it is above all things necessary to take the advice of Samuel Johnson
and clear our minds of cant. Every person in this world--save perhaps a
Robinson Crusoe on an otherwise uninhabited island, and he only because
of his solitary condition--is in bondage more or less to others; that is
to say, has his freedom more or less interfered with. That this
interference is in the interests of the community and so, in the last
analysis, in the interests of the person interfered with himself, in no
way weakens the argument; it is rather a potent adjuvant to it. However
much I may dislike him and however anxious I may be to injure him, I may
not go out and set fire to my neighbour's house nor to his rick-yard,
unless I am prepared to risk the serious legal penalties which will be
my lot if I am detected in the act. I may not, if I am a small and
active boy, make a slide in the public street in frosty weather, unless
I am prepared--as the small boy usually is--to run the gauntlet of the
police. In a thousand ways my freedom, or what I call my freedom, is
interfered with: it is the price which I pay for being one item of a
social organism and for being in turn protected against others, who, in
virtue of that protection, are in their turn deprived of what they might
call their liberty.
No one can have failed to observe that this interference with personal
liberty becomes greater day by day. It is a tendency of modern
governments, based presumably upon increased experience, to increase
these protective regulations. Thus we have laws against adulteration of
food, against the placing of buildings concerned with obnoxious trades
in positions where people will be inconvenienced by them. We make
persons suffering from infectious diseases isolate themselves, and if
they cannot do this at home, we make them go to the fever hospital.
Further, we insist upon the doctor, whose position resembles that of a
confessor, breaking his obligation of professional secrecy and informing
the authorities as to the illness of his patient. We interfere with the
liberty of men and women to work as long as they like or to make their
children labour for excessive hours. We insist upon dangerous machinery
being fenced in. In a thousand ways we--the State--interfere with the
liberty of our fellows. Finally, when the needs of the community are
most pressing we interfere most with the freedom of the subject. Thus,
in these islands, we were recently living under a Defence of the Realm
Act--with which no reasonable person quarrelled. Yet it forbad many
things not only harmless in themselves but habitually permitted in times
of peace. We were subject to penalties if we showed lighted windows:
they must be shuttered or provided with heavy curtains. We might not
travel in railway carriages at night with the blinds undrawn. The papers
might not publish, nor we say in public, things which in time of peace
would go unnoticed. There were a host of other matters to which allusion
need not be made. Enough has been said to show that the State has and
exerts the right to control the actions of those who belong to it, and
that in time of stress it can and does very greatly intensify that
control and does so without arousing any real or widespread discontent.
Of course we all grumble, but then everybody, except its own members,
always does more or less grumble at anything done by any government:
that is the ordinary state of affairs. But at any rate we submit
ourselves, more or less gracefully, to this restraint because we
persuade ourselves or are persuaded that it is for the good of the State
and thus for the good of ourselves, both as private individuals and as
members of the State.
And many of us, at any rate, comfort ourselves with the thought that a
great many of the regulations which appear to be most tyrannical and
most to interfere with the natural liberty of mankind are devised not
with that end in view but with the righteous intention of protecting
those weaker members of the body who are unable to protect themselves.
If the State does not stand by such members and offer itself as their
shield and support, it has no claim to our obedience, no real right to
exist, and so we put up with the inconvenience, should such arise, on
account of the protection given to the weaker members and often extended
to those who would by no means feel pleased if they heard themselves
thus described.
Let us substitute the Church for the State and let us remember that
there are times when she is at closer grips with the powers of evil than
may be the case at other times. The parallel is surely sufficiently
close.
So far as earthly laws can control one, no one is obliged to be a member
of the Catholic Church nor a citizen of the British Empire. I can, if I
choose, emigrate to America, in process of time naturalise myself there
and join the Christian Science organisation or any other body to which I
find myself attracted. But as long as I remain a Catholic and a British
citizen I must submit myself to the restrictions imposed by the bodies
with which I have elected to connect myself. We arrive at the conclusion
then that the ordinary citizen, even if he never adverts to the fact, is
in reality controlled and his liberty limited in all sorts of
directions.
