than that it was true ;
in other words, to conceive it to be true would be a
much greater difficulty than to conceive the narrator tohave stated what was false, and accordingly we would
believe the statement to be false. Hence it is that in
minds which feel little or no difficulty in conceiving.
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the happening of a miracle, the statement that one has
happened is believed on very weak evidence; while, on
the other hand, to a mind pervaded by scientific prin
ciple and acting under scientific habit, the statement
would hardly be credible even if supported by any con
ceivable amount of testimony. In mechanics there is
the axiom, “ Force always travels along the line of least
resistance.” So it is with belief. That which is least
difficult to conceive offers least difficulty to belief, and
so will always be believed in preference to that which is
more difficult to conceive, and so offers more. To make
us believe that on a certain night, at a music-hall, one
of the Christy Minstrels sang a nigger song and danced
a breakdown, the amount of evidence required would
be very small; on the other hand, to make us believe
that the Archbishop of Canterbury had done the same
would require very strong evidence indeed. The reason
of this is plain : the probability of the one event would
be exceedingly great; of the other exceedingly small.
This is the principle upon which rests Hume’s argu
ment against miracles—viz., “It is more probable that
human testimony should be false than that miraculous
stories should be true, because all our experience verifies
the non-existence of miracles, and at the same time the
frequency of false testimony.” Chalmers has made the
best of the many attempts to answer this argument.
“True,” he said, “we have experience of false testi
mony, and not of miracles j but we have no experience
of such testimony being false as the testimony we have
for the gospel miracles. No instance can be quoted of
twelve men, whose writings prove them to have been
both moral and intelligent, spending their lives in testi
fying that they sawr and heard what they did not see and
hear nay, even of suffering pain and death for their
testimony of the facts. We have examples of men
giving up their lives for opinions which were false, but
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none for saying they saw what they knew they did not
see. In fact, it appears to us more improbable that
such testimony should be false than that a miracle
should be true.” Such is the substance of Chalmers’
reply, and the argument is sound in principle. The
only answer to it is, that the facts assumed are not true.
Instead of it being true that we have the testimony of
a number of eye-witnesses to the miracles, we have not
the testimony of a single one. Instead of the knowledge
that twelve men spent their lives in testifying that they
saw the miracles, we have not a particle of contemporary
evidence of the life of any one of the apostles, or of
Christ himself, or of one single eye-witness of what we
would consider a miracle. Even in the writings of St.
Paul it is remarkable that, although he speaks in general
terms about “signs and wonders,” he does not once
state that he either himself wrought, or saw any other
man work, a specific miracle.
It is not necessary to go any farther into the details
of the processes of reasoning called induction and deduc
tion : these can be found in any book on logic. All we
wish to do is to point out the general principles of the
methods used to get exact knowledge, and the means
by which our guesses at objective knowledge are verified
or proved false. If a theory is verified by an appeal to
particular facts, and if, again, all the particulars deducible
from it are found in experience, we are practically certain
of its truth.
Such, then, are the two great methods of science.
We shall now consider some of the chief characteristics
of science in her use of these methods. Foremost
among these characteristics is accurate observation of
facts. That science may attain her great object, of
discovering the laws of nature, such observation is
manifestly essential. Observation is of two kinds :
(i) simple; (2) experimental.
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
In simple observation we are mere spectators, as in
observing the facts of the weather, or the motions of the
heavenly bodies; we exercise no control over the facts
to be observed. In experiment, on the other hand, as
in chemistry, we ourselves arrange the facts; in other
words, create the situation, and then observe the effects.
It may be supposed that, for simple observation, all that
is necessary is to have acute senses—to be able to see,
hear, taste, smell, and feel acutely. Other qualities,
however, are required, and really good observers are, as
a matter of fact, few in number. The difference in
power of correct observation between such men as
Faraday and Darwin and the majority is almost im
measurable.
The errors of observation are twofold—error of omis
sion and error of addition : we may think we saw what
we did not see, and we may fail to observe what was
really present. The error of addition is made in two
ways: (i) we mistake our inferences for experiences; or
(2), having a dominant idea or desire, we mistake the
creations due to it—creations of imagination for objective
realities.
1. For example : observing that a substance has the
colour of gold, we conclude that it is gold, believing and
asserting afterwards that we saw a piece of gold. Here
only one quality, colour, was actually observed ; all the
rest—weight, ductility, chemical qualities, &c.—were not
observed, but inferred.
2. Being affected by the dominant idea that a picture
has been painted by a great artist, we see in it great
beauties and meanings which, without the dominant
idea, would have been invisible. There are pictures in
the National Gallery, in London, painted by the great
artist, Turner, near the end of his life; these pictures
are daubs so confused and indistinct that it is very diffi
cult to make out what they were intended to represent,
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er which is the top and which the bottom of the pictures.
The committee, we have been told, have more than once
changed the position in which they were hung. Indeed,
to give some explanation of their appearance, it has been
said that they wrere painted probably when the artist was
under the influence of drink. Yet numbers have seen in
them wonderful beauties and meanings which would
have been invisible had the pictures been thought to be
the work of some obscure artist. Again, a book is read
with a dominant idea in the mind that it is the miracu
lous production of God—such a book, for example, as
the Koran, the Bible, the Zend Avesta, or the Book of
Mormon: to the reader with this dominant idea every
sentence is infallible truth and the highest wisdom,
though it may be the most childish nonsense, or even a
contradiction in terms of some other sentence equally
sacred. This which to an indifferent reader would be
palpable at once, is invisible to the other. Dominant
emotion has the same disturbing effect: “ The wish is
father to the thought.”
A scientist, when observing facts bearing on some
theory which he wishes to establish, has to be always on
his guard, lest he fail to observe those which look against
as well as those which appear to support him. It is for
tunate for the cause of truth that, though one observer
may so fail, there are always among his fellow-observers
some with a desire—a desire as dominant—to establish
some theory or other counter to his. These complete
his partial observation by observing and reporting every
fact that is adverse to his theory. Such is the beneficent
effect of perfect freedom of criticism : it is the breath of
life to science. Only in the bracing air of scepticism
and criticism can theories, the infants of science, grow
up to be recognised as laws of nature herself. Every
true friend of science must be the advocate of the most
perfect freedom of speech, for without this the progress
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
of truth is barred, and the evolution of man into a
higher state of existence is impeded.
Another characteristic of scientific method, and one
hardly less important than that of accurate observation
of facts, is the definite and accurate use of language.
Very considerable is the error that penetrates our minds
through the inaccurate use of words, while the indefinite
use of words leads us often to think we have real know
ledge where in reality we have none. By indefinite
language we mean words which are not accompanied by
any clear idea or feeling. Such words are mere sound,
not symbols of thought. By inaccurate language is
meant the use of words which are not constant but
variable symbols, producing in the mind at one time
one state of consciousness, and at another time a dif
ferent one.
One might imagine that a rational being would not
use indefinite language; in other words, instead of speak
ing intelligently, merely make a noise. Yet nothing is
more common. One can easily convince myself of this
by asking for a definition of the word representing the
subject or the predicate. One hears the charge brought
against a politician of having acted “ unconstitutionally."
If we ask for a definition, it is most probable that the
user of the word will be found to have had no definite
idea, of which the word was a symbol. Many general
terms, such as “ freedom,” “ civilisation,” “ Christianity,”
“ religion,” are commonly so used as to be indefinable :
they may mean anything or nothing. People profess to
believe (and imagine that they do believe) many proposi
tions which are really unthinkable. It is, therefore,
impossible that, in the accurate sense of the word, they
could believe (that is, perceive that the mental representa
tion corresponds with the facts symbolised): the propo
sition places facts in unthinkable relative positions, of
which it is impossible to form a mental picture. Such
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propositions may be and often are assented to ; but they
cannot be believed—that is, their truth cannot be per
ceived. For instance, when we come to the chapter on
Ethics it will be seen that the expression “ free will ” is
unthinkable. Yet a great majority assent to the exist
ence of “ free will,” and much talent and temper have
been lost in disputation about what cannot be repre
sented in thought. For many years the unthinkable
proposition, “ Nature abhors a vacuum,” was considered
a satisfactory explanation of the force of suction, and as
such it was assented to. As we shall see when consider
ing its methods, theology supplies many examples of
unthinkable language, and consequently of propositions
which, though assented to, and often with much fervour
and great expenditure of emotion, are in reality un
believable.
It will not be necessary to occupy any time in con
sidering the danger of error from the inaccurate or
ambiguous use of words. It is evident that such use
must vitiate the whole process of reasoning. If we add
up a column of figures and find the sum to be ioo, and
then in after calculations, by inadvertently adding a
little tail to one of the ciphers, make the figure a nine,
the final result must be wrong. So, if in reasoning some
word during the process changes its meaning, the conclu
sion must be unwarranted. Language, even the best, is
a very imperfect instrument for expressing every shade
and change of our states of consciousness. Words have .
to be used in more senses than one, and hence the
liability of error through ambiguity of language. The
greater portion of conversation being of merely trifling
value, and having as its principal use the mere expendi
ture of emotion, it does not much matter whether the
language has any definite or accurate meaning : the tool
is fine enough for its work. An old blunt hatchet
answers for cutting up firewood, while a surgeon’s
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
instruments must be accurately made and perfectly
sharp. So, if we set ourselves the task of finding truths,
language, our instrument of thought, must be as clear
and accurate as possible.
Seeing, then, how easily error may find an entrance
into our work in the use of the means and methods of
searching for truth, science insists upon a constant
appeal to verification. Where this appeal is impossible
she refuses to enter, because there her work is impos
sible. Such a region is a dreamland, a territory of
imagination, and of imagination alone; science and
reason have no business there.
We now pass on to examine the methods of theology.
The objects of science and theology being so distinct,
we may expect to find very great differences between
their methods. In the words of Bishop Magee, the first
“ discovers facts,” the other “ accepts revelation and
clings to a creed.” By the word “revelation” we
understand “ a number of truths made known to us by
some superhuman means.” The act of “ accepting ”
can be best performed in very early life. At that period
the reasoning faculty—perhaps the slowest in growth of
all the faculties of the mind—is in its infancy compared
with simple perception and imagination. Then is the
time, before reason begins to ask questions, or hesitates
to “ accept ” until they are answered, to begin the work
of theology. There may be a few individuals here and
there who have “accepted” a revelation after having
examined it and its credentials by the reasoning facul
ties ; but, speaking broadly, it may be said that people
everywhere “accept” their revelations in the same
manner as they do their dress, manners, customs, and
language; that is to say, in their youth, and without
reason. When a revelation has been once “ accepted ”
the process of deduction is used to form or maintain a
“ creed to be clung to.” The form of reasoning, put into
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the syllogistic mode, is as follows : “ All the statements
in this revelation, having been communicated by God,
are true. Z is a statement in the revelation. Therefore
Z is true.” The form of reasoning is quite sound, and,
if the major premise (this revelation, having been com
municated by God, is true) could be established by
induction, we might place faith in the conclusion. But
the chief characteristic of theology is that it depends
upon deduction alone. To verify by an appeal to facts
is repulsive. As Bishop Magee says, “ Science abhors
finality in belief,” while “ that is just what theologians
like.” The very proposal to verify a revelation that has
been “ accepted ” implies doubt; and even to appear to
doubt is of the nature of crime. To lay an “ accepted”
revelation on the dissecting table of criticism, to be cut
up with a view to examine its nature, is irreverent and
even blasphemous in the eyes of a theologian. Hence
faith without verification is the greatest of theological
virtues—Blessed are those who believe like little chil
dren. If one have not the spirit of a child, he cannot
enter, much less enjoy, the theological world. To doubt
in the least an “ accepted ” revelation is thus shown to
be impertinent. The greatest men have for ages
“ accepted ” the revelation. Who, then, is he that makes
this demand for verification that he should set himself up
in the pride of his intellect to doubt what so many men,
men so good and so great, have for ages “ accepted ” ?
There is no answer to that terrible question. If one is
not satisfied to “accept” on authority, he is out of his
element in the theological world. Perhaps it may be
said: “ Scientific statements are accepted as well as
theological ones on authority. The captains of ships
accept the statements in the Nautical Almanack on
authority, and on authority alone. They do not verify
the calculations for themselves. In fact, to the great
majority all scientific statements are matters received on
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authority.” This is true. Both scientific and theological
statements are often received on authority alone; but
the reasons in the two cases are different. A scientific
statement is “accepted” on authority because we know
the verification is to be had on demand. A theological
statement is accepted on authority because we know
there is no verification to be had. A Bank of England
note payable on demand, and such government notes
not payable on demand as the French assignats of the
Revolution, may be both “ accepted,” but for different
reasons and with different results. The one is accepted
because for it gold is to be had for the asking; the other
is accepted but for the promise—the payment is not
within measurable distance. In the words of the Bishop,
“ Science abhors finality in belief,” while “ that is just
what theologians like.” Scientific statements are never
final, never authoritative, always acknowledged to be
dependent upon verification. Theological statements
are “ accepted ” without verification, and “ clung to as
a creed.”
When we consider the nature of theology it is evident
that no other method is open. Theology treats of facts
which lie outside of the range of human faculties, both
in space and time. What is beyond the horizon cannot
be subject to test, at least in our present state. We are
told that in some indefinite time we shall be able to
verify theological statements ; but at present this is of
no use to the doubter, nor will it be of use to him in the
future, because when the time of verification has arrived
he will find himself where he will be supplied with an
eternal verification by being eternally burned yet not
consumed. But the “ accepted revelations ” contain
statements of facts within the horizon of human ex
perience, such as “ numbers, genealogies, geographical,
chronological, physiographical, and geographical facts.”
These can be tested by appeal to experience, and they
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have been so tested. But it was a mistake to mix these
facts of experience with theological revelation, even
although the writer thought they were true to the best
of his skill and knowledge. This mistake has been
recognised by eminent theologians. We have already
seen (page 17) that the Archbishop of Canterbury says
it is “ an acknowledged fact ” that there is “ a human.
element ” in our revelation. The errors discovered,
therefore, in the statements that are capable of test, far
from disturbing our confidence in revelation, may be
“ allowed quietly to float away.” So satisfied, indeed,
was the Archbishop with the “quiet ” way in which he
had got rid, as he supposed, of the “ human element,”
that he went on, with more courage, it is to be feared,
than discretion, to ask, “ What on earth does it signify ”
if a “ whole store of such difficulties are collected ?”
Theology is safe on one condition only—viz., that she
confine herself exclusively to things out of the reach of
experience, such as the nature of God, souls, spirits,
and the scenery and incidents of their ghostly surround
ings and careers. Concerning herself with these, she
can remain undisturbed by science. As to them
may be had that “finality in belief” which theologians
like.
When science was young and wreak many and deter
mined attempts were made to kill her. Since she has
become strong, however, and evidently entered on a
course of triumph, attempts are now frequently made
“ to effect a reconciliation ” between her and theology.
We have already seen that in the nature of things all
such attempts must fail. Peace can be procured on one
condition, and on one condition only—viz., separation.
Theology can claim by right, as exclusively her own, the
region of the supernatural.
Her supposed facts are
beyond the test of experience. They may be “ accepted,”
but cannot be proved. Her methods are suitable to
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her nature—dogmatic assertion on and by authority.
Deduction without induction is the method that yields
the best results in “accepting revelations ” and “ clinging
to creeds.” So long as theology remains within this,
her natural sphere, there can be no conflict with science.
Into that sphere science is unable to enter, and as to
all things in it she both feels and acknowledges her
ignorance: of them at least she can make neither
affirmation nor denial. The motions of the moon she
is able to deal with ; but to deal with a man-like being
in the centre of it, should any one allege the existence
of such a being, is beyond her powers. Such an alleged
existence, being outside verification by any facts of ex
perience, is not capable of being treated by scientific
methods. So long, then, as theology confines herself
to the supernatural, so far as science is concerned there
will be no war.
On examination it will be found that the battlesbetween science and theology have been fought about
what the Archbishop calls “ the human element ” of
revelation, never concerning the superhuman. There
have been great conflicts on such questions as the age
and authorship of books, the credibility of such narra
tives as those regarding Noah’s flood, Joshua and the
stoppage of the sun, Jonah and the whale, the pool of
Bethesda, the resurrection of the dead, creation and
evolution; but for all these conflicts theologians them
selves have been to blame. The cause of all the un
pleasantness lay in their not recognising the fact that
all these are “ human elements,” and therefore amenable
to the methods of science. It will be well when all
theologians can, like the Archbishop, “ acknowledge ”
this, and allow the “ difficulties ” of Jonah and his
whale and Noah and his ark “quietly to float away.”
Attempts to reconcile science with such things are not
only ludicrously vain, but, by leading as they do to
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quibbling with words and even to attempted denial of
facts, tend to immorality.
It is surely time to cease from all these attempts at
reconciliation, and to acknowledge that theology should
have nothing to do with any “ human element,” and
should confine herself exclusively to the superhuman.
A theologian has the same hatred and fear of science
as one has of a wicked dog by which he has got
terribly worried. There is but one way of safety for him
—let him keep outside the length of the chain. The
scientist, being bound by the chain, as we may call it,
of verification, cannot pursue the theologian into the
unknowable: here, then, let the theologian remain.
Nor, again, is it possible for theologians to use the
methods of science without producing effects destructive
to theology. Let us suppose that, instead of “ accept
ing ” a revelation, they attempted to prove one by
scientific methods. Many questions would have to be
answered, as, for example, what is meant by revelation.
If it is the making known of truths by a superhuman
method called “ inspiration,” that process would have
to be described, and the means stated by which inspired
thoughts were distinguished from uninspired. The facts
would have to be collected by which might be inferred
inductively the inspiration of any particular writer or
speaker. Where are such facts, and how can they be
verified ? Where, when, and under what circumstances
were the “inspired” books written? Give the verifying
evidence for beliefs on these subjects. If it should
appear that the writer or teacher was mistaken as to
certain facts verifiable by human means, state the
reasons for believing he must be correct concerning
superhuman facts unverifiable by human means. How,
when, where, and by whom were any particular books
chosen and selected from all the other books in exist
ence which have been “ accepted ” by multitudes as
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inspired ? By what means did the selectors distinguish
between the genuine and the spurious ? It is quite
evident that these and other such-like questions would
be fatal to every supposed revelation.
If any one
doubts this, let him try the experiment, and he will be
convinced that the Bishop of Peterborough was quite
correct when he said that a revelation is a thing to be
“ accepted,” and a creed a thing to be “ clung to.”
In speaking of the methods employed by science in
“ discovering facts ” we stated that it is to her a matter
of utmost concern to ensure correct observation. With
correct observation, however, theology, from her very
nature, has nothing to do. As she deals with what
“ the eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor the mind of
man conceived,” it is evident that observation is, at
least in this life, impossible. What may be open to
observation hereafter, under circumstances totally dif
ferent from the present, is matter for “ acceptance ” only.
Again, we mentioned that science “ abhors ” as a
source of error language with either no meaning at all
or with an uncertain and varying one. We shall now
see that such language is “just what theologians like.”
We have already said (page 46) that one of the great
objects of theology is to generate emotion. For this
end there exist no means more efficient than indefinite
ness of language. One can listen with pleasure to
conversation, preaching, and oratory, and yet, on asking
himself afterwards what definite truths were stated or
proved, find that he has to search in vain for an answer
to the question. General terms are commonly used in
such a way as to mean anything or nothing—generally
nothing. If we once try to give any definite meaning
to the words, the pleasurable stream of emotion is im
mediately dried up. This is easily verified by taking
the speeches of politicians and the sermons of theolo
gians and subjecting them to a critical examination by
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substituting definite expressions for the general terms
used in them. The result will show that the residuum
of thinkable language bears a very small proportion to
the whole, and has as little to do with the effect. Let
us take a case.
