In each of these cases what is responsible is that part of my character
which determines what the action shall be. For instinctive actions we
do not say that I am responsible, because the choice is made before
I know anything about it. For voluntary actions I am responsible,
because I make the choice; that is, the character of me is what
determines the character of the action. In me, then, for this purpose,
is included the aggregate of links of association which determines
what memories shall be called up by a given suggestion, and what
motives shall be set at work by these memories. But we distinguish
this mass of passions and pleasures, desire and knowledge and pain,
which makes up most of my character at the moment, from that inner
and deeper motive-choosing self which is called Reason, and the Will,
and the Ego; which is only responsible when motives are voluntarily
chosen by directing attention to them. It is responsible only for
the choice of one motive out of those presented to it, not for the
nature of the motives which are presented.
But again, I may reasonably be blamed for what I did yesterday,
or a week ago, or last year. This is because I am permanent; in
so far as from my actions of that date an inference may be drawn
about my character now, it is reasonable that I should be treated as
praiseworthy or blamable. And within certain limits I am for the same
reason responsible for what I am now, because within certain limits
I have made myself. Even instinctive actions are dependent in many
cases upon habits which may be altered by proper attention and care;
and still more the nature of the connections between sensation and
action, the associations of memory and motive, may be voluntarily
modified if I choose to try. The habit of choosing among motives
is one which may be acquired and strengthened by practice, and the
strength of particular motives, by continually directing attention
to them, may be almost indefinitely increased or diminished. Thus,
if by me is meant not the instantaneous me of this moment, but the
aggregate me of my past life, or even of the last year, the range of
my responsibility is very largely increased. I am responsible for a
very large portion of the circumstances which are now external to me;
that is to say, I am responsible for certain of the restrictions on
my own freedom. As the eagle was shot with an arrow that flew on its
own feather, so I find myself bound with fetters of my proper forging.
Let us now endeavor to conceive an action which is not determined in
any way by the character of the agent. If we ask, 'What makes it to be
that action and no other?' we are told, 'The man's Ego.' The words are
here used, it seems to me, in some non-natural sense, if in any sense
at all. One thing makes another to be what it is when the characters
of the two things are connected together by some general statement
or rule. But we have to suppose that the character of the action is
not connected with the character of the Ego by any general statement
or rule. With the same Ego and the same circumstances of all kinds,
anything within the limits imposed by the circumstances may happen
at any moment. I find myself unable to conceive any distinct sense
in which responsibility could apply in this case; nor do I see at
all how it would be reasonable to use praise or blame. If the action
does not depend on the character, what is the use of trying to alter
the character? Suppose, however, that this indeterminateness is only
partial; that the character does add some restrictions to those already
imposed by circumstances, but leaves the choice between certain actions
undetermined, and to be settled by chance or the transcendental Ego. Is
it not clear that the man would be responsible for precisely that part
of the character of the action which was determined by his character,
and not for what was left undetermined by it? For it is just that
part which was determined by his character which it is reasonable to
try to alter by altering him.
We who believe in uniformity are not the only people unable to conceive
responsibility without it. These are the words of Sir W. Hamilton,
as quoted by Mr. J. S. Mill:-- [5]
'Nay, were we even to admit as true what we cannot think as possible,
still the doctrine of a motiveless volition would be only casualism;
and the free acts of an indifferent are, morally and rationally,
as worthless as the pre-ordered passions of a determined will.'
'That, though inconceivable, a motiveless volition would, if conceived,
be conceived as morally worthless, only shows our impotence more
clearly.'
'Is the person an original undetermined cause of the determination
of his will? If he be not, then he is not a free agent, and the
scheme of Necessity is admitted. If he be, in the first place, it is
impossible to conceive the possibility of this; and in the second,
if the fact, though inconceivable, be allowed, it is impossible to
see how a cause, undetermined by any motive, can be a rational, moral,
and accountable cause.'
It is true that Hamilton also says that the scheme of necessity is
inconceivable, because it leads to an infinite non-commencement;
and that 'the possibility of morality depends on the possibility of
liberty; for if a man be not a free agent, he is not the author of his
actions, and has, therefore, no responsibility--no moral personality
at all.'