Now the scientific man, in his own work, is subject to all sorts of
limitations, apart altogether from the limitations to which, as an
ordinary member of the State, he has to submit himself.
He is restricted by science: he is not completely free but is bound by
knowledge--the knowledge which he or others have acquired.
To say he is limited by it is not to say that he is imprisoned by it or
in bondage to it. "One does not lose one's intellectual liberty when one
learns mathematics," says the late Monsignor Benson in one of his
letters, "though one certainly loses the liberty of doing sums wrong or
doing them by laborious methods!"
Before setting out upon any research, the careful man of science sets
himself to study "the literature of the subject" as he calls it. He
delves into all sorts of out-of-the-way periodicals to ascertain what
such a man has written upon such a point. All this he does in order that
he may avoid doing a piece of work over again unnecessarily:
_unnecessarily_, for it maybe actually necessary to repeat it, if it is
of very great importance and if it has not been repeated and verified by
other observers. Further, he delves into this literature because it is
thus that he hopes to avoid the many blind alleys which branch off from
every path of research, delude their explorer with vain hopes and
finally bring him face to face with a blank wall. In a word the inquirer
consults his authorities and when he finds them worthy of reliance, he
limits his freedom by paying attention to them. He does not say: "How am
I held in bondage by this assertion that the earth goes round the sun,"
but accepting that fact, he rejects such of his conclusions as are
obviously irreconcilable with it. Surely this is plain common sense and
the man who acted otherwise would be setting himself a quite impossible
task. It is the weakness of the "heuristic method" that it sets its
pupils to find out things which many abler men have spent years in
investigating. The man who sets out to make a research, without first
ascertaining what others have done in that direction, proposes to
accumulate in himself the abilities and the life-work of all previous
generations of labourers in that corner of the scientific vineyard.
There is a somewhat amusing and certainly interesting instance of this
which will bear quotation. The late Mr. Grant Allen, who knew something
of quite a number of subjects though perhaps not very much about any of
them, devoted most of his time and energies (outside his stories, some
of which are quite entertaining) to not always very accurate essays in
natural history. One day, however, his evil genius prompted him to write
and, worse still, to publish a book entitled _Force and Energy: A Theory
of Dynamics_, in which he purported to deal with a matter of which he
knew far less even than he did about animated nature. Mark the
inevitable result! A copy of the book was forwarded to the journal
_Nature_, and sent by its editor to be dealt with by the competent hands
of Sir Oliver (then Professor) Lodge.[27]
This is how that eminent authority dealt with it. "There exists a
certain class of mind," he commences, "allied perhaps to the Greek
sophist variety, to which ignorance of a subject offers no sufficient
obstacle to the composition of a treatise upon it." It may be rash to
suggest that this type of mind is well developed in philosophers of the
Spencerian school, though it would be possible to adduce some evidence
in support of such a suggestion. "In the volume before us," he
continues, "Mr. Grant Allen sets to work to reconstruct the fundamental
science of dynamics, an edifice which, since the time of Galileo and
Newton, has been standing on what has seemed a fairly secure and
substantial basis, but which he seems to think it is now time to
demolish in order to make room for a newly excogitated theory. The
attempt is audacious and the result--what might have been expected. The
performance lends itself indeed to the most scathing criticism; blunders
and misstatements abound on nearly every page, and the whole thing is
simply an emanation of mental fog." It would occupy too much space to
reproduce this criticism with any fullness, but one or two points
exceedingly germane to our subject can hardly go without notice.
Alluding to a certain question, which seems to have greatly bothered Mr.