In the year 1875 there assembled a number of eccle
siastics in Bonn. The object of their meeting was to
find a solution to the question, How can the differences
in the creeds “clung to” by the Eastern and Western
Churches be so adjusted as to allow a practical recon
cilement ? These grave theologians spent many days
in solemn prayer and meditation and in deep conference
together. No doubt the flow of emotion was copious,
all of them feeling the immense importance and the
tremendous responsibility of their position. The results
of their united efforts were at length communicated to
the world, and among these we find the following lan
guage, embodying the conclusion they arrived at as to
the origin and nature of the “ Holy Ghost ” : “ That the
Holy Ghost issues from the Father, as the beginning,
the cause, the fountain of the Godhead. The Holy
Ghost issues from the Son, because in the Godhead
there is only one beginning, one cause, by which all that
is in the Godhead is produced. The Holy Ghost is
the image of the Son, the image of the Father, issuing
from the Father, and resting in the Son as the power
reflected by him. The Holy Ghost is the personal
product of the Father belonging to the Son, but not out
of the Son, because it is the Spirit of the mouth of the
Godhead, which pronounces the Word. The Holy
Ghost forms the connection of the Father and the Son,
and is, through the Son, associated with the Father.”
Now, if we attempt to give some definite meaning to the
words, Ghost, Father, Son, Godhead, fountain, issue,
image, resting, power, reflected, personal product, mouth,
connection, it will immediately appear that the whole
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
becomes mere sound, unpicturable in thought. The
reasoning also is something astounding. A issues from
B because there is only one beginning in C. Again, A
is the personal product of B, belonging to, but not out
of, D, because it is E which pronounces F.
All this indefinite, unthinkable language, perfectly
useless for any intellectual purpose, is most efficacious
in the production of emotion. During the time these
worthy theologians were sitting in incubation over this
production nothing could exceed, no doubt, in volume
the emotional flow of awe and solemnity ; and in this
result we recognise its theological use. In theological
language such a mixture of unthinkable words is called
“ high, holy, and mysterious truth." We should always
bear in mind that this word “ truth ” has a very different
meaning in theology from what it has in science. In
science truth means a statement giving a correct repre
sentation of facts ; in theology truth means a statement
supposed to be in accordance with the revelation
“accepted” and the creed “ clung to.” In fact, theo
logy and science do not speak the same language.
This fact, if remembered, will explain many things
which otherwise are not to be accounted for. A theolo
gian, with apparent faith in the truth of his statements,
proclaims to his hearers that an infinitely good God
has prepared two places—one of torture and one of
delight. Into the first he has determined to place the
greater portion of the human race, and into the second
a select few. During eternity the majority will be
gnashing their teeth with anguish, while the few will be
singing the praises of God, his infinite wisdom and his
infinite goodness. If we follow the preacher and his
hearers home from the church, we shall find them in
half an hour at lunch, eating and drinking and laughing
over frivolous gossip. Did we imagine the preacher and
his hearers to believe, in the scientific sense, in the truth
�THE METHODS OF SCIENCE.
75
of these statements, what we should conclude would be
that they must all be plunged into inconsolable grief
and terror. But how different from this, as we have
seen, is the actual fact!
This anomaly is accounted for by the difference
between the theological and scientific senses of the
words “ truth ” and “ belief.” The theological exhibi
tion of “ truth ” was confined to the use of language
taken from the “ accepted ” revelation, and the belief,
the “ accepting ” of the revelation, to the evoking of a
-certain amount of pleasurable emotion. In a similar
manner it would be most offensive to interpret in a
scientific sense the description of a certain most solemn
rite. To eat the body and to drink the blood of our
greatest friend would, in this sense, be the most revolt
ing cannibalism ; but in the theological sense the rite
is simply an awe-inspiring ceremony, calling forth much
emotion. To take the language in a scientific sense
would be a grievous error, and give great pain to those
who, in the theological sense, “believe” in its truth.
The means adopted by the Society of Friends to evoke
theological emotion—viz., of sitting together in silence
—has the advantage of avoiding the danger of turning
theological language into nonsense by interpreting it in
a scientific sense, and of so failing to produce pleasur
able emotion.
Another means for the same end is that of using a
language not understood by the people. But perhaps the
most pleasing and efficacious means of all is the judicious
use of flowers, music, and architectural beauty, and it may
be anticipated that, as science gets a stronger influence
over the mind, making it more difficult to avoid inter
preting theological language in a scientific sense, these
will become more and more popular as theological means.
But the “ human element,” which, when mixed up
with theology, tends more than any other method of
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
action to sustain and prolong her life, is charitable and
sympathetic conduct. Those who neither believe nor
care for theology as a “ theory of things” cannot avoid
admiration for the exhibition of “ the human element ’’
of sympathy in the school and in the hospital. So long
as a theologian is known as one who goes about doing
good, he is safe from all attack. This “ human element,”
unlike that which the Archbishop acknowledges to be
found in the “ accepted revelation,” raises no “ diffi
culties ” which had better be allowed “ quietly to float
away.” It is to be hoped that theology itself, as a
“ theory of things,” will “ quietly float away,” leaving
nothing behind but the religion of the heart, shown by
acts of goodness in helping to lessen pain and to increase
pleasure by the means sanctioned by scientific know
ledge. We say advisedly “ by the means sanctioned by
scientific knowledge,” because “ evil is wrought by want
of thought, as well as want of heart."' This marriage
between “ thought ” and “ heart,” bringing forth the
blessed fruit of goodness, would be indeed a grand
reconcilement; but it can become possible only when
theology has “ floated away,” and religion has taken its
place. When the intellect is no longer commanded to
“ accept revelation ” and to “ cling to creeds,” and when
the mind can look with solemn wonder indeed, but with
out fear, upon the impenetrable darkness that surrounds
us, science, though she will most assuredly have dissolved
the whole fabric of theological credulity, “ leaving not a
wrack behind,” yet will have left undisturbed the peace
ful trust. And when she has silenced the prayer of
words, it will be but to substitute for it the prayer of
work, to enforce the duty of labour—labour to reach the
light of knowledge, and labour ever to do the right:
“Laborare est orare.”
This leads us to the next part of our subject, “Ethics;
or, the Science of Social Conduct.”
�PART II.
��CHAPTER T.
ETHIC'S---- INTRODUCTION.
Before considering the origin and nature of ethics
from a scientific point of view we must answer the
question, Is a science of ethics possible I We have
already seen that science is based upon the assumption
of invariable order. Facts in a state of chaos, or subject
to miraculous interference, are entirely outside of the
scope of science. Now, ethics being concerned with
social conduct, the facts to be dealt with must be of two
classes—mental and material. All scientists, and some
theologians, in the present day are convinced of the
reign of invariable law over material facts. But even
among scientists there are still to be found some who
feel a repugnance to the idea of the facts of mind being,
equally with the facts of matter, subject to invariable
law. Theologians, of course, are compelled by their
system to dissent from this conclusion. To assent
would be destructive of the theological assumption that
the government of the world is directed by the personal
interference of a man-like God. It will be well, there
fore, to examine briefly some of the objections generally
urged against the conclusion that law reigns over the
facts of mind.
Perhaps the three following objections are those most
generally felt:—(i) “If mind was under law, free will
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
could not exist;” (2) “If mind was under law, moral
responsibility could not exist;” (3) “ If mind was under
law, man would be degraded to the character of a mere
machine.”
In examining the first objection we shall have specially
to remember the caution of science as to the use of
words. We have seen that the inaccurate use of lan
guage is a frequent cause of error. When one considers
the immense amount of mental energy that has been
expended in discussing “free will,” one cannot help
thinking that a great deal of this labour might have been
saved had the disputants made sure of the exact meaning
of the words used. The confusion of thought upon this
subject has, in a great degree, arisen from neglecting to
ask the question, What is the meaning of the words
“free” and “will”? Had this been done, it would
have exposed the uselessness of the dispute whether
free will exists or does not exist. Let us now examine
this preliminary question. The word “ free ” is applic
able only to an organism or machine. A machine is free
when its functions can be exercised without impediment.
A clock is free when it can, by the unimpeded move
ments of its different parts, tell the hours.
If its
pendulum is tied, the clock is not free. A piano is free
when nothing prevents it from giving forth the sounds
of the vibrating strings ; it is not free if its keys are
jammed or its strings covered with cloth. A man as an
organism is free when he can exercise all his functions.
The eye, as a separate machine, is free when it can see;
it is not free when bandaged. The arm is free when it
can move ; it is not free when it is tied. Wherever the
word “free” is used correctly there are two things
suggested—viz., (1) an organism or machine, and (2)
the absence of any impediment to the exercise of its
functions. Next, what is the meaning of the word
“ will ” ? Will is a word used as the name of a certain
�ETHICS—INTRODUCTION.
81
state of consciousness, as are “ wish,” “ desire,” anger.”
Will is the state of consciousness that is the immediate
antecedent to an act, as wish is a state of consciousness
immediately antecedent to will. All we know of will is
as a state of consciousness.
Now we understand the meaning of the word “ free”
and the meaning of the word “ will.” The first, “ free,”
denotes absence of impediment to organic action. The
second, “ will,” is a state of consciousness. But what
is the meaning of the expression, “ free will ” ? or has it
any meaning at all ? Is it translatable into thought ?
Let us see. If we say that a piano, as an organisation,
is free, the meaning is plain and intelligible ; wc assert
that the piano is in such a condition that its functions
can be exercised without impediment. But if we say
that the melodiousness of the piano is free, applying the
word “ free,” not to the organisation, but to a condition
of it, the expression is unmeaning and unthinkable, or
nonsense. The melodiousness exists or does not exist;
but it is absurd to speak of it as free or not free. It
would not be more incorrect to say that it was square or
oblong. It is correct to say of a clock that it is free,
our meaning being that its wheels and other parts are
unimpeded in their motion. But it would be ridiculous
to say that one o’clock—a mere condition of the clock
—is free. We might as well say that one o’clock is
polite. Such a combination of words is mere sound,
not intelligible language. So, when we apply the word
“ free,” not to the organisation, but to a state of it—the
state of consciousness called “ will ”—and say that the
will is free, we are using the word “ free ” incorrectly,
and really talking nonsense. The sentence, “ The will
is red,” would not be more unmeaning or more unthink
able than the sentence, “ The will is free.” We can
think of the state of consciousness called “ will,” and
we can think of the colour called “ red
but we cannot
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
form the mental picture of the two together—a “ red
will.” Free will, then, we see, is simply an unthinkable
expression, totally devoid of any intelligible meaning.
What is most probably meant when it is said the will is
free is, that each individual is free. This is quite in
telligible. Man, as an organisation, may be free or not
free. When man can exercise his functions he is free ;
and when, by reason of some impediment, he cannot,
he is not free. Again, as the state of the organism
varies, our states of consciousness vary. But the organ
ism, being matter, is acknowledged to be under the law
of invariable order; hence our states of consciousness,
as the products of its action, must be so likewise. If
the existence of states of consciousness depends upon
the action of matter, and matter is subject to invariable
order, it necessarily follows that mind and matter are
equally under the law of cause and effect.
But it is often said : “ Grant that I cannot answer the
arguments adduced to prove facts of mind to be under
the law of invariable order equally with facts of matter,
yet I feel I can will and act as I choose, and follow my
own strongest desire.” This is thought to be a practical
and conclusive answer to, and refutation of, all argu
ments for mental order. But it is entirely irrelevant—
rather, indeed, it is a statement of an example of mental
order. It is quite true that our will not only may be,
but invariably is, preceded by our own strongest desire.
The desire which may have been the antecedent of the
will on a certain occasion was itself the effect of other
antecedents; and, those antecedents being absent or
modified, that desire would be absent or modified. In
other words, that state of consciousness called a desire
is a link in a chain of invariable cause and effect. The
links in this chain of causes and effects which influence
facts of mind are either but imperfectly seen, or else
entirely unseen, by us. In this we have the explanation
�ETHICS—INTRODUCTION.
83
of the belief that facts of mind are not bound by the
law of invariable order.
Because we cannot see and trace the links we imagine
that they do not exist. This error prevails in other
branches of knowledge, and from the same cause.
When, as in astronomy or mechanics, the mind can
trace the links of cause and effect in the motions of the
heavenly bodies or the wheels of a machine, it feels no
difficulty in acknowledging law and order; while in
meteorology, the science of the weather, the facts are
supposed to be in chaos, because we cannot trace the
links of cause and effect. Yet there is, no doubt, just
as much regularity and invariability of order in the move
ment of every drop of rain and breath of wind as there
is in the movement of a planet or in that of a wheel in
a machine.
But, in reference to mind, not only is there a difficulty
in recognising the existence of mental order, but a
repugnance is felt against such a recognition. This is
caused by a misconception. When we speak of our
mind being as much under the law of invariable order
as matter is, the expression has a tendency to convey
the idea that there exists objectively to us an entity that
has power to control our mind irrespectively of our
own desires ; that, wish and will as we may, this ruling
entity, “ invariable order,” will force us to follow a certain
course. In the chapter, “What is Science?” we stated
that a law of nature meant, simply and solely, the order
of facts—the order in which, under certain conditions,
we invariably find them occur. When we assert that
mind is as much under law as matter, we do not mean
to say that there is a something distinct from mind which
will force the facts of mind into a certain order. Thus
we do not assert that, quite irrespective of any action of
a particular individual, the mind of that individual will,
at a certain time and place, have a certain train of ideas ;
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
that these will be followed by a certain desire; that that
desire will become dominant, and so pass into will, and
this into some particular action. What we do assert is,
that if the mind, under certain conditions, was affected
in a certain manner, we may be perfectly confident that,
under exactly the same conditions, it will be affected in
exactly the same manner. But it is said : “ If this be
so, and we knew what the conditions, both subjective
and objective, of any person would be, we could foretell
to a certainty his thoughts, feelings, and acts.” This is
true ; but it is quite consistent with perfect freedom in
the person. Knowing the conditions, we can foretell
what position the hands of a clock will be in at a certain
time. If nothing prevents the clock from exercising all
its functions, of acting in accordance with its nature,
that clock is free. Our knowledge of the nature of the
clock can have no influence upon its freedom. So, if
the conditions are such that a person can exercise every
function of his nature without restraint, that person is
free in the only intelligible sense of the word. Suppose
we know the evidence about to be given in a case before
a certain judge, and that it will show beyond a doubt
that justice lies on one side; and suppose also that we
know the judge to be a competent and righteous man :
in such a case we can foretell to a certainty the decision
of the judge. But surely it would be a misuse of
language to say that, because we foretold how the judge
would act, the judge himself was not free.
But, paradoxical as it may appear, it is true that even
those who deny that mind is under law, act every hour
of their lives on the faith that it is. The stoutest denier
of invariable order in mind is astonished if any one he
knows acts in some unexpected way. But why aston
ished ? If the same cause is not invariably followed by
the same effect, how is the astonishment produced ? If
mind is not under law, he could not have anticipated
�ETHICS—INTRODUCTION.
85
any particular action at any particular time or under any
certain conditions. Practically, then, no one believes
in mind being chaotic. We conclude, therefore, that
invariable order and freedom are not inconsistent with
each other; that while the expression, “ free will,” is
unmeaning, each person may be perfectly free—that is,
capable of exercising without impediment every function
with which he is endowed.
We now pass on to consider the second objection,
“ If mind was under law, moral responsibility could not
exist.” Our first object must be to understand what we
mean by moral responsibility. A person is responsible
when he can be rationally and justly called upon to
respond to an inquiry as to his conduct, with the object
of ascertaining whether punishment or reward ought to
be dispensed to him. When we stumble over a stone,
we attach no responsibility to the stone : we neither
punish nor reward it. But if a dog trips us up by
running between our legs, we hold him responsible, and
administer punishment. If the peculiar shape of a
stone attracts our attention, causing us to lift it, and in
consequence to find a valuable diamond, we do not
reward the stone. But if a dog fetches a wild duck for
us out of a river, we reward him. In other words, we
attach responsibility to a dog, but not to a stone. If an
idiot, or an infant, displease us by some of his automatic,
involuntary acts, we do not hold him responsible; we
do not apply punishment to him. But if a sane adult
injure or benefit us by his conduct, we show that we
think him to be a responsible being by dealing out to
him punishment or reward. What, now, is the essential
feature in all these cases, the absence or presence of
which causes or destroys responsibility? Why do we
attach responsibility to a dog and not to a stone, to a
sane adult and not to an idiot or an infant? The
answer is, Wherever we have reason to believe that
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
punishment or reward will be effectual in procuring what
we desire or preventing what we dislike, there we place
responsibility. Where punishment or reward would be
evidently futile and irrational, there we do not place res
ponsibility. An idiot steals something, but he is not
held responsible, because we have no reason to believe
that punishment could have any influence in preventing
a similar act in the future. A sane adult steals, and we
hold him responsible and punish him, because we have
reason to believe that the pain of the punishment will
cause a new link in the chain of cause and effect in his
mind, thereby altering his conduct. When the thief
stole, the strongest, the dominant desire, at the time,
was to possess the property of another. This desire is
called the motive or cause of the will to steal. By
punishment we aim at creating a stronger desire than
the desire to steal—viz., the desire to avoid the pain of
punishment. When this change has been made, the
conduct of the thief is altered, and the object of the
punishment is attained. The man has been treated as
a responsible being. The same process takes place
when we attempt to change the motive by offering a
reward. The motive in another to act in a certain
manner which we desire is not strong enough to become
dominant, and so the cause of will. By attaching some
benefit to that conduct we increase the strength of the
motive to such a degree that it becomes dominant.
In the same way, when we try, by reasoning with a
person, to influence his conduct, we endeavour, by the
ideas produced in his mind, to create some dominant
desire which will be a motive to conduct. Where punish
ment and reward are rationally applicable as means of
affecting conduct, there we place responsibility; where
these would be futile we do not recognise any responsi
bility.
We have now investigated the origin and nature of
�ETHICS—INTRODUCTION.
87
xesponsibility, and nowhere have we been obliged to
assume that mind is not under law. On the contrary,
the assumption that mind is under law has, in every
case, been necessary before responsibility is recognised.
Nay, more, not only is the existence of invariable order
in the facts of mind necessarily assumed, but, unless
we have some perception of that order, and so in some
degree are made capable of altering effects by altering
causes, no responsibility is recognised. The minds of
idiots and infants are, no doubt, under law quite as
much as those of sane adults ; but, the links of cause
and effect being untraceable by us, we are incapable of
any control or power to produce desired changes by
punishment or reward, and therefore in them we do not
recognise the existence of any responsibility. In the
case of an infant, just in proportion as the order of the
facts of its mind becomes apparent to us, and our power
thereby becomes greater to effect changes in that mind—
to alter the motive desires by punishment or reward—so
do we recognise the growth of responsibility. The con
clusion, therefore, to which we are compelled is, that so
far is it from being true that invariable order in the facts
of mind would destroy moral responsibility, the very
reverse is the truth—viz., no responsibility is recognised
by us where invariable order does not exist, or is not in
some degree perceivable by us.
We come now to the third objection—viz., “ If mind
was under law, man would be degraded to the condition
of a mere machine.” A machine is a whole composed
of different parts, so constructed and related that the
functions of each can be exercised. The number and
quality of the functions of a machine depend upon the
number and construction of its different parts. The
more simple the machine is, the fewer its functions or
forms of work; the more complex, the more numerous.