I know nothing about necessity; I only believe that nature is
practically uniform even in human action. I know nothing about
an infinitely distant past; I only know that I ought to base on
uniformity those inferences which are to guide my actions. But that
man is a free agent appears to me obvious, and that in the natural
sense of the words. We need ask for no better definition than Kant's:--
'Will is a kind of causality belonging to living agents, in so
far as they are rational; and freedom is such a property of that
causality as enables them to be efficient agents independently of
outside causes determining them; as, on the other hand, necessity
(Naturnothwendigkeit) is that property of all irrational beings which
consists in their being determined to activity by the influence of
outside causes.' ('Metaphysics of Ethics,' chap. iii.)
I believe that I am a free agent when my actions are independent of
the control of circumstances outside me; and it seems a misuse of
language to call me a free agent if my actions are determined by a
transcendental Ego who is independent of the circumstances inside
me--that is to say, of my character. The expression 'free will' has
unfortunately been imported into mental science from a theological
controversy rather different from the one we are now considering. It
is surely too much to expect that good and serviceable English words
should be sacrificed to a phantom.
In an admirable book, 'The Methods of Ethics,' Mr. Henry Sidgwick
has stated, with supreme fairness and impartiality, both sides
of this question. After setting forth the 'almost overwhelming
cumulative proof' of uniformity in human action, he says that it
seems 'more than balanced by a single argument on the other side:
the immediate affirmation of consciousness in the moment of deliberate
volition.' 'No amount of experience of the sway of motives ever tends
to make me distrust my intuitive consciousness that in resolving,
after deliberation, I exercise free choice as to which of the motives
acting upon me shall prevail.'
The only answer to this argument is that it is not 'on the other
side.' There is no doubt about the deliverance of consciousness; and
even if our powers of self-observation had not been acute enough to
discover it, the existence of some choice between motives would be
proved by the existence of vaso-motor nerves. But perhaps the most
instructive way of meeting arguments of this kind is to inquire what
consciousness ought to say in order that its deliverances may be of
any use in the controversy. It is affirmed, on the side of uniformity,
that the feelings in my consciousness in the moment of voluntary choice
have been preceded by facts out of my consciousness which are related
to them in a uniform manner, so that if the previous facts had been
accurately known the voluntary choice might have been predicted. On
the other side this is denied. To be of any use in the controversy,
then, the immediate deliverance of my consciousness must be competent
to assure me of the non-existence of something which by hypothesis
is not in my consciousness. Given an absolutely dark room, can my
sense of sight assure me that there is no one but myself in it? Can
my sense of hearing assure me that nothing inaudible is going on? As
little can the immediate deliverance of my consciousness assure me
that the uniformity of nature does not apply to human actions.
It is perhaps necessary, in connection with this question, to refer
to that singular Materialism of high authority and recent date which
makes consciousness a physical agent, 'correlates' it with Light
and Nerve-force, and so reduces it to an objective phenomenon. This
doctrine is founded on a common and very useful mode of speech, in
which we say, for example, that a good fire is a source of pleasure
on a cold day, and that a man's feeling of chill may make him run to
it. But so also we say that the sun rises and sets every morning and
night, although the man in the moon sees clearly that this is due
to the rotation of the earth. One cannot be pedantic all day. But
if we choose for once to be pedantic, the matter is after all very
simple. Suppose that I am made to run by feeling a chill. When I
begin to move my leg, I may observe if I like a double series of
facts. I have the feeling of effort, the sensation of motion in
my leg; I feel the pressure of my foot on the ground. Along with
this I may see with my eyes, or feel with my hands, the motion of
my leg as a material object. The first series of facts belongs to
me alone; the second may be equally observed by anybody else. The
mental series began first; I willed to move my leg before I saw it
move. But when I know more about the matter, I can trace the material
series further back, and find nerve-messages going to the muscles of
my leg to make it move. But I had a feeling of chill before I chose
to move my leg. Accordingly, I can find nerve-messages, excited by
the contraction due to the low temperature, going to my brain from
the chilled skin. Assuming the uniformity of nature, I carry forward
and backward both the mental and the material series. A uniformity
is observed in each, and a parallelism is observed between them,
whenever observations can be made. But sometimes one series is known
better, and sometimes the other; so that in telling a story we quite
naturally speak sometimes of mental facts and sometimes of material
facts. A feeling of chill made a man run; strictly speaking, the