Allen and likewise Mr. Clodd, who, it would appear, was associated with
him in this performance, the reviewer says: "The puzzle was solved
completely long ago, in the clearest possible manner, and the
'_Principia_' is the witness to it; but it is still felt to be a
difficulty by beginners, and I suppose there is no offence in applying
this harmless epithet to both Mr. Grant Allen and Mr. Clodd, so far as
the truths of dynamics and physics are concerned." One last quotation:
"The thing which strikes one most forcibly about the physics of these
paper philosophers is the extraordinary contempt which, if they are
consistent, they must or ought to feel for men of science. If Newton,
Lagrange, Gauss, and Thompson, to say nothing of smaller men, have
muddled away their brains in concocting a scheme of dynamics wherein the
very definitions are all wrong; if they have arrived at a law of
conservation of energy without knowing what the word energy means, or
how to define it; if they have to be set right by an amateur who has
devoted a few weeks or months to the subject and acquired a rude
smattering of some of its terms, 'what intolerable fools they must all
be!'" Such is the result of asserting one's freedom by escaping the
limitations of knowledge! We see what happens when a person sets out to
deal with science untrammelled by any considerations as to what others
have thought and established. The necessary result is that he plunges
headforemost into all or most of the errors which were pitfalls to the
first labourers in the field. Or, again, he painfully and uselessly
pursues the blind alleys which they had wandered in, and from which a
perusal of their works would have warned off later comers.
Oh, irony of fate! the same thing precisely happens when men of
scientific eminence indulge in religious dissertations, for of course,
though it is not quite so obvious to such writers, the same blunder is
quite possible in non-scientific fields of knowledge. I once asked one
versed in theology what he thought of the religious articles of a
distinguished man, unfamiliar himself with theology, yet, none the less,
then splashing freely and to the great admiration of the ignorant, in
the theological pool. His reply was that in so far as they were at all
constructive, they consisted mostly of exploded heresies of the first
century. Is not this precisely what one would have expected _a priori_?
A man commencing to write on science or religion who neglects the work
of earlier writers places himself in the position of the first students
of the subject and very naturally will make the same mistakes as they
made. He refuses to be hampered and biased by knowledge, and the result
follows quite inevitably. "A scientist," says Monsignor Benson, "is
hampered and biased by knowing the earth goes round the sun." The fact
of the matter is that the man of science is not a solitary figure, a
_chimæra bombinans in vacuo_. In whatever direction he looks he is faced
by the figures of other workers and he is limited and "hampered" by
their work. Nor are these workers all of them in his own area of
country, for the biologist, for example, cannot afford to neglect the
doings of the chemist; if he does he is bound to find himself led into
mistakes. No doubt the scientific man is at times needlessly hampered by
theories which he and others at the time take to be fairly well
established facts, but which after all turn out to be nothing of the
kind. This in no way weakens the argument, but rather by giving an
additional reason for caution, strengthens it.
If we carefully consider the matter we shall be unable to come to any
other conclusion than that every writer, even of the wildest form of
fiction, is in some way and to some extent hampered and limited by
knowledge, by facts, by things as they are or as they appear to be. That
will be admitted; but it will be urged that the hampering and limiting
with which we have been dealing is not merely legitimate but inevitable,
whereas the hampering and limiting--should such there be--on the part of
the Church is wholly illegitimate and indefensible.
"All that you say is no doubt true," our antagonist will urge, "but you
have still to show that your Church has any right or title to interfere
in these matters. And even if you can make some sort of case for her
interference, you have still to disprove what so many people believe,
namely, that the right, real or assumed, has not been arbitrarily used
to the damage, or at least to the delay of scientific progress.
Chemistry," we may suppose our antagonist continuing, "no doubt has a
legitimate right to have its say, even to interfere and that
imperatively, where chemical considerations invade the field of biology,
for example. But what similar right does religion possess? For
instance," he might proceed, "some few years ago a distinguished
physiologist, then occupying the Chair of the British Association,
invoked the behaviour of certain chemical substances known as colloids
in favour of his anti-vitalistic conclusions. At once he was answered by
a number of equally eminent chemists that the attitude he had adopted
was quite incompatible with facts as known to them; in a word, that
chemistry disagreed with his ideas as to colloids. Everybody admitted
that the chemists must have the final word on this subject: are you now
claiming that religion or theology, or whatever you choose to call it,
is also entitled to a say in a matter of that kind?" This supposititious
conversation illustrates the confusion which exists in many minds as to
the point at issue. One science is entitled to contradict another, just
as one scientific man is entitled to contradict another on a question of
fact. But on a question of _fact_ a theologian is not entitled--_quâ_
theologian--nor would he be expected to claim to be entitled, to
contradict a man of science.