By the word “ degraded ” is meant reduced in number
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
or quality of functions—in other words, become more
simple and less complex. A man would be degraded
by becoming a dog, and a dog would be degraded by
becoming a plant. Each of these steps would be from
more numerous and more complex functions to less
numerous and more simple. All machines or organisa
tions may be divided into three classes—(i) simply
material, (2) automatic, (3) self-conscious. The capa
bility of the first is confined to the transmission and
change of force, the force being supplied to it by other
means than its own. A steam-engine, a lathe, or a
watch would never exercise any function were they not
supplied with energy from some external source. (2)
The automatic machine is a material one with the addi
tional capability of self-supply of energy in the form of
food. To this class belong plants and the lower animals.
(3) The self-conscious machine has the same qualities
as the simply material and the automatic, with self
consciousness besides. To this class belong the higher
animals and man. An organ-grinder, with a flower in
his buttonhole, would illustrate the three classes of
machines—simply material, automatic, and self-conscious.
The flower is higher in organisation than the organ, the
man higher than both. Degradation being a descent
from a higher and more complex state of organisation to
a lower and more simple, it would be correct to say
that a plant would suffer degradation by becoming a
simply material organisation, or a man by becoming
either a simply material or an automatic one. But it
is incorrect to speak of man being degraded by becom
ing a machine. In fact, he would be degraded by
becoming less of a machine—that is, less organised than
he is. It is exactly because he is, of all beings on this
earth, the most highly organised (the most highly machinificd, so to speak) that he is the most exalted of all
—“ the paragon of animals.” The whole process, indeed,
�ETHICS—INTRODUCTION.
89
of his growth from the embryo to the complete adult is
one of increasing organisation, and therefore of con
tinuous ascent in the scale of beings. This third objec
tion, then, we find to be as unfounded as the previous
two, and due, like them, to unscientific thought and
inaccuracy of language.
We conclude, therefore, that there is no valid objec
tion against the assumption that facts of mind, as well
as facts of matter, are under the law of invariable order.
That being so, a science of ethics is possible.
It must at the same time be acknowledged, not only
that this branch of science is at present very imperfect
because in its infancy, but that from its nature it is
probably destined to remain imperfect. The perfecting
of a science depends upon our capability of gaining a
knowledge of the facts with which it deals. For
instance, astronomy and mechanics arc more perfect
sciences than those of biology and meteorology, because
the known facts in the former subjects are more
numerous than those in the latter. This enables us to
discover the laws of nature more easily in the one case
than in the other. But though a particular branch of
science may be very imperfect, it does not follow that it
is useless. On the contrary, the little we may know may
be very valuable. The test of perfection of a science
is the capability it gives us of foretelling events. Now,
our power of foretelling weather events is, no doubt,
comparatively limited. We cannot foretell what the
temperature will be on a particular day at a particular
place; but we can foretell that January will be colder
than July. Our knowledge, though very imperfect, is
still very useful, helping us, as it does, to grow our crops
and to save our harvests. So, in like manner, our power
of foretelling the conduct of any particular individual
on any particular occasion is very imperfect; but our
power of foretelling the general effect of certain condi-
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
tions on a mass of individuals is itself very valuable.
And while our ignorance of the links of cause and effect
in individual conduct may prevent us from foretelling
individual acts, science can discover the laws by which
the conduct must be governed if certain results are to
be obtained, and the conduct that must be avoided if
certain results are to be prevented. It is evident, then,
that, even though the science of ethics be necessarily
imperfect, it is within its scope to shield man from
much evil and to procure him much good.
�CHAPTER II.
THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF ETHICS.
A single individual on a desert island, where no act
of his could have an effect upon any one but himself,
might be wise, but not virtuous—a fool, but not a
criminal. The terms, “moral” and “immoral,” “good”
and “ bad,” in an ethical sense,^would be inapplicable
to his conduct. If one plays the piano when there is
no one else in the house who can be pleased or pained
by the noise, such an act has nothing in it of an ethical
nature, because the effect of the conduct is confined to
self. The moment, however, that another who may be
pleased or pained comes within hearing distance, such
conduct becomes ethical.
Ethics is the science of social conduct. All the
action done by a person as a unit of a society—that is,
all action the effect of which, passing beyond self,
extends to others, is ethical, and is called good or bad,
virtuous or vicious, moral or immoral, according as it
causes benefit or injury. The object of the science of
ethics is to discover the laws of social conduct. Now,
what is the exact meaning of the word “ conduct ” ?
Conduct is a species of which action is the genus. All
conduct is action, but all action is not conduct—just as
all crows are birds, but all birds are not crows. The
species of action that is called conduct is that which is
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS,
adjusted to an end or purpose. For example, a cough?
produced by the automatic action of the muscles is
merely action, but a cough given to interrupt a public
speaker is conduct, because it is action adjusted to an
end. The adjustment to an end is the characteristic
that marks off conduct from other forms of action, and
that which distinguishes ethical conduct from other
forms of conduct is, that the end to which its action is
adjusted affects others as well as the actor. While,
therefore, it is with social conduct alone we shall have
to do in our inquiry into the nature of ethics, we shall
be aided in understanding social conduct if we first
examine into the nature of life action in general, of
which social conduct forms but a part.
The life-history of every living organism is one of
struggle for preservation and of struggle against destruc
tion. It is manifest from this that, in the growth or
evolution of organs, those only whose functions were
helpful in this battle for existence could ever have been
established in any organism; for, if the action of an
organ had brought the organism into contact with
destructive conditions, that organism could not have
survived. We have, therefore, reason to conclude that
the functions of the organs in every organism tend to
its preservation. There is one condition important for
us to notice upon which the continued existence of
every organ depends—viz., that the organ should have
healthy exercise. We know by experience that exercise,
within certain bounds, tends to strengthen, and disuse
to weaken, every organ. For example, the arms of
sailors and blacksmiths become by exercise developed
and strong ; while the arm of an Indian fakir becomes
by disuse shrivelled and powerless. The eyes of fish
that live in the light are preserved by the continued
exercise of their functions ; while those of fish that live
in dark caves dwindle away and lose their functions.
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93
A11 living organisms, without exception, become what
lhey are, then, subject to two laws—(i) the functions of
•every organ tend to the preservation of the organism to
which it belongs ; (2) exercise of the functions of every
•organ is necessary for its preservation.
Again, the action of each organism depends upon the
•complexity and number of its organs. Of the innumer
able forms of living organisms there are only a certain
number which manifest any action similar to what we
know in onrselves, as that connected with mind. Where
mind becomes a factor in life action there is always found
•one peculiar kind of organised matter—viz., nerve matter.
Of the nature of the connection of mind and nerve
matter, however, we know nothing. All we can observe
is the order in which the facts occur. All the states of
consciousness of which our mind is composed are divis
ible into three classes—emotional, ideal, and volitional.
By emotional states we mean simply states of feeling, as
anger, love, pleasure, desire, hatred, pain. Ideas are
mental representations, sometimes called thoughts ;
thinking might be described, indeed, as a succession of
mental pictures. Volition is the state of consciousness
which immediately precedes deliberate action. A great
part of the action of our organism is not accompanied
by any state of consciousness at all, emotional, ideal, or
volitional, as, for instance, the healthy, normal action of
the heart, liver, stomach, etc. Some kinds of action, as
weeping, are accompanied by emotion and thought, but
not by volition. The action which will specially engage
our attention—viz., conduct—is accompanied by all
three. Conduct, being action adjusted to an end,
requires thought to determine the means ; the emotion
of a desire as a motive ; and volition as the antecedent
of action. Our object now must be to find the laws of
conduct, or, in other words, the invariable order of those
facts of which the action called conduct is composed.
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Among the emotions there are two which particularly
demand our attention—viz., pleasure and pain. One
or other of them may be said to accompany all other
emotions. The words “ pleasure ” and “ pain ” are not
used for them, indeed, until they attain such strength as
to thrust themselves upon our attention ; yet, when we
consider their nature, it would seem to be correct
enough to speak of them as being always present with
all other states of feeling. The characteristic of plea
sure is the absence of any desire that the emotion
experienced should cease ; and that of pain, the presence
of a desire to escape from the feeling. A desire is a
motive to change the present for some other state of
consciousness. The state desired must be one of plea
sure. In fact, it is a contradiction in terms to say that
we could desire pain. It wrould be equivalent to saying
that we desire what we shrink from and do not desire.
This may appear at first sight to be opposed to expe
rience. Do we not often desire a state of pain ? For
instance, when we desire to have a tooth drawn, or to
part with a person we are fond of, do w'e not in such
cases desire pain, not pleasure? The answer is, No.
In these cases the pain of drawing the tooth or parting
with the friend is not the object of desire, but the
pleasure of getting rid of the toothache, or of benefitting
the friend. The accompanying pain is submitted to as
a necessity, but not desired for itself. If it was, the
feeling w’ould be no longer pain, but pleasure. What
ever, therefore, be the object of desire which forms the
motive of an act of conduct, it must necessarily contain
the element of the bringing of pleasure or the avoidance
of pain.
If we seek an explanation of the genesis of these
emotions, pleasure and pain, the doctrine of Evolution
will aid us. We have already seen reasons for con
cluding that in the building up of an organism by the
�THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF ETHICS.
95
slow and gradual process of the evolution of organs,
each of these by their functions must be of such a
nature as to be preservative of the organism of which
it forms a part. When an organism has arrived at that
stage of evolution when states of consciousness form a
part of the product of the normal exercise of some of
its functions, those states of consciousness must be of
a pleasurable nature. For let us suppose the contrary—•
that is, that the state of consciousness attached to the
exercise of the functions of any organ were of a painful
nature, or, in other words, one which the organism
shrank from and tried to avoid, the result would be
that that organ would not be exercised. But wc have
already seen that every organ left without exercise
dwindles away and becomes defunct. It follows from
this that the state of consciousness attached to the
normal exercise of every organ must contain the emo
tional element which we call pleasure. All experience,
so far as we can observe the order of facts, confirms
this conclusion, as also the corresponding conclusion
that the feeling of pain is a state of consciousness in
variably attached, not to the normal and healthy exercise
of the functions of some part of the organism, but to
the process of destruction or injury. So far, then, as
we can observe, the process of injury to any part of the
body, if accompanied by any state of consciousness at
all, is accompanied by one of pain ; while the normal,
healthy exercise of functions has attached to it the
emotion of pleasure. Pain is invariably the flag or
signal of distress, and pleasure of well-being. Pain
may be likened to the heat produced in a machine by
destructive friction, and pleasure to that musical hum
which comes from a machine that is doing its work
without injury to itself. If this be true within the
entire range of our observation, we are justified in con
cluding that it is true also in those cases where the
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
links of cause and effect are beyond our ken. We may
not be able to observe the connection between pleasing
sounds and the normal, healthy exercise of the organs
of hearing, and between painful sounds and injury of
those organs—nor may we be able to observe the con
nection between painful thoughts and injury of the
organism ; still, it is legitimate to conclude that there is
such a connection, since analogous observable facts are,
without exception, in unison with it. Indeed, if painful
sounds or thoughts are sufficiently intensified, the mag
nification enables us to perceive the injurious result,
though the precise manner of its production be hidden
from us. Injury to health, and, in the case of painful
thoughts, even death itself, we see among such results.
We conclude, therefore, that pleasurable emotion is
attached to the normal, healthy exercise of every part
of the organism that is connected with consciousness,
and pain, on the other hand, to action tending to des
truction.
There are facts which may appear to be inconsistent
with this theory, but which are really not so. For
example, the primary effect of alcohol, sweets, and such
things, is pleasurable ; and yet we know these things
may be injurious. But it should be observed that, at
the time, and in that part of the organism producing
the pleasurable emotion, injury has not begun. When,
afterwards, injurious action has set in, pain takes the
place of pleasure.
Even rest or inaction, when injurious, is accompanied
by the feeling of pain. Young people full of vigour,
whose muscles and nerves require much exercise for
their healthy development, suffer absolute pain when
obliged to remain at rest for any length of time. When
they arc older, and the need of exercise is no longer
necessary for the preservation of the organism in health,
this pain from inaction diminishes and the injurious
�THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF ETHICS.
97
effect lessens. A similar fact is to be observed in a
person of large and active brain placed in a position
where intellectual exercise is impossible ; he suffers pain
because that part of his organism is being injured. In
fact, perfect happiness, or the sum of all pleasurable
feelings of which a person is capable, might be defined
as the result of the full and healthy exercise of all his
functions—or, in other words, of a perfectly full and
free life.
In the causal order of the mental facts which invari
ably precede conduct, will is the immediate antecedent,
and desire or motive the antecedent of will. Next in
order comes thought or ideas. Thought becomes a link
in the cause of conduct only when it generates a desire.
Any number of mental pictures or ideas may be pre
sented in consciousness without becoming a cause of
action : thus, in the absence of desire, one can look at
many different dishes without their producing any effect
upon the conduct. If, on the other hand, a desire to
taste a dish arises and becomes dominant, then comes
will, and then the appropriate conduct. In such a case,
it might be said, it was the sight of the dishes that was
the cause of the conduct of tasting one. This is true,
in a sense ; but it is very important to remember that
the sight of the dishes was only mediately the cause of
conduct, and that it was only by creating a dominant
desire—a desire passing into will—that it became the
cause of the conduct. So the thoughts or mental
pictures of many possible modes of conduct may pass
through our mind without any of these ideas becoming
even mediately the cause of conduct, unless a desire
becomes dominant, and so the motive or cause of will.
We have used the expression, “ dominant desire,”
instead of the word “ desire,” without the qualifying
adjective. We have done this advisedly, and for this
reason : It is possible for us to have present in our con-
�SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
sciousness several different desires at the same time,
not one of which may become the cause of will, because
none of them prove so strong as the desire, the strongest,
not to act in the manner they suggest. And, as the
desire strongest at the moment is always the one wrhich
becomes the cause of the will and the conduct, it is
named the dominant desire. As in mechanics force
always travels along the line of least resistance, so does
the mental motive spring from the desire strongest at
the moment. This theory, that in all conduct every
one acts from the motive of his own strongest desire,
may seem equivalent to the assertion that every human
creature is a perfectly selfish being. This, however, is
not so, and we shall be easily convinced that this infer
ence is not a just one when we examine it by scientific
method. In this case, as in so many others, the error
springs from want of precision in the use of words.
Let us first ask, What is the exact meaning of the word
“ selfish ” ? A selfish person is one whose acts, although
others are to be affected by them, spring from motives
in which there is no consideration of any being but self.
Now, it is true that every voluntary act must be a self
act—that is, the act of ourselves, and not of any other
person. But a self act and a selfish act are not neces
sarily the same thing. A benevolent act—that is, one
motived by consideration for others—is as much a self
act as the most selfish.
An illustration will make this plain. Three wounded
soldiers lie together on the battle-field; two have their
water-bottles, the other has none. Both of those who
have the water see the agony caused to their companion
by the want of it; both hear his groans. On one, A,
the sight of the parched lips and feverish eyes has a
powerful effect; his sympathy is aroused, and he shares
with his companion his bottle of water to the last drop.
On the other, B, the sight of the sufferings of his com-
�THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF ETHICS.
99
panion falls with no more effect than the sight of the
stones lying on the ground, and he drinks without a
thought of offering him a drop. There is no doubt that
A was a benevolent person, and B a selfish one; but it
is equally certain that each acted from what was, at the
moment, his own strongest desire. The fact, therefore,
that all our acts must be the result of our own strongest
desire is not inconsistent with the existence of the
greatest benevolence and so-called self-sacrifice.*
In these two chapters we have had under considera
tion some of the general principles that govern all life
action and conduct—a consideration necessary before
treating of the peculiar branch of conduct with which
ethics has to do—viz., social conduct. The following is
a summary of the conclusions we have come to, and
which, in the following pages, will be assumed to be
true :—
1. Facts of mind are equally with facts of matter
under the invariable law of cause and effect.
2. Every living organism has become what it is by the
process of evolution.
3. The functions of every organ are of such a nature
as tend to the preservation of the organism to which it
belongs.
4. In those organisms in which states of conscious
ness exist the normal and healthy exercise of every organ
* Self-sacrifice consists in a motive that contains an element of
sympathy with others, overcoming another in which self alone was
regarded. For example, a father is engaged reading in his library ;
a child enters, and asks him to join in some play in the nursery.
To this he assents ; though, if self alone was to be considered, he
would remain in the library. This is self-sacrifice. All that has
taken place, however, is this : the motive or desire leading to con
duct affecting self alone was overmastered by a stronger one, leading
to conduct affecting others as well as self. In both the actor acted
from what was at the moment his own strongest desire.
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
connected with consciousness is accompanied by the
feeling of pleasure.
5. The feeling of pain is always attached to some
organic action of a destructive tendency.
6. The immediate mental antecedent of conduct is
the state of consciousness named will.
7. The immediate antecedent of will is the state of
consciousness named desire or wish.
8. Every person acts always from what is at the
moment his own strongest desire.
We now pass on to consider social conduct.
�CHAPTER Hl.
THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE.
All social conduct is divided ethically into two kinds—■
viz., good and bad. The good is called virtuous or
moral; the bad, vicious or immoral. As our first step/
towards a knowledge of the nature of this distinction or
basis of the moral code, let us translate into clear
thought these words, good and bad. What is their pre
cise ethical meaning? Anything adjusted for some end*
or purpose, and efficiently accomplishing it, is called“ good.” A piano is good when it fulfils the end for
which it was made—viz., to give out pleasing musical
sounds. A road is good when it makes travelling easy.A rifle is good when it throws the ball in the direction*
intended. The root idea of goodness in all these cases
is efficiency. That which satisfies our wish and intention*
we call “ good.” On the other hand, that which fails todo what it was intended and expected to do we call
“ bad.” A piano is bad when, instead of giving pleasing
musical sounds, it gives harsh and unmusical ones. A
road is bad when it is uneven, making travelling difficult
instead of easy. A rifle is bad when it does not throw
the ball straight, but crooked. Inefficiency is thus the
characteristic of badness, as efficiency is of goodness.
Before pronouncing any act of social conduct to be
good or bad, it will be necessary to understand what is.
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the end or purpose which the regulation of social con
duct is intended to serve. Until we know this we have
not the means of judging whether it is efficient or not.
Now, social conduct is conduct adjusted for social pur
poses, or, in other words, for the preservation of a social
state—society, and the purpose or end of a society is
co-operation.
In the chapter on “The Use of Science” it was
shown that man, so far as his own personal strength is
concerned, is a weak and puny creature, and that it is
almost entirely by the aid of the forces of nature outside
of himself that he is enabled to accomplish all he does.
For the possibility of availing himself of these forces he
is, as was shown, indebted entirely to his knowledge of
the laws of nature. But even with this knowledge he
would be comparatively helpless if unaided by the co
operation of his fellows. From the moment of his birth
he is dependent upon the aid of others. The lowest
races, those the least raised above the brute, are those
among whom there is the least social co-operation.
Those nations which have risen the highest in the scale
of civilisation are those in which social co-operation has
been most highly developed. The more man becomes
a social animal, the more he becomes dependent for his
existence on the co-operation of society. The preserva
tion of society thus becomes a matter of self-preservation.
Now, certain conduct tends to enable individuals to live
in social contact; other conduct tends to prevent them
from doing so. The first is efficient for social purposes,
and is therefore called, in an ethical sense, good. The
second is inefficient for social purposes—antagonistic,
and is therefore called bad. Good social conduct is
conduct that tends to draw individuals closer together;
bad social conduct tends to repel them from one another,
and thereby to make society impossible. The one is
efficient, making cooperation easy; the other is inefficient,
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE.
103
making co-operation difficult or impossible. Just as a
road is called good if it is efficient by making travelling
easy, and bad if by its inefficiency it makes travelling
difficult, so social conduct is called good if it makes
co-operation easy, and bad if it makes co-operation
difficult.