nervous disturbance which co-existed with that feeling of chill made
him run, if we want to talk about material facts; or the feeling of
chill produced the form of sub-consciousness which co-exists with
the motion of legs, if we want to talk about mental facts. But we
know nothing about the special nervous disturbance which co-exists
with a feeling of chill, because it has not yet been localized in the
brain; and we know nothing about the form of sub-consciousness which
co-exists with the motion of legs; although there is very good reason
for believing in the existence of both. So we talk about the feeling
of chill and the running, because in one case we know the mental side,
and in the other the material side. A man might show me a picture of
the battle of Gravelotte, and say, 'You can't see the battle, because
it's all over, but there is a picture of it.' And then he might put
a chassepot into my hand, and say, 'We could not represent the whole
construction of a chassepot in the picture, but you can examine this
one, and find it out.' If I now insisted on mixing up the two modes
of communication of knowledge, if I expected that the chassepots
in the picture would go off, and said that the one in my hand was
painted on heavy canvas, I should be acting exactly in the spirit
of the new materialism. For the material facts are a representation
or symbol of the mental facts, just as a picture is a representation
or symbol of a battle. And my own mind is a reality from which I can
judge by analogy of the realities represented by other men's brains,
just as the chassepot in my hand is a reality from which I can judge by
analogy of the chassepots represented in the picture. When, therefore,
we ask, 'What is the physical link between the ingoing message from
chilled skin and the outgoing message which moves the leg?' and the
answer is, 'A man's Will,' we have as much right to be amused as
if we had asked our friend with the picture what pigment was used
in painting the cannon in the foreground, and received the answer,
'Wrought iron.' It will be found excellent practice in the mental
operations required by this doctrine to imagine a train, the fore part
of which is an engine and three carriages linked with iron couplings,
and the hind part three other carriages linked with iron couplings;
the bond between the two parts being made out of the sentiments of
amity subsisting between the stoker and the guard.
To sum up: the uniformity of nature in human actions has been
denied on the ground that it takes away responsibility, that it is
contradicted by the testimony of consciousness, and that there is a
physical correlation between mind and matter. We have replied that
the uniformity of nature is necessary to responsibility, that it is
affirmed by the testimony of consciousness whenever consciousness is
competent to testify, and that matter is the phenomenon or symbol of
which mind or quasi-mind is the symbolized and represented thing. We
are now free to continue our inquiries on the supposition that nature
is uniform.
We began by describing the moral sense of an Englishman. No doubt
the description would serve very well for the more civilized nations
of Europe; most closely for Germans and Dutch. But the fact that we
can speak in this way discloses that there is more than one moral
sense, and that what I feel to be right another man may feel to
be wrong. Thus we cannot help asking whether there is any reason
for preferring one moral sense to another; whether the question,
'What is right to do?' has in any one set of circumstances a single
answer which can be definitely known.
Clearly, in the first rough sense of the word, this is not true. What
is right for me to do now, seeing that I am here with a certain
character, and a certain moral sense as part of it, is just what
I feel to be right. The individual conscience is, in the moment
of volition, the only possible judge of what is right; there is
no conflicting claim. But if we are deliberating about the future,
we know that we can modify our conscience gradually by associating
with people, reading certain books, and paying attention to certain
ideas and feelings; and we may ask ourselves, 'How shall we modify
our conscience, if at all? what kind of conscience shall we try to
get? what is the best conscience?' We may ask similar questions about
our sense of taste. There is no doubt at present that the nicest things
to me are the things I like; but I know that I can train myself to
like some things and dislike others, and that things which are very
nasty at one time may come to be great delicacies at another. I may
ask, 'How shall I train myself? What is the best taste?' And this
leads very naturally to putting the question in another form, namely,
'What is taste good for? What is the purpose or function of taste?' We
should probably find as the answer to that question that the purpose or
function of taste is to discriminate wholesome food from unwholesome;
that it is a matter of stomach and digestion. It will follow from
this that the best taste is that which prefers wholesome food, and
that by cultivating a preference for wholesome and nutritious things
I shall be training my palate in the way it should go. In just the
same way our question about the best conscience will resolve itself
into a question about the purpose or function of the conscience--why
we have got it, and what it is good for.
