THIS book, written by a brave and honest man, is filled with brave and
honest thoughts. The arguments it presents can not be answered by all
the theologians in the world. The author is convinced that the universe
is natural, that man is naturally produced, and that there is a
necessary relation between character and brain. He sees, and clearly
sees, that the theological explanation of phenomena is only a plausible
absurdity, and, at best, as great a mystery as it tries to solve. I
thank the man who breaks, or tries to break, the chains of custom,
creed, and church, and gives in plain, courageous words, the product of
his brain.
It is almost impossible to investigate any subject without somewhere
touching the religious prejudices of ourselves or others. Most people
judge of the truth of a proposition by the consequences upon some
preconceived opinion. Certain things they take as truths, and with this
little standard in their minds, they measure all other theories. If
the new facts do not agree with the standard, they are instantly thrown
away, because it is much easier to dispose of the new facts than to
reconstruct an entire philosophy.
A few years ago, when men began to say that character could be
determined by the form, quantity, and quality of the brain, the
religious world rushed to the conclusion that this fact might destroy
what they were pleased to call the free moral agency of man. They
admitted that all things in the physical world were links in the
infinite chain of causes and effects, and that not one atom of the
material universe could, by any possibility, be entirely exempt from
the action of every other. They insisted that, if the motions of the
spirit--the thoughts, dreams, and conclusions of the brain, were as
necessarily produced as stones and stars, virtue became necessity, and
morality the result of forces capable of mathematical calculation.
In other words, they insisted that, while there were causes for all
material phenomena, a something called the Will sat enthroned above
all law, and dominated the phenomena of the intellectual world. They
insisted that man was free; that he controlled his brain; that he was
responsible for thought as well as action; that the intellectual world
of each man was a universe in which his will was king. They were
afraid that phrenology might, in some way, interfere with the scheme of
salvation, or prevent the eternal torment of some erring soul.
It is insisted that man is free, and is responsible, because he knows
right from wrong. But the compass does not navigate the ship; neither
does it, in any way, of itself, determine the direction that is taken.
When winds and waves are too powerful, the compass is of no importance.
The pilot may read it correctly, and may know the direction the ship
ought to take, but the compass is not a force. So men, blown by the
tempests of passion, may have the intellectual conviction that
they should go another way; but, of what use, of what force, is the
conviction?
Thousands of persons have gathered curious statistics for the purpose of
showing that man is absolutely dominated by his surroundings. By these
statistics is discovered what is called "the law of average." They show
that there are about so many suicides in London every year, so many
letters misdirected at Paris, so many men uniting themselves In marriage
with women older than themselves in Belgium, so many burglaries to one
murder in France, or so many persons driven insane by religion in the
United States. It is asserted that these facts conclusively show
that man is acted upon; that behind each thought, each dream, is the
efficient cause, and that the doctrine of moral responsibility has been
destroyed by statistics.
But, does the fact that about so many crimes are committed on the
average, in a given population, or that so many any things are done,
prove that there is no freedom in human action?
Suppose a population of ten thousand persons; and suppose, further, that
they are free, and that they have the usual wants of mankind. Is it not
reasonable to say that they would act in some way? They certainly would
take measures to obtain food, clothing, and shelter. If these people
differed in intellect, in surroundings, in temperament, in strength, it
is reasonable to suppose that all would not be equally successful. Under
such circumstances, may we not safely infer that, in a little while, if
the statistics were properly taken, a law of average would appear? In
other words, free people would act; and, being different in mind, body,
and circumstances, would not all act exactly alike. All would not be
alike acted upon. The deviations from what might be thought wise, or
right, would sustain such a relation to time and numbers that they could
be expressed by a law of average.
If this is true, the law of average does not establish necessity.
But, in my supposed case, the people, after all, are not free. They have
wants. They are under the necessity of feeding, clothing, and sheltering
themselves. To the extent of their actual wants, they are not free.
Every limitation is a master. Every finite being is a prisoner, and no
man has ever yet looked above or beyond the prison walls.