The moral code consists of two divisions : one con
tains the good conduct or virtues, the other the bad
conduct or vices. It is necessary here to distinguish
the two senses in which the term, moral code, is used—
viz., the subjective and the objective. In the first it
denotes what are esteemed, or considered by any society,
virtues and vices; in the second, what are, in matter of
fact, virtues and vices. The subjective might be called
the opinionative code, and the objective the absolute
code. These two codes may or may not agree. The
failure to mark the distinction between them has led to
the following error. “ Morality,” it has been said, “ is
a mere matter of custom, and depends entirely upon the
latitude and longitude of the country. In Cairo poly
gamy is a virtue, in London a vice. Even in the same
country the code differs at different times. Duelling
fifty years ago was a virtue in England, and now it is a
vice. On the Continent it is a virtue still.” Now, in
the subjective sense this is true, but in the objective
sense it is not true. In the opinionative code of Egypt,
no doubt, polygamy is a virtue ; but whether it is so in
the absolute code depends entirely upon the question of
fact, whether polygamy benefits society or whether it
does not. With this question opinion has nothing to
do. Polygamy either tends to benefit society or it does
not; what people think is irrelevant. The Ptolemaic
system of astronomy—a subjective or opinionative sys
tem—made the heavenly bodies to revolve round the
earth. The Ptolemaic opinion, however, had no influ
ence on the motions of the heavenly bodies; and, as a
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
matter of objective fact, they did not revolve round the
earth. Similarly, the fact of conduct being entered
as virtuous in the opinionative code does not make it
so in the absolute code.
The doctrine of evolution justifies us in supposing
that, at the time when any conduct was first adopted,
there was some agreement at least between the subjec
tive and objective codes. The reason of this is the
same as led us to the conclusion that the functions of
every organ which has been evolved in an organism
must have tended to its preservation. Had such func
tions been destructive, the organism could not have
survived to form a race. So any society that adopted
as a virtue some line of conduct that was in reality a
vice would have been so far weakened, and accordingly
less able to survive in the struggle for existence through
which every society, as well as every organism, has to
pass. But, though the opinionative and absolute codes
may be in agreement at one time, they may differ at
another. The reason is this : conduct that under cer
tain circumstances would tend to strengthen a society
may under a change of circumstances tend to weaken
it; just as the clothing and food that are in the Arctic
regions preservative would be in the Tropics deleterious
and destructive. The ethical character of conduct must
change, if circumstances change the ethical results of
that conduct. As a matter of fact, conduct, however
good it may have once been, is no longer good when it
tends to injure a society. It must be, therefore, in the
absolute code, a vice. In the opinionative code, how
ever, from the force of custom, the same conduct may
be found still registered as a virtue. We know that all
conduct, when long repeated, has a tendency to become
instinctive and stereotyped, and therefore to exist in the
character long after the original cause of it has ceased to
exist. In some nations this conservative tendency is
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE.
105
more marked than in others, and no doubt by giving
stability would prove of some benefit, especially in the
earlier period of their history. But if it is so strong in a
people as to destroy the power of changing as surround
ing circumstances change, that people, after a certain
stage of evolution has been reached, remains stationary.
This is illustrated by such countries as India and China.
Lines of conduct which, by increasing the rigidity of the
structure, so to speak, of a society, were efficient at one
time for the preservation of the society against the
assaults of surrounding enemies, may at another time be
potent to hinder its advance in civilisation, and be there
fore injurious. In other words, conduct which at one
time was a virtue, in both the opinionative and the
absolute codes, may come to be a virtue in the first
only, and a vice in the second.
The quality of goodness or badness in conduct is
determined by the nature of the co-operation for which
the society exists. Social co-operation is divisible into
two principal kinds—viz., military and industrial. The
end or purpose of military co-operation is to defend the
society against the attacks of enemies, and to subjugate
other societies. The characteristic of military co-opera
tion is that in it the conduct of the many is regulated by
the few : the desires and wills of the mass are subordi
nated to the will of a commander. The purpose of
industrial co-operation is the mutual supply of indi
vidual wants. The characteristic of industrial co-opera
tion is that in it the conduct of the individual is
voluntary, and regulated by individual desire. In
military co-operation the initiative of individual conduct
rests with a chief; in industrial, with the individual
himself. Every nation exhibits within itself both mili
tary and industrial co-operation. In the earliest period
of a nation’s history, however, the military preponderates
greatly over the industrial. The nation spends the
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
greater part of its energy either in defending itself from,
or in conquering, neighbours. As a nation advances in
civilisation, or, in other words, becomes more social, the
industrial type of co-operation advances, and the military
loses ground. These two systems, the military and the
industrial, are so distinct and, in many respects, so
opposed to each other, that conduct which would be
good where the military system prevails might be bad
where the industrial prevails. Conditions which would
strengthen an industrial might destroy a military organi
sation. What a member of the one would esteem as a
virtue a member of the other might hate as a vice.
Individual independence, for example, and liberty of
action to the greatest extent possible consistent with the
like liberty in others, would be beneficial in the indus
trial state; they would be destructive in the military.
The chief bond wrhich keeps a military society together
being the fear of physical pain, the sympathetic emotions
are but little regarded. In an industrial society, on the
other hand, co-operation being voluntary, manifest dis
regard of emotion would be repellent, keep the members
asunder, and thereby prevent co-operation. Conduct,
therefore, of a tyrannical and cruel nature, which might
be esteemed virtuous in a military state, would be vicious
in an industrial. But, though the moral code differs in
its specific details under different circumstances, the
principle on which it is formed remains the same : con
duct tending to make co-operation easy is good, and
conduct tending to impede or prevent it is bad.
But the moral codes of different peoples, and of the
same people at different times, differ greatly, not only in
specific details; they differ also greatly in extent and
complexity. The acts enjoined as good or forbidden as
bad in a primitive society are very few, and the rules of
conduct very simple compared with such acts and rules
in a civilised nation. The reason of this is evident.
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE.
107
The wants and desires of man in the primitive stage are
few and simple. All of them, again, or almost all, are
capable of being satisfied by his own exertions. There
is, indeed, but one important exception—viz., the want
of protection from enemies. For this almost alone he
needs the aid of others. Hence military co-operation,
and that only occasional, covers for him almost the
whole area of social conduct. His rules of social con
duct are therefore few and simple, and such as belong
mainly to the military type. In a civilised nation, on
the contrary, the rules of social conduct are both numer
ous and complex. Besides those contained in public
legislation, there are the innumerable rules of private
social conduct in the family and other divisions of
society. The extent and complexity of the moral code
varies directly as co-operation increases, and co-opera
tion increases as the wants of man increase. As man
becomes evolved from a solitary and selfish into a social
animal, the necessity of co-operation constantly increases.
Self-preservation and the preservation of the society arc
indissolubly linked together. Now, a society, like all
other things that exist, can exist only on certain condi
tions. One condition essential to the existence of a
society is that the social conduct of the members of it
should be such as to draw them together. If the mem
bers of a society conduct themselves in such a manner
as to repel one another, all co-operation must cease, and
this, when man has once become a social animal, must
entail destruction. By his own solitary exertion he
could not provide for the wants of the body ; what his
mental experience would be we may judge from the
well-known fact that solitary confinement, if prolonged,
causes the destruction of the mind.
The scientific account, then, of the origin and nature
of the moral code is this. The rules of social conduct
of which the moral code consists arise from the necessity
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
of social co-operation for the preservation and well-being
of man. The aim of the moral code is, on the onehand, the prevention of all modes of conduct that are
bad, or, in other words, prevent or impede social co
operation, and, on the other hand, the encouragement
of all modes of conduct that are good, or, in other
words, promote it.
Before considering what is called “the sanction of
the moral code,” or the means by which good conduct
is encouraged and evil restrained, we will examine the
origin and nature of the moral code from the theological
point of view.
In the chapters on science the foundation of all
theology was shown to be the theory that the unknown
cause of known facts is of man-like nature. This theory
is the outcome of another, which (from its universality
among peoples who have risen to some degree of intelli
gence) seems to be a natural product of the primitive
mind—viz., that man is a twofold being, consisting of
a visible element and an invisible—the man and
his ghost or spirit. All manifestations of force are
attributed to the same cause as man knows to exist in
himself as consciousness. Primitive mind throws itself,
so to speak, into the objects around it. This is the
fetishistic stage of theology. When society becomes
developed enough to be governed by a chief, and when
the ghost theory has established the custom of worship
ping the ghost of such chief after his death, the poly
theistic stage has been attained. From this stage to the
monotheistic is but another easy and natural develop
ment of the invisible-ghost theory. Indeed, as the range
of power of personal government increases from that of
the local chief of a small tribe to that of a monarch over
all known people, the conception of monotheism becomes
inevitable. One man-like ghost rules over the whole
universe—“ King of kings and Lord of lords.”
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE 01' THE MORAL CODE.
O9
Now, the early state of society is almost wholly of the
military type, and in it consequently the form of govern
ment is despotic. The regulation of social conduct
comes from the desires and will of the chief. The
industrial type of society, where the initiative of conduct
comes from the desires and will of the individual mem
bers of the society, has in primitive times scarcely any
existence. Theology at this time supplies the ruling
theory of things. The desires and will of the invisible
man-like ghost—the God of the nation, are the source
of all authority, and from him come all commands regu
lating conduct. The visible and .living chief is the
executive officer of, and derives all his authority from,
the invisible God. Where this theory is dominant the
natural and rational deduction is, that the origin of the
moral code is the expression of the will of the invisible
man-like ghost, and that its nature is to make goodness
of conduct to consist entirely in obedience to that will,
and badness in disobedience. Conduct in conformity
with command is virtue; conduct in violation of com
mand is vice. In this theological theory the natural
results of conduct are not only irrelevant, but to take
them into consideration partakes of the nature of sin.
The single and only object in all conduct should be to
please and gratify the desire of the God by obeying his
command.
To justify this account of the theological theory of
the origin and nature of the moral code we shall give
here some theological utterances. These will be taken
from the theology most familiar to us in this country ;
but all systems of theology are in principle identical,
however different in detail. In the Hebrew theology
the first man and woman are represented as having
been placed in a garden, in which was “ every tree that
is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of
life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of
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knowledge of good and evil.” “And the Lord God
commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden
thou mayest freely eat; but of the tree of the knowledge
of good and evil thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day
that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.” Here it
is to be observed that the command was, to all appear
ance, a perfectly capricious and despotic one. No
reason is given why the fruit should not be eaten ; a
threat of punishment, simply, is uttered against the
eater. A person of any intelligence would, if he listened
to the dictate of reason, have come naturally to the con
clusion that the fruit of this tree was the fruit be ought
to eat of. Just introduced into a strange world, without
any experience either of his own or of an ancestor, he might
well think that a knowledge of the difference between
good and evil was the very thing he ought to try and
get. The tree, indeed, appears to have been made in
every way desirable—“good for food,” “ pleasant to the
eyes,” “and a tree to be desired to make one wise.”
Yet to eat of that fruit—and simply because a command
had been given against it—was so great a vice that the
misery of the whole human race does not, to the theo
logical mind, appear a punishment too great for it. Let
us take, again, the case of Abraham. “ God did tempt
Abraham, . . . and he said, Take now thy son, thine
only son Isaac, whom thou lovest. and get thee into the
land of Moriah ; and offer him there for a burnt-offering
upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.”
Here we have a command to commit one of the greatest
crimes possible. Yet Abraham, because he obeyed, and
without hesitation agreed to become the assassin of his
son, is held up to all the world as a pattern of virtue.
The God is represented as so delighted as to be moved
to swear : “ Because thou hast done this thing, and hast
not withheld thy son, thine only son : that in blessing I
will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OE THE MORAL CODE.
I II
seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is
upon the sea-shore ; and thy seed shall possess the gate
of his enemies; and in thy seed shall all the nations of
the earth be blessed ; because thou hast obeyed my voice”
Acts thus become instantly reversed in their nature the
moment a command is given : that which was a virtue
becomes a crime, that which was a crime becomes a
virtue. The whole moral code originates in the mere
will of the man-like God. The nature of virtue is that
it fulfils this will, and so pleases the God; the nature of
vice is that it thwarts this will, and so angers him. The
effect of conduct may be, in the nature of things, bene
ficial to man ; but that does not make the conduct
virtuous. Nay, this fact tends to destroy any virtuous
quality in it, making the conduct to appear the result
rather of the desire and will of the actor than of simple
obedience to the will of God. The great feature of
Abraham’s virtue was, that while the conduct prescribed
was revolting to his whole nature, he yet obeyed the
voice of command. It was the one quality of obedience
that so pleased the God as to make him swear that he
would pour blessings upon Abraham. From the theo
logical point of view, the first step towards goodness is
unquestioning obedience—becoming like a little child”
—being ready to do violence to our own conscience and
feeling and reason. “ If any man come to me, and hate
not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and
brethren, and sisters—yea, and his own life also, he
cannot be my disciple.” “ So likewise whosoever he be
of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be
my disciple.”
The contrast, then, between the theory of theology
and that of science is quite as great in regard to the
origin and nature of the moral code as we have hitherto
found it to be in other respects. Science traces the
origin of the moral code to the nature of things. Co-
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operation becoming necessary, rules of conduct become
necessary. The fact that man has become a social being
carries with it the genesis of the moral code. Theology
supposes the origin of the moral code to be found in
the mere desires and will of a man-like God. Science
asserts that the nature of the moral code, or the distinc
tion between moral good and moral evil, consists in the
effect of social conduct. If conduct tends to make co
operation easy, it is good ; if conduct makes co-opera
tion difficult or impossible, it is bad. Theology supposes
that all conduct in accordance with the desire and
command of a man-like God, whatever may be its natural
effect, is good; and that all conduct not in such accord
ance, whatever may be its natural effect, is bad. Virtue
is simply that which gives pleasure to the God; vice,
that which gives him pain. Science accounts for the
fact that the moral code is changeable, that it differs at
different times and places, by the fact that the results of
conduct—-on which results the qualities of goodness and
badness entirely depend—vary as circumstances vary.
Conduct, therefore, which, under certain conditions,
was of benefit to man as a social being may, by change
of conditions, come to have an opposite result—in other
words, virtue and vice may change places. Theology,
in primitive times, had no difficulty in accounting for
changes in the moral code : the God had changed his
mind. It was a matter of frequent experience to sec
the living chief change his desires and will, to hear him
order to-day and counter-order to-morrow. It seemed
but natural, then, that the invisible ghost-chief should
similarly change his mind and orders. Abraham does
not appear to have been in the least astonished at getting
a command to do what he would have expected to be
punished for doing the day before. In the first chapters
of Genesis, God is represented as looking at his work of
creation and being pleased—pronouncing it “ good.”
�THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF THE MORAL CODE.
II3
A few chapters further on we read of him being in a
state of disgust and despair at the way in which man,
his greatest work, had turned out. The Lord repented,
and “ it grieved him at his heart ” that he had made
man at all, and he determined to annihilate him. Un
fortunately, however, for the success of this scheme, one
family had pleased him—so pleased him that in the
work of annihilation he made an exception of it. As a
consequence, the race was preserved, and, as we are told
in the after-history, man turned out as bad as before.
To the early mind, then, no incongruity appeared in the
idea of change of mind on the part of the God. It is
otherwise with those in the present day who are capable
of attaching the attributes of infinite knowledge and
infinite wisdom to the God—attributes plainly inconsis
tent with change of mind. To such it is difficult to
conceive of infinite wisdom maintaining at one time
that “ an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth ” is
good as a principle of conduct, and maintaining at
another time that it is bad (Lev. xxiv. 20 ; Matt. v. 38).
This, however, is only one of those difficulties which,
theologians think, are best “ allowed quietly to float
away.”
The contrast between the scientific and the theo
logical explanation of the origin of the different moral
codes is very similar to that of the origin of the different
languages on the earth. The scientific explanation of
the origin and existence of different languages, as of
different race-characteristics, physical and mental, is that
they are the product of slow changes—subjective and
objective. Languages grow as the organisation of man
grows. The contrast between the Bosjesman language,
consisting of a few clicks and grunts, and the English is
similar to the contrast between the mental organisation
of one of those savages and of Shakespeare. The
English language has become what it is by gradual
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growth, according to the nature of things, under the law
of invariable order. The theological explanation of the
origin and existence of different languages is that the
man-like God created the different languages in a
moment of fright, caused by an attempt of some people
to build a tower by which they might be able to get
into heaven, his abode. “ The Lord came down to see
the city and the tower.” The result was that the Lord
considered it necessary to scatter the people by “ con
founding their language,” so that they could “ not
understand one another’s speech ” (Genesis xi. 1-9).
Similarly the theological account of the origin of the
moral code is that it sprang into existence by the God
expressing his desires and will as to the conduct of man.
As his desire and will have changed, so the moral code
has changed. Whether the will of the God be declared
in such a striking manner as when he wrote a code
with his finger on two stones and delivered them on a
mountain burning with fire, or whether it has been made
known by some prophet or priest, or by some occult
process in each man’s mind, the moral code is simply
the expression of this will.
The contrast, therefore, between the theological and
the scientific theory of the origin and nature of the
moral code is so great as to preclude the idea of any
reconcilement. We have already been compelled to
arrive at the same conclusion in comparing the prin
ciples of theology and science in regard to other
branches of knowledge. When the human race was in
its infancy it thought as a child and spoke as a child ;
but as it became more advanced it threw away its
childish theories. No one would hesitate for a moment
to acknowledge that it would be inconceivable folly for
us to cast away all the knowledge that science has given
us in astronomy, mechanics, chemistry, anatomy, surgery,
and go back to the theories and practices of primitive
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115
man. Yet men of great intelligence in regard to other
matters try to persuade themselves and others that it
is the highest wisdom for us to accept the theories of
primitive man concerning the most important subject
of all—the science of social conduct. Men who would
laugh to scorn the idea of exchanging our ocean
steamers for canoes hollowed by flint flakes, each from
a single tree, gravely ask us to “ accept ” the theories of
the infants of our race about ethics as a “ revelation
from God.”
�CHAPTER IV.
THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
Before examining the means by which social conduct
is guided, good conduct encouraged, and the bad pre
vented, it will be well to consider a preliminary question.
The idea of the necessity of a sanction for the moral
code naturally suggests to our mind that there is an
inherent weakness in it, and that force of some descrip
tion is necessary to ensure its observance. The ques
tion then arises, Why is this? Why is it necessary
to adopt means to encourage good and prevent bad
conduct ?—or, in other words, What is the origin of
moral evil ? The social conduct of man is of a mixed
nature, tending in part to increase social co-operation,
and in part to prevent it. What explanation can science
give of this undoubted fact? It certainly seems strange
that out of the same fountain should spring forth both
sweet water and bitter ; that at one time human conduct
should be attractive and beneficial to society, at another
disruptive and destructive.
The doctrine of evolution supplies the explanation of
this seeming anomaly. Man has been, and is, slowly
changing from a nature solitary and selfish to a nature
social and sympathetic. Faculties which in the first
state would be preservative are carried over into the
second, where they are destructive. As the change
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proceeds, the social and sympathetic faculties gain
strength by increased exercise, while the solitary and
selfish dwindle from corresponding disuse ; but the latter
are still in existence. It has been said, “ Scratch a
Russian and you will find a Tartar”—the meaning being
that in the Russian the sympathetic and social are but
very superficial. So, indeed, it may be said in regard
to even the most advanced nations, that man has but
partially changed from the solitary to the social, and
from the selfish—aye, even from the carnivorous—to the
sympathetic and benevolent. We have our hospitals
and orphanages, it is true ; but the scenes of the battle
field are still familiar to us. The spectacle now and
again of a strong man kicking the life out of a weak
and helpless wife, and the daily records of our police
courts, are proofs sufficient that, though man has, with
out doubt, become to a great extent a social being, he
has not ceased altogether to be a brute. In his mental
nature man occupies at present a position analogous to
that of an amphibious animal in physical evolution.