Now to my mind the simplest and clearest and most profound philosophy
that was ever written upon this subject is to be found in the 2d and
3d chapters of Mr. Darwin's 'Descent of Man.' In these chapters it
appears that just as most physical characteristics of organisms have
been evolved and preserved because they were useful to the individual
in the struggle for existence against other individuals and other
species, so this particular feeling has been evolved and preserved
because it is useful to the tribe or community in the struggle for
existence against other tribes, and against the environment as a
whole. The function of conscience is the preservation of the tribe
as a tribe. And we shall rightly train our consciences if we learn
to approve those actions which tend to the advantage of the community
in the struggle for existence.
There are here some words, however, which require careful
definition. And first the word purpose. A thing serves a purpose
when it is adapted to some end; thus a corkscrew is adapted to the
end of extracting corks from bottles, and our lungs are adapted to
the end of respiration. We may say that the extraction of corks is
the purpose of the corkscrew, and that respiration is the purpose
of the lungs. But here we shall have used the word in two different
senses. A man made the corkscrew with a purpose in his mind, and he
knew and intended that it should be used for pulling out corks. But
nobody made our lungs with a purpose in his mind, and intended that
they should be used for breathing. The respiratory apparatus was
adapted to its purpose by natural selection--namely, by the gradual
preservation of better and better adaptations, and the killing off of
the worse and imperfect adaptations. In using the word purpose for
the result of this unconscious process of adaptation by survival of
the fittest, I know that I am somewhat extending its ordinary sense,
which implies consciousness. But it seems to me that on the score
of convenience there is a great deal to be said for this extension
of meaning. We want a word to express the adaptation of means to an
end, whether involving consciousness or not; the word purpose will do
very well, and the adjective purposive has already been used in this
sense. But if the use is admitted, we must distinguish two kinds of
purpose. There is the unconscious purpose which is attained by natural
selection, in which no consciousness need be concerned; and there
is the conscious purpose of an intelligence which designs a thing
that it may serve to do something which he desires to be done. The
distinguishing mark of this second kind, design or conscious purpose,
is that in the consciousness of the agent there is an image or symbol
of the end which he desires, and this precedes and determines the use
of the means. Thus the man who first invented a corkscrew must have
previously known that corks were in bottles, and have desired to get
them out. We may describe this if we like in terms of matter, and say
that a purpose of the second kind implies a complex nervous system,
in which there can be formed an image or symbol of the end, and that
this symbol determines the use of the means. The nervous image or
symbol of anything is that mode of working of part of my brain which
goes on simultaneously and is correlated with my thinking of the thing.
Aristotle defines an organism as that in which the part exists for the
sake of the whole. It is not that the existence of the part depends
on the existence of the whole, for every whole exists only as an
aggregate of parts related in a certain way; but that the shape and
nature of the part are determined by the wants of the whole. Thus
the shape and nature of my foot are what they are, not for the sake
of my foot itself, but for the sake of my whole body, and because it
wants to move about. That which the part has to do for the whole is
called its function. Thus the function of my foot is to support me,
and assist in locomotion. Not all the nature of the part is necessarily
for the sake of the whole: the comparative callosity of the skin of
my sole is for the protection of my foot itself.
Society is an organism, and man in society is part of an organism
according to this definition, in so far as some portion of the
nature of man is what it is for the sake of the whole--society. Now
conscience is such a portion of the nature of man, and its function
is the preservation of society in the struggle for existence. We may
be able to define this function more closely when we know more about
the way in which conscience tends to preserve society.
Next let us endeavor to make precise the meaning of the words community
and society. It is clear that at different times men may be divided
into groups of greater or less extent--tribes, clans, families,
nations, towns. If a certain number of clans are struggling for
existence, that portion of the conscience will be developed which
tends to the preservation of the clan; so, if towns or families are
struggling, we shall get a moral sense adapted to the advantage of the
town or the family. In this way different portions of the moral sense
may be developed at different stages of progress. Now it is clear that
for the purpose of the conscience the word community at any time will
mean a group of that size and nature which is being selected or not
selected for survival as a whole. Selection may be going on at the
same time among many different kinds of groups. And ultimately the
moral sense will be composed of various portions relating to various
groups, the function or purpose of each portion being the advantage
of that group to which it relates in the struggle for existence. Thus
we have a sense of family duty, of municipal duty, of national duty,
and of duties toward all mankind.
