heap of vague, empirical observations, too flimsy to be useful in
strict logical inference? I should, I confess, be apt to say so myself.
Then, you may proceed, is it not idle to attempt to introduce a
scientific method? And to that I should emphatically reply, No! it is
of the highest importance. The question, then, will follow, how I can
maintain these two positions at once. And to that I make, in the first
place, this general answer: Sociology is still of necessity a very
vague body of approximate truths. We have not the data necessary for
obtaining anything like precise laws. A mathematician can tell you
precisely what he means when he speaks of bodies moving under the
influence of an attraction which varies inversely as the square of the
distance. But what are the attractive forces which hold together the
body politic? They are a number of human passions, which even the
acutest psychologists are as yet quite unable to analyse or to
classify: they act according to laws of which we have hardly the
vaguest inkling; and, even if we possessed any definite laws, the facts
to which they have to be applied are so amazingly complex as to defy
any attempt at assigning results. There is, so far as I can see, no
ground for supposing that there is or ever can be a body of precise
truths at all capable of comparison with the exact sciences. But this
obvious truth, though it implies very narrow limits to our hopes of
scientific results, does not force us to renounce the application of
scientific method. The difficulty applies in some degree even to
physiology as compared with physics, as the vital phenomena are
incomparably more complex than those with which we have to deal in the
simpler sciences; and yet nobody doubts that a scientific physiology is
a possibility, and, to some extent, a reality. Now, in sociology,
however imperfect it may be, we may still apply the same methods which
have been so fruitful in other departments of thought. We may undertake
it in the scientific spirit which depends upon patient appeal to
observation, and be guided by the constant recollection that we are
dealing with an organism, the various relations of whose constituent
parts are determined by certain laws to which we may, perhaps, make
some approximation. We may do so, although their mutual actions and
reactions are so complex and subtle that we can never hope to
disentangle them with any approach to completeness. And one test of the
legitimacy of our methods will be, that although we do not hope to
reach any precise and definitely assignable law, we yet reach, or aim
at reaching, results which, while wanting in precision, want precision
alone to be capable of incorporation in an ideal science such as might
actually exist for a supernatural observer of incomparably superior
powers. A man who knows, though he knows nothing more, that the moon is
kept in its orbit by forces similar to or identical with those which
cause the fall of an apple, knows something which only requires more
definite treatment to be made into a genuine theory of gravitation. If,
on the contrary, he merely pays himself with words, with vague guesses
about occult properties, or a supposed angel who directs the moon's
course, he is still in the unscientific stage. His theory is not
science still in the vague, but something which stops the way to
science. Now, if we can never hope to get further than the step which
in the problem of gravitation represents the first step towards
science, yet that step may be a highly important one. It represents a
diversion of the current of thought from such channels as end in mere
shifting sands of speculation, into the channel which leads towards
some definite conclusion, verifiable by experience, and leading to
conclusions, not very precise, but yet often pointing to important
practical results. It may, perhaps, be said that, as the change which I
am supposing represents only a change of method and spirit, it can
achieve no great results in actual assignable truth. Well! a change of
method and spirit is, in my opinion, of considerable importance, and
very vague results would still imply an improvement in the chaos of
what now passes for political philosophy. I will try to indicate very
briefly the kind of improvement of which we need not despair.
First of all, I conceive that, as I have indicated, a really scientific
habit of thought would dispel many hopeless logomachies. When Burke,
incomparably the greatest of our philosophical politicians, was arguing
against the American policy of the Government, he expressed his hatred
of metaphysics--the "Serbonian bog," as he called it, in which whole
armies had been lost. The point at which he aimed was the fruitless
discussion of abstract rights, which prevented people from applying
their minds to the actual facts, and from seeing that metaphysical
entities of that kind were utterly worthless when they ceased to
correspond to the wants and aspirations of the peoples concerned. He
could not, as he said, draw up an indictment against a nation, because
he could not see how such troubles as had arisen between England and
the Colonies were to be decided by technical distinctions such as
passed current at _nisi prius_. I am afraid that the mode of reasoning
condemned by Burke has not yet gone out of fashion. I do not wish to
draw down upon myself the wrath of metaphysicians. I am perfectly
willing that they should go on amusing themselves by attempting to
deduce the first principles of morality from abstract considerations of
logical affirmation and denial. But I will say this, that, in any case,
and whatever the ultimate meaning of right and wrong, all political and
social questions must be discussed with a continual reference to
experience, to the contents as well as to the form of their metaphysical
concepts. It is, to my mind, quite as idle to attempt to determine the
value, say, of a political theory by reasoning independent of the
character and circumstances of the nation and its constituent members,
as to solve a medical question by abstract formulæ, instead of by
careful, prolonged, and searching investigation into the constitution of
the human body. I think that this requires to be asserted so long as
popular orators continue to declaim, for example, about the "rights of
man," or the doctrines of political equality. I by no means deny, or
rather I should on due occasion emphatically assert, that the demands
covered by such formulæ are perfectly right, and that they rest upon a
base of justice. But I am forced to think that, as they are generally
stated, they can lead to nothing but logomachy. When a man lays down
some such sweeping principle, his real object is to save himself the
trouble of thinking. So long as the first principles from which he
starts are equally applicable,--and it is of the very nature of these
principles that they should be equally applicable to men in all times
and ages, to Englishmen and Americans, Hindoos and Chinese, Negroes and
Australians,--they are worthless for any particular case, although, of
course, they may be accidentally true in particular cases. In short,
leaving to the metaphysicians--that is, postponing till the Greek
Kalends--any decision as to the ultimate principles, I say that every
political theory should be prepared to justify itself by an accurate
observation of the history and all the various characteristics of the
social organisation to which it is to be applied.