Such an animal has both lungs to breathe in air and
gills to breathe in water, and lives in both these ele
ments. So man has faculties, some suitable only for
the carnivorous, selfish, and solitary life, others only for
the social and sympathetic. These are the facts which
science finds to be explanatory of the existence of both
moral good and moral evil, and of the necessity of some
sanction for the moral code.
To the theologian so far advanced as to conceive
infinite goodness and power to be attributes of the
man-like God, the existence of moral evil is an inscrut
able mystery. If the God is infinitely good, in the
human sense, he must desire that moral evil should not
exist; and if he is infinitely powerful, he could make
his will prevail. The theologian has often made the
most desperate struggle to get off the horns of this
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dilemma, but always in vain. It has been argued that
moral evil comes, not from the good God, but from an
evil spirit called the Devil. But, then, there is no answer
to the question, Why did the good God create the Devil ?
Another attempt at explanation has been the theory that
God, having granted free will, could not interfere with it
even to prevent evil. But then, again, comes the un
answerable question, Why—the effect that must follow
being known, why was free will given ? This, even
granting that such a thing as free will exists, is fatal to
the explanation. The fact is that the existence of moral
evil is, and must be, to the theologian what he calls a
“mystery”—that is, a contradiction in terms to some
other theological theory.
We may now proceed to discuss the means by which
the moral code is enforced. These means are divisible
naturally into two classes—the subjective and the objec
tive. By the subjective sanction is meant the forces
controlling social conduct, that originate entirely in
self. When the organisation of a person is such that
he shrinks from injuring another as he would from
injuring himself, he carries within himself the means of
ensuring obedience to the moral code. He is, as St.
Paul says, “ a law unto himself.” If every individual in
a society was of a perfectly sympathetic nature, no other
sanction would be required; no laws, in fact, would
need to be formulated for the regulation of social con
duct : the whole moral code would be contained in one
short sentence—“ Love your neighbour as yourself.”*
If every individual claimed the right to exercise all his
functions so far only as was consistent with the equal
right of all the other members, there would be no
hindrance, no limit, to social co-operation, and each
* This formula, used by Jesus Christ, the Jewish reformer, as an
epitome of the moral code, was, we believe, so first used by the
Chinese reformer, Confucius.
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
I IQ
would get his just share of the result. We are far yet
from such a state of society. The old inherited nature
of selfishness is still strong enough to make itself felt in
all, and to preponderate in many. This being so, an
objective sanction becomes necessary. If within each
self there is not that which is able to secure obedience
to the moral code, then objective means must be found.
If the conduct of any member is such as to make social
co-operation difficult or impossible, the question at once
arises, Shall the social organisation be broken up and
destroyed, or shall the destructive, unsocial conduct be
prevented ? “ Two cannot walk together unless they are
agreed.” If the conduct of one gives pain to another,
that other will shrink from the cause of pain, as a deer
shrinks from a tiger. Supposing, then, the subjective
sanction absent, evidence that pain is being inflicted on
another will have either a stimulating influence to con
tinue the hurtful conduct, or, at least, none to prevent
it: hence it is evident that either such conduct must be
prevented by some objective force, or society must be
destroyed. This objective force must be of such a
nature as either to cause a change of conduct or to
make the conduct impossible. To effect the first, the
dominant desire in the actor, which caused the offensive
conduct, must be replaced by another which will become
the motive of other conduct. To make the offensive
conduct impossible, the actor may be constrained by
physical means, such as imprisonment, or he may be
put to death.
The objective sanction may be divided into two sec
tions—the public and the private. The first consists of
the means supplied by the co-operative strength of the
whole society—public legislation, an army, police,
judges, gaols, gallows, &c. The private means are sup
plied by individuals, or by sections of the general
society, such as the family, the club, the mercantile
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firm, and other forms of social organisation, the sum of
which constitutes a national society; just as the eye, the
ear, the heart, &c., each a complete organisation in
itself, form in one connected sum the organisation of
the body. Whether the means to control the conduct
be derived from the whole nation, from a section of the
nation, or from an individual, they are of the same
nature, and vary only in strength.
There are but two modes of controlling the conduct:
(i) the motive and will as the invariable antecedents
may be changed ; or (2) the conduct may be controlled
either for a time or permanently by physical force.
When the nation aims at changing the motive of the
conduct, it does so by attaching pain as a result, in
expectation that the fear of that pain will prove stronger
than the desire which caused the conduct; and, conse
quently, that, as every one must act from his strongest
desire, the conduct will be avoided in future. Among
the pains inflicted for this end are fines, imprisonment,
rigid discipline, hard labour, flogging. The means of
the private sanction differ from these in detail, but are
exactly the same in principle; that is, they are founded
on the law that conduct is the effect of the strongest
desire. The object is, invariably, to replace, by a
stronger desire, the desire that caused the offensive
conduct. Among the private means of making pain
one of the results of conduct that is offensive to others,
is the exhibition of dissatisfaction, by look or speech, by
ridicule or sarcasm. If by such means as this the object
is not gained, and the offensive conduct continues, then
either the society must be dissolved, or the offending
individual must be expelled. In the latter case his
acquaintance is shunned; he is expelled from the club,
partnership with him in the mercantile firm is dissolved.
This latter means, in the private sanction, corresponds
to hanging or penal servitude for life in the public.
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
I2 I
Bad conduct and social co-operation cannot co-exist,
any more than the physical organisation of the body can
continue if poison be introduced. Either the dose of
arsenic must be expelled, or the body must die; or if
the quantity of the poison be not sufficient to kill, yet
the health and strength of the body are proportionately
weakened. In a similar manner bad conduct weakens
or kills a society. The results, again, do not depend on
the size of the society, any more than the chemical action
of arsenic depends on the size of the body. The princi
ples that govern a party of three, co-operating to play
a musical trio, are identical with those which govern a
nation of thirty millions. Suppose one of the musical
party plays out of tune or time, either that conduct must
be changed or the concert is at an end. Four, again,
join together to play a game of whist. If one insists
upon revoking, that party or society is broken up.
The millions of the nation, like the party of three or
four, are but a number of individuals joined together for
the purpose of co-operation. If that state is to con
tinue, certain rules of conduct must be obeyed. The
moral code is a collection of these rules ; the sanction,
the means used to enforce them.
It might be thought at first that the public sanction
was by far the more important, and that the aid afforded
by the private sanction was comparatively small. Judges,
gaols, army, and police thrust themselves so con
spicuously upon our notice that this opinion is apt to be
formed. But, when we consider the matter, this is seen
to be an error. The amount of conduct that is regulated
by the private sanction is immensely greater than that
regulated by the public. The daily and hourly conduct
of every individual during life is influenced by the
private sanction. The portion that requires the com
bined strength of the nation to control it is a mere
residuum. The persons that come before judges and
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magistrates form but an insignificant fraction of the
nation. But every individual “lives, moves, and has his
being ” under the influence of the opinions and feelings
of those of his fellows with whom he comes into social
contact.
We have now traced the origin of the moral code to
the evolution of man from a solitary to a social nature ;
and of a sanction to the fact that faculties which
naturally belong to the solitary, still remain, more or
less vigorous, in the social state. We have seen that the
destructive, unsocial exercise of these must be restrained
if society is to continue; and that hence arises the
necessity for a moral code, as also for a sanction or
means of rendering it efficient.
We may now proceed to inquire into the relative
strength and efficiency of the different sanctions, public
and private. When one thinks of the marvellous com
plexity of a civilised society, “ the wheels within wheels,”
by which the functions of the social organism are
exercised, the question forces itself upon the mind,
How is such a machine kept in working order?—how
is it, in other words, that society continues to exist?
What a contrast there is in the conditions of life between
the individuals forming such a society—some whose
difficulty it is to invent a new desire to be gratified,
others so poor that their whole life is spent in a con
tinual struggle for a miserable existence 1 How is it
that all those who have nothing do not make a rush
and take from those who have ? The answer is—
Because, if they did, the safety of private property, the
right, indeed, of possessing it, would be at an end, the
whole structure of society would crumble into dust, and
primitive savagery would take its place. To sustain and
preserve such a structure as modern civilised society, the
sanction of the moral code, it is evident, must be of
great strength.
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We have now to consider the question of the effi
ciency of this sanction. A more important subject could
not engage our attention. The imagination fails to
picture to us the results which must inevitably follow a
failure of the means by which social conduct is so con
trolled as to be preservative of society. The preserva
tion of the Dutch people depends upon the strength of
the dykes, which prevent the devastating flow of the
ocean over their country. The efficiency of these dykes
is the object of the vigilant and constant attention of the
people. If a breach is made, it is instantly repaired ; if
allowed to continue, the rush of waters would soon
become uncontrollable, and all the fruits of the labour
of generations would be swept away. A land of beauti
ful gardens and fertile fields—a scene of peaceful plenty
—would be replaced by an angry ocean and its barren
waves. So would it be if the sanction of the moral code
gave way, and proved unable to restrain the selfish and
carnivorous instincts of human nature. It cannot be
denied that civilisation, the product of the social and
sympathetic instincts, is still threatened by the solitary
and selfish. Society must therefore be vigilant in stop
ping at once any breach of the moral code—any breach
in the barrier on which the safety of society depends.
In examining into the efficiency of the sanction, there is
one part of the inquiry that need not detain us long—
the efficiency of the national application of physical
strength. It is very evident that the co-operative
strength of the whole nation must soon overpower that
of any small minority of determined wrong-doers. If,
again, we suppose the latter to constitute a considerable
minority, approaching, say, to half the community, the
case is simply one of the dissolution of the nation, as
under such conditions no society could continue to exist.
The efficiency of the public sanction in producing in the
criminal a subjective sanction—that is, in changing his
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motives—is, at least, with those directly operated on,
only very partial. This is shown by the numbers who
find their way back to the gaols. It would seem that it
was impossible in some that the desire to avoid punish
ment should for any length of time be stronger than the
desire to act criminally. The latter appears by the con
stitution of their nature to be so strong that it is im
possible to substitute a stronger by any fear of punish
ment. The other alternative in dealing with them, to
evoke and cultivate the social faculties in the hope that
the desire to exercise these may became dominant—
stronger, that is, than the desire to act unsocially—must
depend for its success upon the innate character of the
criminal. If the social and sympathetic faculties are
entirely absent (as they seem to be in some), of course
they cannot be cultivated, any more than the faculty of
distinguishing musical sounds can be cultivated in those
who have been born without it. It is only of late years
that the idea of trying this mode of changing the
character of criminals has been suggested. The time,
therefore, has been too short, and the experience too
meagre, to enable us to judge what proportion of the
criminals are of such a character as to render this mode
of treatment successful. We need not, again, consider
at any length that division of the private sanction which
we named the subjective—that is, the sanction which
consists in the natural character of the individual being
such that the desires which rule his conduct lead him in
the right path. Some there are whose nature is so
thoroughly social and sympathetic that to injure another
would be to them attended with pain, and consequently
from such injury they necessarily shrink. In such natures
the old, ancestral, selfish qualities seem to have died out,
or to have become so weak as to ensure the efficiency
of the subjective sanction. The number, however, of
those who are “a law unto themselves,” like that of
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125
those who have to be constrained by the united strength
of the whole society, is but a very small fraction of the
whole.
What we have to inquire into more particularly is the
efficiency of the moral sanction over the daily conduct
of the great majority—the neither extremely good nor
extremely bad. So far, indeed, as these are by nature
of a social disposition, they possess in themselves the
subjective sanction. The desires which rule their con
duct are such as tend to sociality. But they have also,
in more or less strength, desires which, if allowed to
become dominant, would be destructive of sociality.
What are the means which are efficient enough to check
these unsocial desires ? To find an answer to this ques
tion we must look hack into the evolutional history of
the race. The primitive man being nearly altogether
selfish and solitary, requiring for his preservation little
help from his fellows, had consequently little to fear in
the loss of social co-operation. Gradually, however, as
he became less solitary and more social, his preserva
tion became more and more dependent upon the
co-operation of his fellow-men, until, as in modern
civilised nations, the individual is entirely dependent on
the society. This fact—viz., the entire dependence of
the modern social man upon the co-operative help of
society—though one seldom thought of, is a very im
portant one, and easily recognised to be such on a little
consideration. During the social and civil war in Ire
land in 1880 and 1881 Mr. Parnell, one of the leaders,
gave the following advice in a speech to the people :
“ Now, what are you to do to a tenant who bids for a
farm from which his neighbour has been evicted?
[Various shouts in answer to the question, among them
“ Kill him !” “ Shoot him !”] Now, I think I heard
somebody say, ‘ Shoot him !’ but I wish to point out to
you a very much better way, a more Christian and a
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, /IND ETHICS.
more charitable way, which would give the lost sinner
an opportunity of repenting. When a man takes a
farm from which another has been evicted, you must
show him on the roadside when you meet him, you must
show him in the streets of the town, you must show him
at the shop counter, you must show him in the fair and
in the market-place, and even in the house of worship,
by leaving him severely alone, by putting him into a
moral Coventry, by isolating him from the rest of his
kind as if he was a leper of old ; you must show him
your detestation of the crime he has committed, and,
you may depend upon it, if the population of a county
in Ireland carry out this doctrine, that there will be no
man so full of avarice as to dare the public opinion of
all right-thinking men within the country, and to trans
gress your unwritten code of laws.” Air. Parnell was
right in saying that this alternative to shooting was quite
as certain a mode of destruction, though it took a little
more time—and avoided the risk of being hung.
No individual in modern society could exist deprived
of the co-operation of society. Let us consider the
amount of co-operative help one takes advantage of by
using a pin. Before that pin became available shafts
had to be sunk into the bowels of the earth, and the
labour of mining carried on to procure the crude ore ;
this unrefined metal had to be passed through all
the processes of purification; roads had to be made ;
large buildings had to be erected ; the most elaborate
machinery had to be constructed ; many workmen had
to contribute their skill ; shopkeepers had to stand
behind their counters. All these, and many more forms
of co-operative work, were necessary before the use of a
pin became possible. But none of these forms of labour
would be possible had not capital been saved by many
generations, and left to us in the form of the products
of the labour of our fathers. Each generation inherits
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the accumulations of all those that lived before it. This
mighty inheritance is often imagined by unreflecting
people to be enjoyed only by the rich ; but it is easy to
see that every beggar who uses a pin to patch his ragged
clothes enjoys the results of incalculable labour not his
own.
During the ages of evolution, as the nature of man
grew from the solitary into the social, his social de
pendence constantly increased. With this increase of
social dependence increased his fear of the loss of social
help, until the fear became instinctive. No more general
and pronounced instinct exists in man than that by
which he detects and shrinks from any appearance of
failure in the social bands between him and his fellows.
A change in the eye, so minute as to be inexpressible
in language, when the result of good or bad will, is
immediately detected. Nothing is more valued than
the good will, and nothing more feared than the ill will,
of those with whom we are in social contact. In this
dread of the ill will of our fellows we find the answer
to the question, What is the principal and most efficient
sanction of the moral code ? In fact, this instinctive
shrinking from the loss of friendly social relations with
others becomes identified with the dread of attack upon
our means of self-preservation. Just as an organism
passing from the nature of an animal breathing in water
to that of an animal breathing in air becomes more and
more sensitive to the loss of air, so does man, as he
changes from a solitary to a social being, become more
and more sensitive to any sign of the loss of social co
operation. Perhaps the fact that few ever think of social
help as a necessity or a means of self-preservation, or
reason about it as such, may be thought to be a proof
that it therefore could not form a motive to conduct.
The answer to this is evident. The portion of our
conduct that is mediately caused by conscious thinking
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is a very small fraction of the whole. By far the greater
portion is impulsive and automatic. Not one in a
million knows, or has ever thought of, the cause of the
necessity of breathing, or how it serves as a means of
self-preservation. Yet this does not prevent us from
being most sensitive to any obstruction in the passage
of air to the lungs. Similarly, though we do not think
or reason about the necessity of society as a means of
self-preservation, we act from the instinct which has been
evolved by the fact that it is so. In practical daily life
the strongest objective force regulating social conduct is
the manifestation of the good or ill will of our fellows.
If the organisation of society is to be preserved, certain
modes of conduct of the units of which it is composed
must be observed—or, in other words, the sanction of
the moral code must be efficient. In like manner, if the
organism of the body is to be preserved, the action of
its parts must be of a certain kind. When the action
is not of this kind, but such as tends to the destruction
of the body, the action is accompanied by the feeling
of pain. So when conduct tends to the destruction of
society it causes pain, and from this we shrink, as a
symptom of danger to our power of self-preservation, as
in fact it is. When, therefore, our conduct tends to
deprive us of the good will and social help of our
fellows, we shrink from it, and so are prevented from
repeating it. This instinctive dread, then, of the loss
of social help—a dread of which the manifestation of
repugnance in our fellows is the objective cause—forms
the efficient sanction to the moral code in the greater
part of social conduct. As we have already said, the
bad conduct which it fails to prevent, and which has to
be dealt with by the public sanction, forms but a small
fraction of the whole.
The following is a summary of the means by which
the moral code is preserved :—
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1. The sanction of the united strength of the whole
society exercised by public officers.
2. The subjective sanction, consisting of the sym
pathetic and social faculties, which cause the person, of
himself, to refrain from conduct injurious to others.
3. The exhibition of disapprobation by those imme
diately affected, which, by producing fear of the loss of
social help, acts as a deterrent against the repetition of
the conduct.
We will now examine and contrast the efficiency of
the theological sanction of the moral code. As the
theological moral code consists of the expressed desires
and will of a man-like God, so its sanction is found in
his feelings of love or anger. Those who please the
God by doing what he wishes are rewarded, and those
who anger him by not doing what he wishes are pun
ished. In the early days of theology the divine rewards
and punishments were supposed to be administered
during this life, and by natural means. Our illustra
tions of these facts will be taken from the Jewish and
Christian theology with which we arc more familiar.
But, as we have already remarked, all theologies, though
differing in details, are in essence the same. In all the
conception of God is an exaggerated image of man.
God is said to act and feel and think as the people at
the time would have acted, felt, and thought. He was
simply the invisible chief or king of the tribe or nation.
He, like the visible king, was extremely jealous, and
was most vigilant to detect any disloyalty or disobe
dience. As we have seen, disobedience to a command
was vice, and obedience virtue. The nature of the
command was irrelevant; it might be apparently silly
or wise, good or wicked—man had simply to obey. As
the nature of the theological moral code is determined
entirely by the personal wishes of the God, so does its
sanction consist of the rewards or punishments which it
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
is his pleasure to dispense. In primitive times these
rewards and punishments were supposed to be awarded
always in this life, and often very promptly. For
example, when Elisha, a prophet of the Lord, was going
to Bethel, some “ little children ” made a personal and
rude remark about his baldness. The prophet “cursed
them in the name of the Lord.7’ “ And there came
forth two she bears out of the wood, and tare forty and
two children of them” (2 Kings ii. 23, 24). Again, a
prophet, having been sent by the Lord on an errand,
and commanded not to eat bread or drink water in a
certain place on his way home, was met by another
prophet. This prophet told the other that an angel of
the Lord had told him to bring the first prophet home
with him to eat bread and drink water. This was un
true ; but the other, believing it, accepted the invitation.
When the two sat at table “ the word of the Lord came
unto the prophet that had brought him back.” This
word, one might expect, would inform the deceiver that
the Lord would punish
On the contrary, it was
to the effect that the Lord would punish, not the
deceiver, but the deceived. Accordingly, when the
latter was on his road home, “a lion met him by the
way and slew him” (1 Kings xiii.). In a similar
manner, when Jonah, trying to evade an order of the
Lord to go to Nineveh, took a passage in a ship going
to Tarshish, “ the Lord sent out a great wind into the
sea.” This created a great panic among the crew, and,
they having no doubt that the storm was sent for a
moral purpose—viz., the punishment of some wrong
doer—they cast lots to see who he was. The lot falling
upon Jonah, they asked him what they were to do.