It is to be noticed that part of the nature of a smaller group may
be what it is for the sake of a larger group to which it belongs;
and then we may speak of the function of the smaller group. Thus it
appears probable that the family, in the form in which it now exists
among us, is determined by the good of the nation; and we may say
that the function of the family is to promote the advantage of the
nation or larger society in some certain ways. But I do not think it
would be right to follow Auguste Comte in speaking of the function
of humanity; because humanity is obviously not a part of any larger
organism for whose sake it is what it is.
Now that we have cleared up the meanings of some of our words, we
are still a great way from the definite solution of our question,
'What is the best conscience? or what ought I to think right?' For
we do not yet know what is for the advantage of the community in the
struggle for existence. If we choose to learn by the analogy of an
individual organism, we may see that no permanent or final answer can
be given, because the organism grows in consequence of the struggle,
and develops new wants while it is satisfying the old ones. But
at any given time it has quite enough to do to keep alive and to
avoid dangers and diseases. So we may expect that the wants and even
the necessities of the social organism will grow with its growth,
and that it is impossible to predict what may tend in the distant
future to its advantage in the struggle for existence. But still,
in this vague and general statement of the functions of conscience,
we shall find that we have already established a great deal.
In the first place, right is an affair of the community, and must not
be referred to anything else. To go back to our analogy of taste: if
I tried to persuade you that the best palate was that which preferred
things pretty to look at, you might condemn me à priori without any
experience, by merely knowing that taste is an affair of stomach and
digestion--that its function is to select wholesome food. And so,
if any one tries to persuade us that the best conscience is that
which thinks it right to obey the will of some individual, as a deity
or a monarch, he is condemned à priori in the very nature of right
and wrong. In order that the worship of a deity may be consistent
with natural ethics, he must be regarded as the friend and helper of
humanity, and his character must be judged from his actions by a moral
standard which is independent of him. And this, it must be admitted,
is the position which has been taken by most English divines, as long
as they were Englishmen first and divines afterward. The worship of
a deity who is represented as unfair or unfriendly to any portion of
the community is a wrong thing, however great may be the threats and
promises by which it is commended. And still worse, the reference of
right and wrong to his arbitrary will as a standard, the diversion
of the allegiance of the moral sense from the community to him, is
the most insidious and fatal of social diseases. It was against this
that the Teutonic conscience protested in the Reformation. Again, in
monarchical countries, in order that allegiance to the sovereign may
be consistent with natural ethics, he must be regarded as the servant
and symbol of the national unity, capable of rebellion and punishable
for it. And this has been the theory of the English constitution from
time immemorial.
The first principle of natural ethics, then, is the sole and supreme
allegiance of conscience to the community. I venture to call this piety
in accordance with the older meaning of the word. Even if it should
turn out impossible to sever it from the unfortunate associations which
have clung to its later meaning, still it seems worth while to try.
An immediate deduction from our principle is that there are no
self-regarding virtues properly so called; those qualities which
tend to the advantage and preservation of the individual being only
morally right in so far as they make him a more useful citizen. And
this conclusion is in some cases of great practical importance. The
virtue of purity, for example, attains in this way a fairly exact
definition: purity in a man is that course of conduct which makes him
to be a good husband and father, in a woman that which makes her to be
a good wife and mother, or which helps other people so to prepare and
keep themselves. It is easy to see how many false ideas and pernicious
precepts are swept away by even so simple a definition as that.
Next, we may fairly define our position in regard to that moral
system which has deservedly found favor with the great mass of our
countrymen. In the common statement of utilitarianism the end of
right action is defined to be the greatest happiness of the greatest
number. It seems to me that the reason and the ample justification
of the success of this system is that it explicitly sets forth the
community as the object of moral allegiance. But our determination
of the purpose of the conscience will oblige us to make a change in
the statement of it. Happiness is not the end of right action. My
happiness is of no use to the community except in so far as it makes
me a more efficient citizen; that is to say, it is rightly desired as
a means and not as an end. The end may be described as the greatest
efficiency of all citizens as such. No doubt happiness will in the
long run accrue to the community as a consequence of right conduct;
but the right is determined independently of the happiness, and,
as Plato says, it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.