It ought to be widely known, though it is not, that the idea that
theologians can or wish to intrude--again _quâ_ theologians--in
scientific disputes as to chemical, biological, or other facts, is a
fantastic idea without real foundation save that of the one mistake of
the kind made in the case of Galileo and never repeated--a mistake, let
us hasten to add, made by a disciplinary authority and--as all parties
admit--in no way involving questions of infallibility. To this case we
will revert shortly. Meanwhile it may be briefly stated that the claim
made by the Church is in connection with some few--some very few--of
the _theories_ which men of science build up upon the facts which they
have brought to light. Some of these theories do appear to contradict
theological dogmas, or at least may seem to simple people to be
incompatible with such dogmas, just as the people of his
time--Protestants by the way, no less than Catholics--did really think
that Galileo's theory conflicted with Holy Writ. In such cases, and in
such cases alone, the Church holds that she has at least the right to
say that such a theory should not be proclaimed to be true until there
is sufficient proof for it to satisfy the scientific world that the
point has been demonstrated.
This is really what is meant by the tyranny of the Church; and it may
now be useful to consider briefly what can be said for her position. We
must begin by looking at the matter from the Church's standpoint. It is
a good rule to endeavour to understand your opponent's position before
you try to confute him; an excellent rule seldom complied with by
anti-Catholic controversialists. Now the Church starts with the
proposition that man has an immortal soul destined to eternal happiness
or eternal misery, and she proceeds to claim that she has been divinely
constituted to help man to enjoy a future of happiness. Of course these
are opinions which all do not share, and with the arguments for and
against which we cannot here deal. If a man is quite sure that he has no
soul and that there is no hereafter there is nothing more to be said
than: "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." Nothing very much
matters in this world except that we should make ourselves as
comfortable as we can during the few years we have to spend in it.
Again, there are others who, whilst believing the first doctrine set
down above, will have none of the other. With them we enter into no
argument here, and only say that to have a guide is better than to have
no guide. Catholics, who accept gratefully her guidance, do believe that
the Church can help a man to save his soul, and that she is entrusted,
to that end, with certain powers. Her duty is to preserve and guard the
Christian Revelation--the scheme of doctrine regarding belief and
conduct by which Jesus Christ taught that souls were to be saved. She is
not an arbitrary ruler. Her office is primarily that of Judge and
Interpreter of the deposit of doctrine entrusted to her.
In this she claims to be safeguarded against error, though her
infallible utterances would seem incredibly few, if summed up and
presented to the more ignorant of her critics. She also claims to derive
from her Founder legislative power by which she can make decrees, unmake
them or modify and vary them to suit different times and circumstances.
She rightfully claims the obedience of her children to this exercise of
her authority, but such disciplinary enactments, by their very nature
variable and modifiable, do not and cannot come within the province of
her infallibility, and admittedly they need not be always perfectly wise
or judicious. Such disciplinary utterances, it may be added, at least
in the field of which we are treating, indeed in any field, are also
incredibly few when due regard is had to the enormous number of cases
passing under the Church's observation.
We saw just now that the State exercised a very large jurisdiction for
the purpose of protecting the weak who were unable or little able to
protect themselves. It is really important to remember, when we are
considering the powers of the Church and her exercise of them, that
these disciplinary powers are put in operation, not from mere arrogance
or an arbitrary love of domination--as too many suppose--but with the
primary intention of protecting and helping the weaker members of the
flock. If the Church consisted entirely of theological experts a good
deal of this exercise of disciplinary power might very likely be
regarded as wholly unnecessary. Thus the Church freely concedes not only
to priests and theologians, but to other persons adequately instructed
in her teaching, full permission to read books which she has placed on
her black list or _Index_--from which, in other words, she has warned
off the weaker members of the flock.