“ And he said unto them : Take me up and cast me
forth into the sea; so shall the sea be calm unto you ;
for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon
you.” Jonah having been pitched over, the sea became
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calm at once. However, the Lord, not wishing to kill
Jonah, “had prepared a great fish to swallow” him.
And after three days and three nights Jonah prayed to
the Lord. “And the Lord spake unto the fish, and it
vomited out Jonah upon the dryland” (Jonah i. and
ii.). On one occasion fifty thousand and seventy people
were smitten by the Lord because some of them had
looked into a box which he had got made for his own
special purposes (Sam. vi. 19). Again, he sent a famine
for three successive years on a whole people, and, on
David inquiring the cause of it, the Lord told him it
was on account of “ Saul and for his bloody house,
because he slew the Gibeonites.” Seven sons of the
dead Saul were accordingly given up to the Gibeonites,
who “ hanged them in the hill before the Lord.” “ And
after that God was entreated for the land ” (2 Sam. xxi.).
Ananias and his wife Sapphira were struck dead for
stating what was false, though the old prophet was not
(Acts v.). Herod “ was eaten of worms ” because, when
the people said he had the voice of a God, Herod, not
declining the compliment, “ gave not God the glory ”
(Acts xii. 23). God is represented as a lion and as a
leopard : “ As a leopard by the way will I observe them ;
I will meet them as a bear that is bereaved of her
whelps, and will rend the caul of their heart; and there
will I devour them like a lion ; the wild beast shall tear
them” (Hosea xiii. 7, 8). “The Lord Jesus shall be
revealed from heaven with his mighty angels, in flaming
fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and
that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ ”
(2 Thess. i. 7, 8). “For our God is a consuming fire”
(Heb. xii. 29). The punishment of the wicked is to
be not only the most excruciating conceivable by the
imagination, but everlasting. The following are some
of the details of it, as given in a little tract, written
permissu superioruni for young children, by an ecclesi-
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astic of most appropriate name—the Rev. J. Furniss :—
“ The sinner lies chained down on a bed of red-hot,
blazing fire! When a man, sick of fire, is lying on
even a soft bed, it is pleasant sometimes to turn round.
If the sick man lies on the same side for a long time,
the skin comes of, the flesh gets raw. How will it be
when the body has been lying on the same side on the
scorching, broiling fire for a hundred millions of years ?
Now look at that body lying on the bed of fire. All
the body is salted with fire. The fire burns through
every bone and every muscle. Every nerve is trembling
and quivering with the sharp fire. The fire rages inside
the skull, it shoots out through the eyes, it drops out
through the ears, it roars in the throat as it roars up a
chimney. So will mortal sin be punished ! Yet there
are people in their senses who commit mortal sin !”*
“ Amos iv., ‘ The days shall come when they shall
lilt you up on pikes, and what remains of you in boiling
pots.’ Look into this little prison. In the middle of it
there is a boy, a young man. He is silent; despair is
on him. He stands straight up. His eyes are burning
like two burning coals. Two long flames come out of
his ears. His breathing is difficult. Sometimes he
opens his mouth, and breath of blazing fire rolls out of
it. But listen 1 There is a sound just like that of a
kettle boiling. Is it really a kettle which is boiling ?
No. Then what is it ? Hear what it is. The blood is
boiling in the scalded veins of that boy. The brain is
boiling and bubbling in his head. The marrow is boil
ing in his bones. Ask him, put the question to him,
* And, what is more wonderful, there are people who ask us to
love a God who is the author of the horrors described. Surely
Bacon was right in saying : “ It were better to have no opinion of
God at all than such an opinion as is unworthy of him ; for the one
is unbelief, the other is contumely.”
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Why is he thus tormented? His answer is, that when
he was alive his blood boiled to do very wicked things,
and he did them, and it was for that he went to dancing
houses, public-houses, and theatres.”
“ Psalm xx., ‘ Thou shalt make him as an oven of
fire in the time of Thy anger.’ You are going to see
again the child about which you read in ‘ The Terrible
Judgment ’ that it was condemned to hell. See! it is
a pitiful sight. The little child is in this red-hot oven.
Hear how it screams to come out! See how it turns
and twists itself about in the fire ! It beats its head
against the roof of the oven. It stamps its little feet
on the floor of the oven. You can see on the face of
this little child what you see on the face of all in hell—
despair, desperate and horrible !”
These examples of the deterrent sanction of the theo
logical moral code might be multiplied to any extent.
But the few given are enough for our purpose. The
principle on which their efficiency depends is the creat
ing in the mind such a terror of an invisible man-like
God that the desire to avoid his vengeance shall always
be dominant over every other desire. It must be allowed
that, if faith sufficiently strong could be always present
in the mind, there could be no doubt as to the efficiency
of this theological sanction. But the want of such faith
is the great difficulty. Even in the minds of primitive
men, when faith in the existence of a man-like God who
personally interfered in the affairs of this world was at
its strongest, the potency of the unseen was strikingly
inferior to that of the seen. The number and magni
tude of the miraculous interferences of the Jewish God
were marvellous, but not more so than the transience
and insignificance of their effects upon the conduct of
the people. Famine, plague, pestilence, and war were
used times innumerable, and once the whole human
race except one family were drowned—all to compel the
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people to comply with the wishes of their God. Yet a
great part of their sacred books is taken up with his
angry threats and curses, and the most pitiful and des
pairing complaints of their inveterate wickedness.
If the deterrent sanction was apparently a failure in
preventing wickedness, so was the attempt to promote
good conduct by rewards. As we have seen, the theo
logical threats are of the most exaggerated description.
So also are the promises. In this world those who obey
and please the God are to have riches, long life, numer
ous children, strength to conquer their enemies, and to
annihilate them by the slaughter of men, women, and
children. But all these rewards appear to have had
very little effect in producing good conduct. Abraham,
Jacob, and David, the three greatest favourites of their
God, and to whom were given the largest favours,
showed by their conduct a most depraved disposition.
Apparently they had but one good quality—viz., wil
lingness to obey and flatter the God. But, from the
theological point of view, this is the sum and substance
of morality. No one except a person of the most
degraded character could act as Abraham is said to have
acted to his wife, his concubine, and his son. Yet he
is held up as an example of goodness. Jacob was the
most contemptible deceiver. Yet not only in spite of
his deceit, but by means of it, he secures a blessing
from his God. His brother Esau, who seems to have
been an honourable and generous man, is forsaken.
David appears to have been born a natural criminal.
Having formed a band of all the desperadoes in the
country, he began life as a brigand chief. During life
he committed the greatest crimes, and on his death-bed
requested his son to murder a man whom he was in
honour bound to protect. Yet this criminal was “ the
man after God’s own heart.” Blessings were showered
upon him. When he offended his God he was not
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punished personally, but his innocent subjects were
slaughtered. All the favours bestowed upon him, how
ever, did not make his character a moral one. Again,
the blessings bestowed on the nation appear to have
been equally insufficient in promoting good conduct.
The sea was divided for their safe passage, and closed
again to drown their enemies. Food was showered
down on them. From rocks in the dry desert were
made to spring forth fountains. The sun and moon
were made to stand still for a whole day to give them
light to kill their enemies. During a battle the God
interfered personally, and pelted their enemies with
stones. The inhabitants of a land flowing with milk
and honey were slaughtered without mercy or pity even
for the children, and the country given to them. But
by the history we are told that all these marks of favour
bestowed by their God were quite as inefficient as the
punishments, in promoting morality.
Taking, then, the history esteemed sacred and true
by theologians, the divine sanction of punishment and
blessing was a failure. It had been tried, the history
says, from the creation until the coming of Christ, who
was supposed to be an incarnation of the God. Him
they crucified. The nation then, upon whom the theo
logical sanction of morals had' been tried for so long,
was at last cast off as incorrigible.
For now nearly two thousand years the theology which
failed with the Jews as a sanction of morality has been
tried with other nations.* What has been the amount
of success of this latter trial ? Have the altered forms
of Christianity given it more efficacy as a sanction of
* It is not exactly correct to say that the Jewish and the Chris
tian theologies are identical. The latter is in some respects dif
ferent ; but in essential principles they are, as all theologies are,
the same.
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morality ? There is no doubt that the great majority
are quite convinced that all the advance in civilisation
which has been made in Europe since the beginning of
Christianity is to be attributed to the Christian theology.
To doubt this would sound to them as ridiculous as to
doubt one of the mathematical axioms. That all the
advance which man has made in morality during this
time is a product of Christianity, and that, if faith in it
was lost, the people would lapse into savagery, are held to
be self-evident propositions. Before examining what
amount of verification this opinion receives from facts, it
will be necessary to use one of the scientific methods—
viz., to define exactly the meaning of a word—the word
Christianity. Of all the number who assert that Chris
tianity has been, if not the only, certainly the principal
cause of the advance in civilisation, very few have ever
translated the word Christianity into clear and definite
thought in their own minds. If they did so, it would be
found that there were great diversities in the meanings
attached to the word. In fact, a great part of the history
of the Christian theological era is a dismal and melan
choly narrative of savage and sanguinary wars caused by
differences of opinion upon this subject among so-called
Christian peoples. With these differences we need not
trouble ourselves : our present object being to inquire
into the efficiency of the theological sanction of morality,
we will consider Christianity only as a theology. We
therefore define Christianity as a theory of the nature of
God. What amount of truth there may be in the moral
maxims attributed to Christ, whether these maxims were
original or copied, are irrelevant to our subject. Chris
tianity, then, a sa theology, differs but in detail from the
Jewish, and, indeed, all other theologies. God in his
nature is supposed to be knowable, and this nature is
pronounced to be man-like. The mode in which Chris
tianity differs in detail from the Jewish theology is
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chiefly this. Christianity supposes that the man-like
God of the Jews appeared on this earth as an infant,
lived as a human being for about thirty years, was killed,
rose from his grave, and ascended into the sky, pro
mising to come again in like manner. On this second
visit he is to sit on a throne as the judge of all the
earth. Before this throne the whole human race is to
stand. Christ the judge is to divide it into two parts—
one, on his right hand, consisting of those with whom he
is pleased, and one, on his left, consisting of those with
whom he is angry. The people on the left are to be
sent into hell to suffer everlasting torment; those on
the right are to remain with the Lord, and to enjoy for
ever a new heaven and a new earth expressly created for
them in place of the present universe, which is to be
entirely burnt up. Such is an outline of the Christian
theology. The principal difference between it and the
Jewish theology, of which it is an offshoot, consists in
its postponing the complete reward and punishment for
good and bad conduct to an indefinite future, while the
Jewish sanction was for the most part applicable in the
present life. Christ himself is reported to have expressly
warned his hearers on one occasion against giving objec
tive events a moral significance, though many imagine
even in the present day that they see in such events
“ the finger of God.” When towers of Siloam fall and
people are killed, the conclusion is drawn that the God
has personally interfered for the punishment of evil
conduct. But, still, the great characteristic of the Chris
tian sanction is that it will come into full operation in
some indefinite future. The question to which we have
to seek an answer is, What degree of efficiency has this
theology as a sanction of the moral code? On the
supposition that the mind was always possessed with
perfect faith in these theological dogmas, one must
allow that believers would have the strongest motive to
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
follow conduct pleasing to the God, and to refrain from
that which would anger him. The facts of history,
however, and our own observation negative the conclu
sion that the sanction of theology has been or is so
efficient as the great majority suppose. During what
are called the Middle Ages, when faith in theology was
at its strongest, morality, in the scientific sense, was
almost at its lowest—or, in other words, social co
operation existed but in a very imperfect condition.
War and violence were predominant. Conduct was
such as allowed of a state of military co-operation; but
it was almost prohibitory of the industrial. Acts of
what theologians call piety were frequent and general—
acts, that is, supposed to be personally pleasing to the
God, such as praying to and praising him, suffering
self-inflicted pain and annoyance of many kinds, giving
money and power to men supposed to be his ministers,
building gorgeous and costly temples in his honour.
These and similar acts which, from the theological point
of view, were good were, no' doubt, very prevalent; but,
from a scientific point of view, they have no element of
moral goodness. Then, under the influence of theology
and justified by deduction from its dogmas, conduct was
followed which theologians thought good—viz., persecu
tion even unto death of those esteemed to be enemies
of the God, so-called heretics.* In the past, then,
facts do not verify the conclusion that theology has
furnished an efficient sanction of the moral code.
* The reasoning by which this conduct was justified was un
answerable if the assumptions of the theologians were granted. If
it was true that a heretic was the cause of inflicting eternal pain
upon his neighbours as well as upon himself, the fact would justify
any means necessary to prevent such a result. From the scientific
point of view, however, the persecution of heretics is most immoral;
and, consequently, as the influence of science increases, persecution
for heresy diminishes.
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Whether in the present it is so every one must judge
from his own observation. The prevalence of such
sayings as “ The nearer the church the further from
heaven ” indicates that the theologically-minded people
are found by many not to be conspicuous for good
social conduct. The nations in which faith in theology
remains the strongest at the present day are certainly
not in the front rank of civilisation, nor do they furnish
striking examples of obedience to the moral code. The
southern Italians, the Spaniards, and the Irish are pre
eminently theological, but are not so conspicuous for
their good social qualities. High in the scale of piety,
they are low in that of morality. The same holds good
if we compare the Eastern with the Western nations.
Obedience to the moral code is not necessarily found
where faith in theology is strongest, as we might expect
it to be if the efficiency of the theological sanction of
morals was so great as is generally supposed.
The following considerations go a long way to account
for this fact:—
1. What is distant does not make so vivid an impres
sion as what is near. Hearing of the death of thousands
by an earthquake in a distant country does not produce
so much effect upon us as the death of a pet canary in
our parlour. So the influence of the prospect of a
heaven or a hell to be enjoyed or suffered in a distant
and indefinite future is not so great as the pains and
pleasures of daily life. Theological writers have been
unconsciously moved by this weakness to endeavour, by
exaggeration of description, to make up for the dimness
of distance. Hence we have such writing as we have
quoted from the Bible and from the Rev. J. Furniss's
book. Strong language and a weak cause are often
found together. There are, however, two occasions
when theology has great influence upon conduct—viz.,
the time of fanatical excitement and the time of death.
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
Happily for society, the outbursts of fanaticism are, in
their nature, transient, and the conduct of a person
whose life is practically at an end can be of little con
cern to society. But the conduct of men during the
time when their theological views are calmest and
clearest shows us that, in the ordinary daily life of the
great majority, the influence of theology is comparatively
small. Theologians themselves show that they are con
scious of this fact. In their worship of the God they
acknowledge that they are “miserable sinners” who
have followed continually the devices and desires of
their own hearts, and have forgotten him. And, as this
confession is constantly repeated, it shows that this
failure of theological influence is chronic and incurable.
Theoretically, it is felt that our relation to the invisible,
man-like being who is in all his attributes infinite, is
immeasurably more important than our relation to our
fellow-men; but the constant realisation of our relation
to the latter in actual experience more than balances the
theoretical and unverifiable statements of our relation to
the former.
2. All theologies contain devices and plans by which
the supposed anger of the God can be turned aside and
his forgiveness obtained. There is no limit up to the
last moment of life to the amount of forgiveness obtain
able. It is a frequent occurrence for a murderer to state
on the gallows that he is perfectly certain of having
been forgiven, and of being received into the favour of
God forever. By the plans of salvation so provided, a
lifetime of crime is obliterated and an eternity of bliss
secured. It is quite evident how this is calculated to
lessen the strength of the theological sanction. A whole
life may be spent in the most immoral ways, and yet,
by the appointed means, the angry God is instantly
changed into a God of infinite love. No doubt death
may come so suddenly that there will be no time to get
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141
“ fortified by the rites of the Church but the chances
are largely against this.
3. The theological view of the nature of moral law
has a tendency to increase the temptation to evil
conduct. As we have already seen, the essence of
virtue is obedience to the command of God. It may
be, therefore, that the natural results of forbidden con
duct would be good and pleasant. The first case of a
breach of the moral law, as stated in our own theology,
is an example of this. In the nature of things there
was every reason to eat the apple: the supposed com
mand was the sole obstacle. It is, therefore, a very
common and natural error to imagine that a life of im
morality would be the more pleasant so far as this world
is concerned; that the balance of good would lean
heavily on the side of much that is called sin if its
natural results alone were put into the scale. The sup
posed anger of God is what alone turns the beam to
the other side. If our life ended with the grave, the
theologically good man would be of all men most
miserable. This view, so entirely false if science is
true, has a very prejudicial effect, especially upon the
young.
4. Theology has a marked tendency to concentrate the
attention upon conduct which affects, or is supposed to
affect, the God alone, and which is useless to our fellow
creatures—viz., praying to and praising him, denying
ourselves some good in hopes that he will be pleased
by our discomfort, accepting a revelation and clinging
to a creed ; and, to enable us to do this, flinging away
our reason and assenting to the most palpable nonsense.
This surrender of reason theology considers the greatest
of all virtues—so great a virtue that our eternal happi
ness is said to depend upon it. Whatever else a man
may lack, if he has faith, he will be saved ; the greatest
sin, on the other hand, being what theologians call free
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SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
thought. Experience proves that it is on these apd
such-like things that the theological mind tends to con
centrate itself. Yet all this pious conduct is not only
socially useless, but somej.of it most injurious.
We have now given some reasons for doubting that
theology acts as a moral sanction with anything like
the efficiency that is generally thought. Only in a few
cases has it any great influence on conduct, and even
in these the conduct is, for the most part, not moral
in the scientific sense—that is to say, the conduct is not
social conduct; it affects no other person than the actor
and the God. Where, again, social good conduct does
accompany theological belief, it is impossible to say how
much has been caused by the theological belief and how
much by natural sympathy of character. We have
reason to believe, therefore, that the general opinion
of the efficiency of the theological sanction is far from
correct.
On the other hand, in the present day, theology has
an influence which, instead of sustaining and strength
ening the ascendency of the moral code, cuts at its very
root. If there be one virtue more important and funda
mental than any other, it is truthfulness. The greatest
love and reverence for truth, and the most sensitive
shrinking from the least contact With falsehood,- are cha
racteristics of the most moral. On the other hapd, a
disregard for truth, and a tendency to quibble, deceive',...
and lie, are marks of a low moral nature. This great,
if not greatest of all virtues, truthfulness, theology has- a
distinct tendency to weaken. This tendency is the
growth of modern times. When theology as “a theory
of things ” had the ground all to itself, when faith in itsdogmas was undoubting and universal, theology and
truthfulness were not inconsistent. One cannot^ read
the letters of such a man as St. Paul, a theologian in a
theological age, without seeing at once that he was
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
143
truthful. Whatever we may think of some of the
theories, we cannot doubt the truthfulness of the man.
But, in the present day, go into a mixed society, and
you find the theologically-minded certainly not con
spicuous for truthfulness. Tffeir look and their manner
do not impress you,-with the idea that openness, honesty,
and veracity are in them pronounced characteristics.
The reason of this it is easy to understand. Theology,
ever since science became her rival and threatened to
supersede her, has fislt the necessity of defe.nding'herself.
How was she to do so ? The attacks of science con
sisted simply in. the discovery of truths which were
verifiable by evidence./ These truths, in many instances,
contradicted the theories and assertions, of theology.