Our highest conception of liberty is to be free from the dictation of
fellow prisoners.
To the extent that we have wants, we are not free. To the extent that we
do not have wants, we do not act.
If we are responsible for our thoughts, we ought not only to know how
they are formed, but we ought to form them. If we are the masters of our
own minds, we ought to be able to tell what we are going to think at any
future time. Evidently, the food of thought--its very warp and woof--is
furnished through the medium of the senses. If we open our eyes, we
cannot help seeing. If we do not stop our ears, we cannot help hearing.
If anything touches us, we feel it. The heart beats in spite of us.
The lungs supply themselves with air without our knowledge. The blood
pursues its old accustomed rounds, and all our senses act without our
leave. As the heart beats, so the brain thinks. The will is not its
king. As the blood flows, as the lungs expand, as the eyes see, as the
ears hear, as the flesh is sensitive to touch, so the brain thinks.
I had a dream, in which I debated a question with a friend. I thought
to myself: "This is a dream, and yet I can not tell what my opponent is
going to say. Yet, if it is a dream, I am doing the thinking for both
sides, and therefore ought to know in advance what my friend will urge."
But, in a dream, there is some one who seems to talk to us. Our own
brain tells us news, and presents an unexpected thought. Is it not
possible that each brain is a field where all the senses sow the seeds
of thought? Some of these fields are mostly barren, poor, and hard,
producing only worthless weeds; and some grow sturdy oaks and stately
palms; and some are like the tropic world, where plants and trees and
vines seem royal children of the soil and sun.
Nothing seems more certain than that the capacity of a human being
depends, other things being equal, upon the amount, form, and quality
of his brain. We also know that health, disposition, temperament,
occupation, food, surroundings, ancestors, quality, form, and texture
of the brain, determine what we call character. Man is, collectively and
individually, what his surroundings have made him. Nations differ from
each other as greatly as individuals in the same nation. Nations depend
upon soil, climate, geographical position, and countless other facts.
Shakespeare would have been impossible without the climate of England.
There is a direct relation between Hamlet and the Gulf Stream. Dr.
Draper has shown that the great desert of Sahara made negroes possible
in Africa. If the Caribbean Sea had been a desert, negroes might have
been produced in America.
Are the effects of climate upon man necessary effects? Is it possible
for man to escape them? Is he responsible for what he does as a
consequence of his surroundings? Is the mind dependent upon causes?
Does it act without cause? Is every thought a necessity? Can man choose
without reference to any quality in the thing chosen?
No one will blame Mr. Brown or Mr. Jones for not writing like
Shakespeare. Should they be blamed for not acting like Christ? We say
that a great painter has genius. Is it not possible that a certain
genius is required to be what is called "good"? All men cannot be
great. All men cannot be successful. Can all men be kind? Can all men be
honest?
It may be that a crime appears terrible in proportion as we realize
its consequences. If this is true, morality may depend largely upon the
imagination. Man cannot have imagination at will; that, certainly, is
a natural product. And yet, a man's action may depend largely upon the
want of imagination. One man may feel that he really wishes to kill
another. He may make preparations to commit the deed; and yet, his
imagination may present such pictures of horror and despair; he may so
vividly see the widow clasping the mangled corpse; he may so plainly
hear the cries and sobs of orphans, while the clods fall upon the
coffin, that his hand is stayed. Another, lacking imagination, thirsting
only for revenge, seeing nothing beyond the accomplishment of the deed,
buries, with blind-and thoughtless hate, the dagger in his victim's
heart.
Morality, for the most part, is the verdict of the majority.
This verdict depends upon the intelligence of the people; and the
intelligence depends upon the amount, form, and quality of the average
brain.
If the mind depends upon certain organs for the expression of its
thought, does it have thought independently of those organs? Is there
any mind without brain? Does the mind think apart from the brain, and
then express its thought through the instrumentality of the brain?