In conclusion, I would add some words on the relation of Veracity to
the first principle of Piety. It is clear that veracity is founded on
faith in man; you tell a man the truth when you can trust him with it
and are not afraid. This perhaps is made more evident by considering
the case of exception allowed by all moralists--namely, that if a man
asks you the way with a view to committing a murder, it is right to
tell a lie and misdirect him. The reason why he must not have the truth
told him is that he would make a bad use of it; he cannot be trusted
with it. About these cases of exception an important remark must be
made in passing. When we hear that a man has told a lie under such
circumstances, we are indeed ready to admit that for once it was right,
mensonge admirable; but we always have a sort of feeling that it must
not occur again. And the same thing applies to cases of conflicting
obligations, when for example the family conscience and the national
conscience disagree. In such cases no general rule can be laid down; we
have to choose the less of two evils; but this is not right altogether
in the same sense as it is right to speak the truth. There is something
wrong in the circumstances, that we should have to choose an evil at
all. The actual course to be pursued will vary with the progress of
society; that evil which at first was greater will become less, and
in a perfect society the conflict will be resolved into harmony. But
meanwhile these cases of exception must be carefully kept distinct
from the straightforward cases of right and wrong, and they always
imply an obligation to mend the circumstances if we can.
Veracity to an individual is not only enjoined by piety in virtue of
the obvious advantage which attends a straightforward and mutually
trusting community as compared with others, but also because deception
is in all cases a personal injury. Still more is this true of veracity
to the community itself. The conception of the universe or aggregate
of beliefs which forms the link between sensation and action for
each individual is a public and not a private matter; it is formed
by society and for society. Of what enormous importance it is to the
community that this should be a true conception I need not attempt
to describe. Now to the attainment of this true conception two things
are necessary.
First, if we study the history of those methods by which true beliefs
and false beliefs have been attained, we shall see that it is our duty
to guide our beliefs by inference from experience on the assumption
of uniformity of nature and consciousness in other men, and by this
only. Only upon this moral basis can the foundations of the empirical
method be justified.
Secondly, veracity to the community depends upon faith in man. Surely
I ought to be talking platitudes when I say that it is not English to
tell a man a lie, or to suggest a lie by your silence or your actions,
because you are afraid that he is not prepared for the truth, because
you don't quite know what he will do when he knows it, because perhaps
after all this lie is a better thing for him than the truth would
be, this same man being all the time an honest fellow-citizen whom
you have every reason to trust. Surely I have heard that this craven
crookedness is the object of our national detestation. And yet it is
constantly whispered that it would be dangerous to divulge certain
truths to the masses. 'I know the whole thing is untrue: but then
it is so useful for the people; you don't know what harm you might
do by shaking their faith in it.' Crooked ways are none the less
crooked because they are meant to deceive great masses of people
instead of individuals. If a thing is true, let us all believe it,
rich and poor, men, women, and children. If a thing is untrue, let
us all disbelieve it, rich and poor, men, women, and children. Truth
is a thing to be shouted from the housetops, not to be whispered over
rose-water after dinner when the ladies are gone away.
Even in those whom I would most reverence, who would shrink with
horror from such actual deception as I have just mentioned, I find
traces of a want of faith in man. Even that noble thinker, to whom
we of this generation owe more than I can tell, seemed to say in
one of his posthumous essays that in regard to questions of great
public importance we might encourage a hope in excess of the evidence
(which would infallibly grow into a belief and defy evidence) if
we found that life was made easier by it. As if we should not lose
infinitely more by nourishing a tendency to falsehood than we could
gain by the delusion of a pleasing fancy. Life must first of all be
made straight and true; it may get easier through the help this brings
to the commonwealth. And Lange, the great historian of materialism,
says that the amount of false belief necessary to morality in a given
society is a matter of taste. I cannot believe that any falsehood
whatever is necessary to morality. It cannot be true of my race and
yours that to keep ourselves from becoming scoundrels we must needs
believe a lie. The sense of right grew up among healthy men and was
fixed by the practice of comradeship. It has never had help from
phantoms and falsehoods, and it never can want any. By faith in man
and piety toward men we have taught each other the right hitherto; with
faith in man and piety toward men we shall never more depart from it.