The net of Peter, however, as all very well know, contains a very great
variety of fish, and--to vary the metaphor--to the fisherman was given
charge not only of the sheep--foolish enough, heaven knows!--but also of
the still more helpless lambs. Thus it becomes the duty and the
privilege of the successors of the fisherman to protect the sheep and
the lambs, and not merely to protect them from wild beasts who may try
to do harm from without, but quite as much from the wild rams of the
flock who are capable of doing a great deal of injury from within. In
one of his letters, from which quotation has already been made, the late
Monsignor Benson sums up, in homely, but vivid language, the point with
which we have just been dealing. "Here are the lambs of Christ's flock,"
he writes: "Is a stout old ram to upset and confuse them when he needn't
... even though he is right? The flock must be led gently and turned in
a great curve. We can't all whip round in an instant. We are tired and
discouraged and some of us are exceedingly stupid and obstinate. Very
well; then the rams can't be allowed to make brilliant excursions in all
directions and upset us all. We shall get there some day, if we are
treated patiently. We are Christ's lambs after all."
The protection of the weak: surely, if it be deemed both just and wise
on the part of the civil government to protect its subjects by
legislation in regard to adulterated goods, contagious diseases,
unhealthy workshops and dangerous machinery, why may not the Church
safeguard her children, especially her weaker children, the special
object of her care and solicitude, from noxious intellectual foods?
It is just here that the question of the _Index_ arises. Put briefly,
this is a list of books which are not to be read by Catholics unless
they have permission to read them--a permission which, as we have just
seen, is never refused when any good reason can be given for the
request. I can understand the kind of person who says: "Exactly, locking
up the truth; why not let everybody read just what they like?" To which
I would reply that every careful parent has an _Index Prohibitorius_ for
his household; or ought to have one if he has not. I once knew a woman
who allowed her daughter to plunge into _Nana_ and other works of that
character as soon as she could summon up enough knowledge of French to
fathom their meaning. The daughter grew up and the result has not been
encouraging to educationists thinking of proceeding on similar lines.
The State also has its _Index Prohibitorius_ and will not permit
indecent books nor indecent pictures to be sold. Enough: let us again
clear our minds of cant. There is a limit with regard to publications in
every decent State and every decent house: it is only a question where
the line is drawn. It is obvious that the Church must be permitted at
least as much privilege in this matter as is claimed by every
respectable father of a family.
We need not pursue the question of the _Index_ any further, but before
we leave it let us for a moment turn to another accusation levelled
against Catholic men of science by anti-Catholic writers, that of
concealing their real opinions on scientific matters, and even of
professing views which they do not really hold, out of a craven fear of
ecclesiastical denunciations. The attitude which permits of such an
accusation is hardly courteous, but, stripped of its verbiage, that is
the accusation as it is made. Now, as there are usually at least some
smouldering embers of fire where there is smoke, there is just one small
item of truth behind all this pother. No Catholic, scientific man or
otherwise, who really honours his Faith would desire wilfully to advance
theories apparently hostile to its teaching. Further, even if he were
convinced of the truth of facts which might appear--it could only be
"appear"--to conflict with that teaching, he would, in expounding them,
either show how they could be harmonised with his religion, or, if he
were wise, would treat his facts from a severely scientific point of
view and leave other considerations to the theologians trained in
directions almost invariably unexplored by scientific men. Perhaps the
memory of old, far-off, unhappy events should not be recalled, but it is
pertinent to remark that the troubles in connection with a man whose
name once stood for all that was stalwart in Catholicism, did not
originate in, nor were they connected with, any of the scientific books
and papers of which the late Professor Mivart was the author, but with
those theological essays which all his friends must regret that he
should ever have written.
It may not be waste of time briefly to consider two of the instances
commonly brought up as examples when the allegation with which we are
dealing is under consideration.