Theologians tell us that insanity is not a disease of the soul, but of
the brain; that the soul is perfectly untouched; but that the instrument
with which, and through which, it manifests itself, is impaired. The
fact, however, seems to be, that the mind, the something that is the
man, is unconscious of the fact that anything is out of order in the
brain. Insane people insist that they are sane.
If we should find a locomotive off the track, and the engineer using the
proper appliances to put it back, we would say that the machine is
out of order, but the engineer is not. But, if we found the locomotive
upside down, with wheels in air, and the engineer insisting that it
was on the track, and never running better, we would then conclude
that something was wrong, not only with the locomotive, but with the
engineer.
We are told in medical books of a girl, who, at about the age of nine
years, was attacked with some cerebral disease. When she recovered, she
had forgotten all she ever knew, and had to relearn the alphabet, and
the names of her parents and kindred. In this abnormal state, she was
not a good girl; in the normal state, she was. After having lived in the
second state for several years, she went back to the first; and all she
had learned in the second state was forgotten, and all she had learned
in the first was remembered.
I believe she changed once more, and died in the abnormal state. In
which of these states was she responsible? Were her thoughts and
actions as free in one as in the other? It may be contended that, in her
diseased state, the mind or soul could not correctly express itself. If
this is so, it follows that, as no one is perfectly healthy, and as
no one has a perfect brain, it is impossible that the soul should ever
correctly express itself. Is the soul responsible for the defects of the
brain? Is it not altogether more rational to say, that what we call mind
depends upon the brain, and that the child--mind, inherits the defects
of its parent--brain?
Are certain physical conditions necessary to the production of what
we call virtuous actions? Is it possible for anything to be produced
without what we call cause, and, if the cause was sufficient, was it not
necessarily produced? Do not most people mistake for freedom the right
to examine their own chains? If morality depends upon conditions, should
it not be the task of the great and good to discover such conditions?
May it not be possible so to understand the brain that we can stop
producing criminals?
It may be insisted that there is something produced by the brain besides
thought--a something that takes cognizance of thoughts--a something
that weighs, compares, reflects and pronounces judgment. This something
cannot find the origin of itself. Does it exist independently of the
brain? Is it merely a looker-on? If it is a product of the brain, then
its power, perception, and judgment depend upon the quantity, form, and
quality of the brain.
Man, including all his attributes, must have been necessarily produced,
and the product was the child of conditions.
Most reformers have infinite confidence in creeds, resolutions, and
laws. They think of the common people as raw material, out of which
they propose to construct institutions and governments, like mechanical
contrivances, where each person will stand for a cog, rope, wheel,
pulley, bolt, or fuel, and the reformers will be the managers and
directors. They forget that these cogs and wheels have opinions of their
own; that they fall out with other cogs, and refuse to turn with other
wheels; that the pulleys and ropes have ideas peculiar to themselves,
and delight in mutiny and revolution. These reformers have theories that
can only be realized when other people have none.
Some time, it will be found that people can be changed only by changing
their surroundings. It is alleged that, at least ninety-five per cent.
of the criminals transported from England to Australia and other penal
colonies, became good and useful citizens in a new world. Free from
former associates and associations, from the necessities of a hard,
cruel, and competitive civilization, they became, for the most part,
honest people. This immense fact throws more light upon social questions
than all the theories of the world. All people are not able to support
themselves. They lack intelligence, industry, cunning--in short,
capacity. They are continually falling by the way. In the midst of
plenty, they are hungry. Larceny is born of want and opportunity. In
passion's storm, the will is wrecked upon the reefs and rocks of crime.
The complex, tangled web of thought and dream, of perception and memory,
of imagination and judgment, of wish and will and want--the woven wonder
of a life--has never yet been raveled back to simple threads.
Shall we not become charitable and just, when we know that every act is
but condition's fruit; that Nature, with her countless hands, scatters
the seeds of tears and crimes--of every virtue and of every joy; that
all the base and vile are victims of the Blind, and that the good and
great have, in the lottery of life, by chance or fate, drawn heart and
brain?
Washington, December 21, 1881.