Either, then, the revelations, that theology had “ac
cepted ” and the creeds that she had “ clung to ” must,
if truth is to be preserved, be cast away, or science must
'be proved false. The latter was impossible, and the
former too painful; the only other course open was the
sacrifice of truthfulness. This sacrifice of truthfulness’,
though very real, is for the most part unconscious on
the part jp,f those imbued with the theological spirit. It
is truly marvellous what, a power a wish exercises over
thought. The .reading^ of books in defence of the old
revelations against, the - attacks of the discoveries of
' science is.no pleasant reading. The attempts at direct
defence of'errors, and, where direct defence is plainly
impossi§le/-the attempts at reconcilement of the new
truths with the old errors, are repulsive to an open,
honfest, truth-loving mind. On the part of theology
there*is,’ therefore, in modern days, when a transition is
taking place from the principles [of theology to the prin
ciple^ of science, a distinct tendency to weaken instead
of- to. strengthen veracity—one of the most essential
virtue^ in the moral code. This, in a scientific age,
musthe the result of “ accepting revelations,” “ clinging
�144
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
to creeds,” and “ loving finality in belief.” The whole
spirit and all the methods of science have exactly the
opposite tendency. Truth, and truth alone, is the
object of all her love, the reward of all her labour, and
the goal of all her ambition. Falsehood and error are
to her the greatest of enemies, and from them she
shrinks with instinctive fear.
There is another weakness in the theological sanction
of morals which the rise of science has created, and
which she is destined to increase as time goes on—viz.,
the liability of the mind towards doubt and disbelief in
the fundamental hypothesis of theology. The moral
code—as theology puts it—rests entirely on the assump
tion that God is a man-like being; and its only sanction
is the expectation that this God will reward those who
by good conduct please him, and punish those who dis
please him by bad. It is evident that every shade of
doubt that passes over the theological mind as to the
truth of the theological dogmas must diminish the effi
cacy of such a sanction, and that total disbelief must
entirely destroy it. Those brought up in the belief that
the foundation of the moral code is the existence of a
man-like God, and that its only sanction is his pleasure
and anger, if this belief be once lost, are left without
any motive for choosing good conduct and avoiding bad.
The nature of things, of course, in time corrects this
error. But how many young people are miserably
wrecked before they are aware of having left the safe
and true course of conduct 1 Nature isj a stern and
relentless teacher; those who come into collision with
her laws are ground into powder. The lesson is taught
that the theological idea of the possibility of breaking
the laws of the universe is a terribly false one. In how
many instances does this teaching—that we may act
and escape the natural consequences—involve the indi
vidual who accepts it in destruction !
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
145
“The moving finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on. Nor all your piety and wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wipe out a word of it.”
Knowing, then, this danger of losing faith in the
dogmas of theology, we need not wonder that the minds
of many are kept in continual dread lest those under
their care should come into contact with the light of
science. But every day it becomes more difficult to
avoid the danger. Some, whose minds tend to take a
pessimistic view, are persuaded that the rapid increase
in the discoveries of science makes it probable that in
the near future we shall be overtaken by a great moral
catastrophe. The great mass of the people will sud
denly become conscious of the fact that theology has no
foundation but in the imagination; and that the effect
of this will be that the moral code, thus left without any
sanction, will with the dogmas of theology become a
thing of the past. The necessary consequence, of
course, must be that society will be dissolved. Every
man’s hand will be against his fellow. Although it can
not be denied that in individual cases there is real
danger in making the moral code to rest entirely upon a
theological basis, yet science supplies some adequate
reasons for not accepting the anticipations of the pes
simists. z All the operations of evolution are very slow.
The moral code is the growth of ages, and is the result
of the growth of man into the social state. For man to
revert back into the unsocial, selfish, unsympathetic, and
solitary nature suddenly would be as impossible as it
was for him to pass suddenly from the latter to the
social and sympathetic. But so long as man rerftains a
social and sympathetic being he must live in such a
manner as makes society possible ; and the moral code
is nothing but the rules of conduct necessary for this
end. Even if we granted that the loss of faith in theo-
�146
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
logy would be necessarily followed by the discrediting
of the moral code, the doctrine of evolution would
forbid us to anticipate that the theological mind could
be suddenly changed, any more than that the colour of
the skin of a Nubian could be suddenly changed into
that of a European. The changes of tone and inclina
tion of mind are sudden only in appearance, not in
reality. The appearance of suddenness is caused by
our ignorance of the preceding links of cause and effect.
The change from theology to science, like all evolu
tionary changes, must be slow. So slowly indeed is the
change taking place that to observe it we must make
comparison of periods separated by some interval of
time. While, then, the fears of the pessimists are not
supported by facts, it is certainly true that in the present
age there is real danger in teaching the theological doc
trine, that the only sanction of the moral code is faith
in the existence of a man-like God. This being an unverifiable hypothesis, and science destroying the tradi
tional props which support it, we are justified in asserting
that the efficiency of the theological sanction of the
moral code, small as it at present is, is constantly be
coming less and less.
We may now summarise the contrast between the
scientific and the theological sanction to the moral code.
The scientific sanction rests on the nature of things.
In man has been evolved in some degree a sympathetic
nature, by which the pain and injury of others become
self-pain and self-injury. This sympathetic nature is the
subjective sanction. Secondly, living in society, a con
dition of life which to a sympathetic nature becomes a
necessity, he is continually surrounded by the influence
of his fellows. Whenever his conduct is painful or in
jurious to these, he finds it resented. Whenever it is
beneficial he finds it encouraged. This constant, ever
present influence of the many upon the individual consti-
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
147
tutes the objective sanction. The theological subjective
sanction consists in the assumed influence of an assumed
man-like God upon the thoughts and feelings of man—
an influence by which man is guided in his conduct.
The objective sanction consists partly in the anger and
vengeance of the assumed man-like God against those
who disobey his commands, and partly in favours and
rewards to those who by obedience please him. This
sanction not being applicable during life, its efficacy
depends entirely upon faith as to the indefinite future.
The scientific sanction is verifiable by experience; the
theological is not. The scientific is strengthened by
every increase of knowledge ; the theological is thereby
weakened. Hence the efficacy of the one is destined to
increase ; of the other, to diminish. In the present age
the theological part of Christianity is being gradually
less and less insisted upon, while its moral part, which
can be supported by science, is being more and more
depended upon as its essential and permanent element.
Theologians, as their minds become influenced by the
scientific spirit, consciously or unconsciously, rest the
defence of their system upon the moral side, and allow
the theological, with all its “ difficulties,” “ quietly to
float away.” They address the conscience with greater
confidence than the intelligence.
It cannot be denied that this revolution of thought is
accompanied with pain, especially to those in whose
minds sentiment is strong. All who have passed through
the change can testify to this pain, by experience. The
fear of the greater moral pain of shutting their eyes to
the truth, and so doing violence to conscience, alone
enabled’them to endure the laceration of feeling expe
rienced in parting with an “ accepted revelation ” and
letting go the grasp of a creed that had been “clung to”
as we cling to the gift received in our childhood from a
mother. How little some theologians think of this when
�148
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
they hurl their anathemas against those whose faith in
theology has passed away, withered and burnt by the
rays of the sun of knowledge ! To these anathemas we
would only reply, in the spirit of the beautiful prayer
attributed to Christ: “We forgive you, for you know
not what you do.” But, if the pain of change is neces
sarily great, the reward of truthfulness is greater. To
be free from all the artificial difficulties and mysteries
which are generated by theology, to be no longer com
pelled to try to force, not only our intelligence, but our
conscience, to “ accept ” the existence of a God such as
is imagined in the ancient revelations, is an unspeakable
relief. This “ peace of mind which passeth all under
standing” is a recompense full and overflowing into the
hearts of those who have had the courage and conscience
to struggle from darkness into light.
We have now arrived at the end of our task. To the
best of our skill and knowledge we have given a sketch
of what we conceive to be the main principles which
dominate modern thought on science, theology, and
ethics.
But before concluding it will perhaps be well to add
a few words on a question that is not unlikely to arise
in the mind of a reader. Granting the future triumph
of science and the future decay of theology, does this
involve the necessity of man being compelled to live
a life unwarmed by sentiment—a life without other
motive for conduct than escape from the evil, and enjoy
ment of the pleasure, possible in the facts that at each
moment surround him ? Can he no longer have, amid
the changing and fleeting experiences of the day, any
star above him, fixed and constant, that may serve as a
guide to some certain goal towards which he can feel it
to be his highest duty ever to direct his steps ? The
first reply to this inquiry must be that, whether the
results of truth be apparently pleasant or apparently
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
149
painful, it must always be our duty as well as our best
interest to accept them loyally and without hesitation.
Again, though theology must disappear before the light
of science, it does not necessarily follow that religion
likewise must so disappear. We are warned by an
ancient proverb of the danger of putting “ new wine
into old bottles we have already found it necessary to
mark the difference in meaning of the word law as it is
employed in science and in common use. In the latter,
it always carries with it the idea of personality; in
science, never. So it is with the word religion. As
generally used, it means—the worship of, and devotion
to, God as a person. In this sense science can have
nothing to do with religion. As we have seen, science
has proved that a knowledge of the nature of God is
beyond the capability of the human mind. She has
shown that we are confined to a mere spot on the shore,
as it were, of the great ocean of existence, and that
theories of what exists “ in the fountain of the great
deep ” serve but to render turbid the waters at the spot,
and along that shore to which we are confined. But
accepting as a definition of the word religion—“ The
obligation or sense of duty which rests on the minds of
men arising from the felt relation in which they stand to
some superior Power,” it becomes possible for science to
have a religion. Science has taught us that of a begin
ning in the universe, so far as the mental eye of man
can penetrate, there appears no sign. To our vision
there has been, is, and ever will be, a ceaseless chang
ing of facts and a perpetual re-arranging of their
relations. The first grand triumph of science was to
perceive that amid this infinite movement exists eternal,
invariable order. Thus, though the forms of force in
its manifestations through mind and matter, self and
not-self, be infinite in variety and number, all our pre
sent knowledge leads to the conviction that there exists
�J5°
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
but one Power, the nature of which is to us inconceiv
able. In our own day, again, science has made another
great contribution to our knowledge of the universe—
perhaps the greatest she has ever made—in the dis
covery of evolution. She has discovered that in the
ocean of existence not only does every ripple upon its
surface move with invariable order, but that there are
tides and currents that rise and fall and have a deter
mined set. These currents are so slow that their pro
gress is observable only when long periods of time are
brought into view ; but the directions are marked, and
have in some degree been traced. Leaving aside the
contemplation of the evolution of the material worlds
of our solar system from a fiery vapour to their present
state, let us fix our attention upon the current of evolu
tion with which we are more immediately concerned—
viz., the evolution of the human race. Each individual,
beginning as a speck of shapeless matter and growing
on to complete manhood, but rehearses in miniature the
evolutionary history of his race. Every step in this
progress was, looked at by itself, a mere ripple on the
ocean of existence; the effect of the one preceding, the
cause of |he next to follow; but, at the same time, the
current of w’hich it formed a part moved on. Neither
the beginning nor the end of this current can we know;
but we can discover enough to see its set or direction.
We have been passing from the simple to the complex
in material organisation, and in all the manifestations
of mind. If the history of this development could be
fully written, it would be seen to have consisted of a
“continuous adjustment of the internal relations of
each individual to the external relations.” On the
success of this adjustment have always depended life and
happiness. In other words, the wTell-being in the
highest sense of every individual depends, and always
has depended, upon his keeping within the current of
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
I51
evolution in which he exists, and to which he is related.
Here, then, it appears, we have all the materials for a
true or scientific religion. As Bishop Butler says, “ It
is manifest that nothing can be of consequence to man
kind, or any creature, but happiness.” Hence there
can be no greater obligation or higher duty than that of
producing human happiness. By the light of scientific
knowledge we can perceive that this object is the one
towards which sets the current of human evolution.
From the beginning of the human race the capacity for,
and possibility of, attaining happiness has been evolving
by the working of that inconceivable Power to which
science leads us to attribute all the facts of the universe.
Where can we find a higher object—a more sacred duty
—to set before us than the constant aim to keep in step
with this evolutionary march of our race ?
“ From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again and better still
In infinite progression.”
The uniformity of order, indeed, in the working of the
universe we cannot in the slightest degree destroy. We
may by moving across or against the “ Infinite pro
gression ” hurt others, and be trodden under foot our
selves. In doing this, however, w'e shall brBak no law,
anger no man-like God ; we shall simply
destroyed.
“ Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall 4!e also reap.”
If we sow evil, we reap pain; if good, we reap pleasure.
If, then, this scientific religion were adopted, it would
surely be capable of satisfying the sentimental or
emotional part of our nature, enabling us to feel, as
it would, that we are, in the highest and truest sense,
working with God. On the practical side, again, this
religion might be described as life-work of which the
single end is to promote the well-being and the happi
ness of man. Such religion science, and science alone,
�152
SCIENCE, THEOLOGY, AND ETHICS.
can enable us to practise. Every fresh revelation she
makes to us of natural law gives us new fitness, puts
into our hands new means for attaining the desired
end. The enlarging of the intellect, again, constantly
resulting from exercise, is always enabling us to use the
better the increasing means. On the moral side we
have seen that science teaches us that we are passing
from the selfish and solitary state to the sympathetic
and social. To bring our moral nature, therefore, into
harmony with the course indicated by the stream and
tendency of things, we must feel it to be our duty to
weaken the faculties whose functions, however useful
they were to man in the solitary stage of existence, are
adverse to social life; and, on the other hand, to
strengthen those faculties which tend to promote social
intercourse—in other words, to facilitate and increase
co-operation. To accomplish this end, as we know from
science, we have but to act on the natural law, that
every organ and faculty is strengthened by exercise and
weakened by disuse. Our duty, then, is to exercise
the faculties that are social and sympathetic, and to
leave unexercised those that are not. Every good or
moral act is followed by good, not only to others, but
also to self, because it tends to increase the strength of
those faculties by which it is performed. On the other
hand, not only is every evil or immoral act followed by
its objective bad results, but it leaves its traces in the
character of the actor—strengthening faculties which
should be left to dwindle away in disuse. Instead of
prayer, the utterance of petitionary words to a man-like
God, as a means of attaining our ends, will be substituted
labour in the light of science. No temples will be set
apart for propitiating and pleasing an imaginary deity;
the mind itseli will be a temple where conscience will
be continually propitiated by the fulfilment of duty.
Instead of the discoveries of science being received with
�THE SANCTION OF THE MORAL CODE.
153
continual dread and dislike, everyone of them will be
welcomed as glad tidings of great joy. One more
advance, it will be known, has been made in the great
work of diminishing the pain and increasing the
pleasure of human life. The foot of man, it will be
felt, has been planted one step higher in the course of
his evolution. At the close of life, again, no mirage of
an imaginary heaven will be needed to generate hope ;
nor will any hideous phantoms of an angry God and an
eternal hell be present to terrify the mind. The im
penetrable darkness of the unknowable will be looked
upon with calmness, and approached without thought of
fear.
Printed by Watts Sa1 Co., if, Johnson's Court, London, E.C.
����
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Thoughts on science, theology, and ethics
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Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. First published, London: Truebner & Co., 1885. Signature in ink on contents page (p.[3]): 'Richard Killick, 45 Florence Road, New Cross, Nov. 2nd. 1895'. Date of publication from WorldCat.
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Ethics
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Text
DOES MORALITY
DEPEND ON LONGEVITY?
BY
EDW. VAN SITTART NEALE.
PUBLISHED
BY
THOMAS
MOUNT PLEASANT, RAMSGATE.
187|.
Price Sixpence.
SCOTT,
�LONDON:
PRINTED BY C. W. EEYNELL, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET,
HAYMARKET, W.
�A
DOES MORALITY
DEPEND ON LONGEVITY?
F any one were to maintain that it is impossible
to give children any sense of the excellence of
truthfulness and the evil of falsehood; that they
cannot be induced to exercise any control over their
tempers, or to keep from pilfering sweet things ; that
they cannot be brought to obey the commands given
them by their parents, though no eye may witness
the disobedience, because it is right to obey and wrong
to disobey them; that, in short, they cannot be
formed into virtuous and noble characters unless you
can assure them that they will certainly live to be
very old men and women, and during this long period
—endless to the imagination of a child—will reap
the fruits of all their childish virtues in a prosperous,
happy life, or gather up the bitter consequences of
a contrary conduct in a miserable existence;—we
should laugh at such a disputant as one who defied
the teachings of experience, and lived in a world of
self-deluding dreams. And no one, I think, could
expose this folly more forcibly than “ Presbyter
Anglicanus,” if he thought it worth while to pull
such notions to pieces. Yet, what is the doubt
which the Presbyter so seriously expresses in his
tract, part of this series, ‘ On the Doctrine of Immor
tality in its bearing on Education ’ ? “ Whether, if
I
�4
Does Morality defend
we cut existence short at the moment which we call
death, there can be any morality at all ” (p. 7), but
an exaggerated form of the proposition that children
cannot be induced to exercise childish virtues and
eschew childish vices, unless you can assure them of
a long extension of life, in which they will experience
the good or bad consequences of their childish
actions.
But if it be true of children, in whom the genuine
tendencies of our nature manifest themselves in their
most native purity, that in order to produce goodness
it is not necessary to appeal to remote future conse
quences, but that it is necessary only to awaken
into activity the instinctive feelings of truthfulness,
gentleness, self-denial for the sake of others—the
harmonies of love, hidden beneath the conflicting
impulses of passion, but as a directing power which,
once aroused to action, claims the right to rule,—why
should we question the sufficiency of the same force
if it is appealed to in our subsequent life, to carry on
the work commenced in childhood, without intro
ducing as a motive the calculation of future conse
quences either on the earth or after death ? I cannot
find in the reasoning of “ Presbyter Anglicanus ”
any ground for such a questioning, except the state
ment, which I do not dispute, that the present edu
cation of English youth “ is based upon the idea of
their existence hereafter as well as here ; that the
teaching of all our great schools, and, probably, of
all the schools of every denomination, is not only
founded upon, but steeped in, this idea.”
Now, no doubt if the alternative of not insisting on
this belief as the foundation of moral principle were
what the Presbyter seems to contemplate, namely,
that it must be based solely on an appeal to the
calculation of its advantages to the individual in the
conduct of life, combined with a positive assertion
on the part of the teacher “ that after this fife is over
�on Longevity <?
$
there is and can be. no future life,” the consequence
might be expected'to be a general break-down of
morality. But it appears to me that both our present
experience of human nature in children, and the his
tory of mankind, prove this alternative to be by i o
means the only one left us. And at the present time,
when, as “ Presbyter Anglicanus ” will, I am cer
tain, admit, the customary proofs of the doctrine of
immortality, drawn from the assumed infallibility
of the Scriptures, are giving way, on all sides, before
the progress of critical research into those Scrip
tures ; which must, sooner or later, force upon all
honest and well-informed inquirers the conviction
that, whatever is their value—and to me it is very
great—they are simply human productions, no more
able to reveal the state of things in unseen
wotlds than is the ‘ Phaedo ’ of Plato; it does
appear to me, also, of no small importance in the
education of the young, that we should rest the
principles of conduct upon the knowable and pre
sent, instead of upon a future about which we can
only dogmatize without knowing anything certain.
With this view I propose to adduce some considera
tions, such as seem to me to show that there is no
necessity for making this uncertain forecast in
order to gain a solid foundation either for religion
or morality.
I. Antiquity offers us the spectacle of two adjoin
ing nations, which have filled an important part in
the religious history of mankind—the Egyptians and
the Jews. We know now that the whole religious
System of Egypt was founded upon the firm convic
tion that the conscious spirit survived death, and
entered into a state determined by the deeds done in
the body. Among the Jews, on the contrary, notwith
standing their long intercourse with Egypt, the idea
of immortality appears scarcely to have found en
drance at all till after the Babylonian captivity, when
�6
Does Morality depend
they seem to have borrowed it from the Persians,
Even in the work which especially deals with the
matters now most commonly relied upon as postu
lating, so to speak, our own future being if we would
not deny the Being of God, namely, the unmerited
sufferings of the good,—even in the Book of Job,
this idea is wanting. For the Goel of chapter xix. is*
very clearly, no God to be seen after death; but a
deliverer in whom Job confides that He will appear
at last on earth to justify him, as, in fact, he does
appear in the concluding chapters of the Book. Can
anything be more startling ? Here are writings
which have furnished the storehouse of the profoundest religious feeling for successive ages; writings
which have been the well-spring of the living water of
trust in God. Yet it is clear that the writers by
whom they were produced had no firm hold on the
idea of their individual conscious existence after
death, if, indeed, they had any faith in it at all. Now
suppose that, instead of the Psalms and Prophets,
mankind had been fed upon extracts from the ‘ Book
of the Dead,’ or any similar Egyptian work, will any
one maintain that the religious or moral effect could
have been as great, and rich, and varied as the effect
of the knowledge of the Old Testament has been ?
But this is not all the lesson which the story of
the Jews teaches. After the captivity they learnt
from their Persian deliverers the idea of immortality.
Under its influence they produced, as we learn from
the recent critical researches into the Canon of the
Old Testament, the Books of the Ceremonial Law,
the Books of Chronicles, the Visions of Daniel and
accompanying Apocryphal writings, and that system
of the authoritative interpretation of the ancient
Scriptures, which first stifled their spiritual life
beneath the formality of Pharisaism, and ultimately
replaced the Bible by the Talmud. In exact contrast
with what modern theories would induce us to expect,
�on Longevity f
7
we find the Jewish spirit full of religious life when
it did not believe in the prolongation of individual
existence, and sinking into a mummified torpor when
it took a firm hold on this expectation.
II. At the opposite extremity of Asia Minor to the
home of the Jewish race, we find that of the most
highly-gifted member of the great Aryan family—the
Greeks. To them, as to the Egyptians, a future state
of reward and punishment for their conduct in this
life was a matter of religious faith. The popular
morality, the traditionally orthodox education of
their youth, was founded on it. Was the morality
thus based able to resist the influences of increasing
wealth, growing power, and the manifold temptations
which the life of cities brings with it ? The story of
Thucydides and Xenophon, the comedies of Aristo
phanes, and the complaints of Plato, offer abundant
evidence that it was not.
But within this corrupt civilisation there grew up a
body of men whose morality, however much we may
find to criticise in it, undoubtedly did rise to a level
far higher than that of their countrymen in general—
a body of men who, during a long succession of gene
rations, under the political annihilation which came
over Greece with the rise of the Macedonian and
Roman empires, continued to be the living witnesses
for the efficacy of principles of conduct not based
upon any calculation of external advantages, to pro
duce virtuous action—I mean, of course, the Greek
philosophers ; of whom we must remember that they
were not merely a few eminent men, but a numerous
body of persons, professing to follow certain fixed
rules of life, and who appear to have, for the most
part, fulfilled this profession.
Now, among these Greek philosophers, it seems
clear that the doctrine of individual immortality met
with very doubtful acceptance, and, even where it
was accepted, did not occupy a prominent place as the
�8
Does Morality depend
foundation of moral conduct. Socrates, for instance,
according to the account of the speech made by him
at his trial given by Plato, presents two alternatives :
E
’ ither, he says, death is a dreamless sleep, in which
case it cannot but be a gain, if we compare this per
fect quiet with any other night or day of our whole
life; or, it is a migration to some state where the dead
might live in delightful intercourse with the great
men who bad died before them.* And this is all that
he says about it. Again, in the intimate conversation
narrated in the ‘ Phtedo of Plato,’ to have taken place
on the day of his death, where he heaps up a variety
of arguments to establish the position that the soul
is eternal by its nature, he does not present'this con
ception at all as the foundation of morality, but only
as a consideration which should make the philosopher
welcome death rather than fly from it. “ For how,”
he asks, “in truth, should those who philosophise
rightly not wish to be dead, how should not death be
to them, of all men, the least terrible ? Would it not
be the height of unreason if those who have always
quarrelled with the body, and longed to possess the
spirit in itself, should be fearful and angry when this
happens, instead of eagerly going there, where, when
they arrive, they may hope to attain what they have
elected throughout their life ; for they have chosen
wisdom, and to be delivered from that with which they
quarrelled so long as they possessed it.’’f Of the
argument so much in favour with the moderns, which
identifies the prolongation of our individual existence
beyond the tomb, with trust in the goodness and
justice of God, there is scarcely a trace in the
‘ Phsedo the only approach to it being the “ cawZmn,”
that, if the soul is incapable of destruction, and death,
therefore, cannot deliver us from the consequences of
our past acts, the wicked cannot be freed by it “ at
once from their sins and their souls; but the only
* Apology towards the end.
t Phsedo, § 34.
�on Longevity?
9
deliverance from evil must lie in a good life.”* But
this conception is so far from having formed the basis
of the moral teaching of Socrates, that, to judge by
the tone of this conversation, his notions on the
immortality of the soul would appear to have been
kept by him as a subject for his private meditations,
and to have been communicated to his friends, only
upon the close approach of his own death. And
they rest, for their chief support, upon the persuasion,
entirely strange to our modern conceptions of immor
tality, that our souls come to us out of a previous
state of conscious existence, and bring with them the
knowledge of ideas, or general principles, which the
experiences of sensation gradually re-awaken in our
memories.
Passing from this beginning of philosophical specu
lation to a point far advanced in its course, to the age
of Cicero, we find a yet more striking absence of any
connection between the idea of immortality and the
principles of morality in the eloquent treatise where
this great Roman thinker sums up, in his old age, the
reasonings of Greek philosophy on this subject in the
first book of his Tusculan disputations. Although
he expresses his own belief in the Platonic doctrine
of immortality, which he rests principally upon an
argument ascribed to Socrates in the Phcedrus of
Plato, that that must be eternal which possesses the
power of self-motion, and, as this power is possessed
by the soul, the soul must be eternal; an argument
which he applies to all living creatures,f yet all the
concluding portion of the treatise is occupied in
demonstrating that death is not to be dreaded, even
although it should involve the total loss of conscious
ness. How little morality depended in his judgment
* Phsedo, § 130.
f Inanimum est enim omne quod pulsu agitatur externo, quod autem
est animal id motu cietur interiore et suo. Nam haec est propria natura
animi, atque vis ; quae, si ipsa semper moveat, neque nata certa est, et
eterna est.—Ch. 23.
�IO
Does Morality Depend
on the continuance of individual existence, we gather
from the declaration made by him towards the close
of this argument, that “ no one has lived too short a
time who has perfectly discharged the duties of per
fect virtue.” * It is still more conclusively shown by
the fact that his celebrated “ Offices,” his great work
on moral duty, is avowedly founded upon the treatise
by Pansetius, who on this point, as he tells us, “ dissented
from Plato; whom everywhere else he calls divine,
the wisest, the holiest, the Homer of philosophers,
but whose doctrine of the immortality of the soul he
Rejected on the ground that whatever is born must
die, and whatever is subject to disease must be sub
ject to death.f This, it should also be observed, was
the general doctrine of the Stoics, of whom Cicero
says that they “ likened men to crows, asserting that
the soul lasted a long time, but not always.” J Yet
the Stoics are notorious for having taught a morality
which, if open to the charge of being wanting in
tenderness, undoubtedly exercised a most powerful
influence over the' minds of those who embraced it,
moulding their whole course of life, and leading
them, in very numerous instances, to an almost
ascetic renunciation of the pleasures of sense.
We see, then, that the history of four of the most
remarkable nations of the ancient world by no means
supports the notion that man is not furnished by his
Maker with sufficient motives for noble action deriv
able from the world in which he finds himself placed,
and the faculties of which he finds himself possessed,
but must draw the stimulus to present goodness from
a future to which he has no access. On the other
hand, if we consider what have been the consequences
of acting upon the latter assumption, we shall, I
think, find still more reason for questioning its truth.
Six centuries after Semitic and Aryan thought had
effected a union in Christianity, took place that fierce
♦ Ch. 45.
t.Tusc. Quest., I., ch. 32.
J lb., ch. 51.
�on Longevity ?
II
outburst of Semitic faith in the absolute will and
unconditional sovereignty of God, called by us
Mahometanism. The great instrument by which the
triumphs of this creed were effected was its uncom
promising declaration of a future state, where the
faithful would obtain from Allah a recompense for
his toils and sufferings in endless joys, and the un
believer would be precipitated by his relentless com
mand into endless tortures. “ Hell is much hotter,”
was the reply of the Prophet to the remonstrances of
the Arabs who, on his proclamation of war against the
Romans, “ objected the want of money, or horses, or
provisions, the season of harvest, and? the intolerable
heat of the summer.” * “ Paradise is before you, the
devil and hell-fire in your rear,” was the pithy
exhortation of the Arab generals to their troops,
before the battle of Yermuk, which gave to the
Moslems the possession of Syria, f The imagination
enlisted on the side of Islam proved as powerful to
sustain the active courage of the fanatic warrior, as
it had been, in earlier times, to sustain the patient
fortitude of the Christian martyr.
IV. If the East has thus testified to the danger
which may await morality when it is built upon a faith
emancipated from the control of present experience,
the West has borne a not less powerful witness to the
same truth in the history of the attempts made within
the Christian Church to extinguish heresy. Gibbon,
basing his calculations upon the number of martyrs
whom Eusebius states to have suffered in Palestine
during the great persecution in consequence of the
Edict of Diocletian, and upon the probable propor
tion borne by the population of Palestine to that of
the rest of the empire, estimates the number of
Christians on whom capital punishment was inflicted
by judicial sentence throughout the Roman Empire
♦ Gibbon, ch. 50 ; Ed. 1855.
t lb., ch. 51; 76, 318.
�12
Does Morality defend
during the ten years that this persecution lasted, as
somewhat less than 2,000; * while Grotius declares
that, in the Netherlands alone, 100,000 of the subjects
of Charles V. suffered death as heretics under the
hands of the public executioner. Even if we assume,
as M. Guizot appears to do, that the estimate of
Gibbon is below the mark, and allow, with Ruinart,
in his ‘ Acts of the Martyrs,’ greater credence to the
vague statements of “innumerable witnesses,”! while
we reduce the victims of the persecution in the Nether
lands with Fra Paolo to 50,000,J there remains a
terrible witness, in this case, to the excess of cruelty
of which Christians have been guilty, on religious
grounds, towards other Christians above that of which
the ancient heathen world was guilty in its attempts
to repress the spread of Christianity. It is notorious
that this evidence is far from being a solitary testi
mony to the fact. To what are we to attribute a
result so astoundingly unlike what might have been
reasonably expected from the spirit of profound love
which animates the Gospels ? Can it be doubted that
the cause has been the belief in the endless duration
of the soul, combined with the belief that its welfare
during this endless period might be irremediably
destroyed by the opinions which it entertained while
on earth ? Accept these beliefs as true, and it becomes
a duty, far more sacred than the duty of preserving
man’s mortal body from violent assault, to preserve
his undying soul from the contamination of any
opinions as to which we may be convinced that they
have this appalling issue. Even the probability of
such a result is sufficient to raise this duty. For, if
we are mistaken, the injury we do to the individual
who suffers is insignificant, since his immortal soul
will not suffer ; while, if we are right, the good that
* Gibbon, ch. xvi., Ed. 1855, II. 284.
t Note in Milman’s Gibbon, Second Ed., I., p. 598.
t lb. ch. xvi.; I., p. 600.
�on Longevity ?
13
we may do to others, if not to the individual sufferer,
is incalculable.
Ko doubt, if we adopt the view of “ Presbyter
Anglicanus,” there would be no danger of our falling
into such excesses. If the whole of our unceasing
existence is assumed to be a continuous course of
education, by which all shall ultimately be “ brought
into a state where they will think rightly and act
rightly, because they will be filled through and
through with the love of God,—that is, with the love
of that which is true, and pure, and just,” we may
contentedly leave the Divine educator to work out
His own method of instruction, without stepping in
to His aid by abruptly dismissing any of His pupils
from one class to another in the never-ending school.
But when “ Presbyter Anglicanus ” maintains that the
religious instruction of the great schools throughout
England is “ not only founded on, but steeped in,
the belief ” in immortality, I would remind him that
it is certainly not such a belief as this. That instruction,
where it really dwells on our imaginations of the future
as the base on which our conduct in the present should
be founded, is, I conceive, far more closely represented
by the unbelieving belief of that self-important selfnullifier, Dr Pusey, that, if men make any impor
tant slip in what the teacher calls orthodoxy, no
matter what their conduct may have been in other
respects, “ their shrieks will echo for ever along the
lurid vaults of hell,” than by the loving trust of the
Presbyter. The doctrine of immortality, theoretically
taught in the great majority of English schools, where
any stress is laid upon it, is the doctrine of which the
fires of Smithfield were the legitimate fruit; and, if it
does not produce this fruit now, the reason is that,
practically, it is not believed,—that the only part of
the doctrine which has any general influence on men’s
minds at the present time is one scarcely connected
with morality at all, namely, the sentimental hope
�14
Does Morality depend,
of.reunion in “ another and better world ” with those
we have loved and lost in this.
How much hold the idea of continuous existence has
upon men’s minds under this form, we see by the rapid
growth of belief in the so-called Spiritual manifesta
tions. And when we consider how very unspiritual the
character of these alleged manifestations appears to
be ; how entirely destitute it is of any conceptions of
a nature likely to ennoble the lives of those whose
minds are occupied with them, we cannot form a high
estimate of the influence of the mere notion of con
tinuous existence upon the conduct of mankind, Of
the conception as “ Presbyter Anglicanus ” would pre
sent it to us, I must form a very different estimate ;
if, as he no doubt supposes, the continued life of the
individual is conceived to be a career of active use
fulness, in spheres of action of continually increasing
extent and importance, according to the perfection of
the will by which the active power is regulated,
certainly this conception would operate as a power
ful stimulus to the noblest use of all the faculties
which we possess here. Yet when we remember how
peculiarly liable such a stimulus is to be misdirected,
if we allow ourselves to dwell upon the dreams of a
future of which we know nothing rather than upon
the ideas which can be tested by present experience,
we shall, I think, be disposed to look upon the use of
this stimulus with great suspicion.
That morality alone, even in its purest and most
ideal form, is sufficient to be the permanent source
of spiritual blessing tomankind, I do not believe ; and
that not because our lives are short and uncertain, but
because morality belongs properly to the intellectual,
analytical side of our nature, and therefore, though it
is very efficient in telling us what we ought to do, is
very feeble in furnishing the motive power to do it.
‘ Conduct, to use the words of Mr Matthew Arnold,
in his remarkable ‘ Essays on Literature and Dogma ’
�on Longevity T
15
“ is the simplest thing in the world so far as knowledge
is concerned, but the hardest thing in the world so
far as doing is concerned.”* To gain this power of
doing, we require to turn to the other great factor of
Our being, the constructive principle of will, and the
impelling force of love by which this principle can be
at once strengthened and guided. Now, the spirit of
loving Will is the spirit of Religion.
Awake in man the trust that the power which can
glow in his own bosom governs the universe—that
God is no mere name for “ the true, the pure, the
just,” but is the Eternal Spirit of purity, justice,^
and truth, with whom the spirit of man can have
communion, on whom it may rely in death as in life,
in sorrow as in joy, and you will not require the
doubtful dogma of continuous existence to furnish
motives to action, which the present reality will
abundantly supply, but to use the beautiful words in
which Cicero winds up his argument against the fear
of death, will hold “ nothing to be evil that is deter
mined either by the immortal Gods, or Nature the
parent of us all; for not hastily, or by chance, are we
born and created, but assuredly there is a power
which takes counsel for the human race, and has not
produced and nourished it, that when it has gone
through all its toils, it should fall into eternal evil at
death ; rather should we think that it has prepared for
it a haven and place of refuge.”f
In regard to the place which the conception of con
tinuous individual existence should occupy in the
education of the young, I think Presbyter Anglicanus
will agree with me, that it cannot continue to be what
it has been. Whatever arguments Plato or. Cicero
could use in support of this faith, it is open to us to
use now. We may, perhaps, add to them others, from
the knowledge of Nature which scientific research
is opening to us. But with the faith in infallible
* ‘Cornhill,’ Oct., 1871, p. 485.
t Tusc. Quest. I., 49.
�16
Does Morality defend
teaching,—and to the Presbyter, if I am not much
mistaken, no less than to myself, this faith is gone,
irreparably gone,beyond remedy by decrees of councils
be they ever so imposingly vouched, or plasterings of
learned ingenuity be they ever so skilfully applied,—
there is gone also all certainty in any assertions about
that world of which we can know nothing unless,
indeed, we are ready to be “ rapped ” into conviction,
and delight ourselves with the fantastic Hades of our
new spiritual “ Home.” It must become us, then, to
substitute, on this subject, modest hope for dogmatic
arrogance. But it does not follow that our faith in
the eternal should be less vivid, because it ceases to be
identified with a belief in the Longeval.
For myself I am persuaded that the conception of
infallible teaching, and the certainty of so-called im
mortal life associated with it, has constantly inter
posed itself between man and God, and that the faith
in an ever-present Deity will never be generally rea
lised till the faith in these counterfeits of His pre
sence has died away. To God, the source of all
good, we must direct man’s thoughts alike for the
education of the young, and the solace and guidance
of maturer age. Once quicken mankind to trust in
His presence as a living reality, and we may conclude
with Schleiermacher, whom “ Presbyter Anglic anus ”
finds so hard to understand, that only those who “ care
to live well rather than to live long ” can partake in
that immortality which belongs to truth and love,
whether or not the conditions of existence allow a
continuous prolongation of individual being to those
who live in the aspiration after love and truth.
What, indeed, can be more absurd than for a man
to say to his Maker, “ 0 God, the love of Thee, and
the study of Thy acts, and the following of Thy
Spirit, would be sufficient to satisfy my soul for count
less ages, but it will not suffice for fifty years. For
so short a time it is not worth my while to be en-
�on Longevity ?
i7
lightened by Thy truth, and cheered and warmed by
Thy love. Every attraction of sensuous delight,
every dream of self-seeking gratification, every im
pulse of passion, is preferable. Give me endless
existence, and I yield myself up to Thy service, which
is perfect freedom. Deny it me, and I serve myself,
though to serve myself is to become slave to a devil.”
Yet what is the assertion that the belief in immor
tality is essential as a support to morality but this
sentiment in disguise ? The notion I take to be the
legitimate product of that false religious teaching
which, by substituting authority for conviction, con
verts morality into legality. Divines of the stamp of
Dr Pusey instinctively feel that the edifice of apparent
goodness which they may raise rests in the great
majority of cases upon a foundation of sand, to which
they can give solidity only by the pressure of fear.
It is perfectly consistent in them, therefore, to insist
on the faith in an endless duration of individual ex
istence, which furnishes the heavy rammer that they
require. But divines who, like “ Presbyter Angli
canus,” would build goodness upon love, should feel,
what Dr Pusey, I am persuaded, feels to be his own
case, that they need no such extraneous support—•
that “ the rain may descend ” and “the floods rise,”
and “ the winds blow upon that house,” but it “ cannot
fall,” for it is “ built upon the rock.”
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Does morality depend on Longevity?
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Neale, Edward Vansittart [1810-1892]
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Place of publication: Ramsgate
Collation: 17, [1] p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Includes bibliographical references. Publisher's list on unnumbered page at the end. Printed by C.W. Reynell, London. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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Thomas Scott
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1871
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CT95
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Ethics
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Does morality depend on Longevity?), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
Ethics
Longevity
Morality