This points to the contrast to which I have referred: the contrast
between the keen vigorous good sense upon immediate questions of the
day, to which I often listen with the unfeigned admiration due to the
shrewd man of business, and the paltry little outworn platitudes which
he introduces when he wants to tag his arguments with sounding
principles. I think, to take an example out of harm's way, that an
excellent instance is found in the famous American treatise, the
_Federalist_. It deserves all the credit it has won so long as the
authors are discussing the right way to form a constitution which may
satisfy the wants and appease the prejudices then actually existing. In
spite of such miscalculations as beset all forecasts of the future,
they show admirable good sense and clear appreciation. But when they
think it necessary to appeal to Montesquieu, to tag their arguments
from common sense with little ornamental formulæ learnt from
philosophical writings, they show a very amiable simplicity; but they
also seem to me to sink at once to the level of a clever prize essay in
a university competition. The mischief may be slight when we are merely
considering literary effect. But it points to a graver evil. In
political discussions, the half-trained mind has strong convictions
about some particular case, and then finds it easiest to justify its
conviction by some sweeping general principle. It really starts,
speaking in terms of logic, by assuming the truth of its minor and
takes for granted that any major which will cover the minor is
therefore established. Nothing saves so much trouble in thinking as the
acceptance of a good sounding generality or a self-evident truth. Where
your poor scientific worker plods along, testing the truth of his
argument at every point, making qualifications and reservations, and
admitting that every general principle may require to be modified in
concrete cases, you can thus both jump to your conclusion and assume
the airs of a philosopher. It is, I fancy, for this reason that people
have such a tendency to lay down absolute rules about really difficult
points. It is so much easier to say at once that all drinking ought to
be suppressed, than to consider how, in actual circumstances, sobriety
can be judiciously encouraged; and by assuming a good self-evident law
and denouncing your opponents as immoral worshippers of expediency, you
place yourself in an enviable position of moral dignity and
inaccessibility. No argument can touch you. These abstract rules, too,
have the convenience of being strangely ambiguous. I have been almost
pathetically affected when I have observed how some thoroughly
commonplace person plumes himself on preserving his consistency because
he sticks resolutely to his party dogmas, even when their whole meaning
has evaporated. Some English radicals boasted of consistency because
they refused to be convinced by experience that republicans under a
military dictator could become tyrannous and oppressive. At the present
day, I see many worthy gentlemen, who from being thorough-going
individualists, have come to swallow unconsciously the first principles
of socialism without the least perception that they have changed,
simply because a new meaning has been gradually insinuated into the
sacred formulæ. Scientific habits of thought, I venture to suggest,
would tend to free a man from the dominion of these abstract phrases,
which sometimes make men push absolute dogmas to extravagant results,
and sometimes blind them to the complete transformation which has taken
place in their true meaning. The great test of statesmanship, it is
said, is the knowledge how and when to make a compromise, and when to
hold fast to a principle. The tendency of the thoughtless is to
denounce all compromise as wicked, and to stick to a form of words
without bothering about the real meaning. Belief in "fads"--I cannot
avoid the bit of slang--and singular malleability of real convictions
are sometimes generated just by want of serious thought; and, at any
rate, both phenomena are very common at present.
This suggests another aspect of reasoning in a scientific spirit,
namely, the importance which it attaches to a right comprehension of
the practicable. The scientific view is sometimes described as
fatalistic. A genuine scientific theory implies a true estimate of the
great forces which mould institutions, and therefore a true
apprehension of the limits within which they can be modified by any
proposed change. We all remember Sydney Smith's famous illustration, in
regard to the opposition to the Reform Bill, of Mrs. Partington's
attempt to stop the Atlantic with her mop. Such an appeal is sometimes
described as immoral. Many politicians, no doubt, find in it an excuse
for immoral conduct. They assume that such and such a measure is
inevitable, and therefore they think themselves justified for
advocating it, even though they hold it to be wrong. Indeed, I observe
that many excellent journalists are apparently unable to perceive any
distinction between the assertion that a measure will be passed, and
that it ought to be passed. Undoubtedly, if I think a measure unjust, I
ought to say that it is unjust, even if I am sure that it will
nevertheless be carried, and, in some cases, even though I may be a
martyr to my opposition. If it is inevitable, it can be carried without
my help, and my protest may at least sow a seed for future reaction.
But this is no answer to the argument of Sydney Smith when taken in a
reasonable sense. The opposition to the Reform Bill was a particular
case of the opposition to the advance of democracy. The statement that
democracy has advanced and will advance, is sometimes taken to be
fatalistic. People who make the assertion may answer for themselves. I
should answer, as I think we should all answer now, that the advance of
democracy, desirable or undesirable, depended upon causes far too deep
and general to be permanently affected by any Reform Bill. It was only
one aspect of vast social changes which had been going on for
centuries; and to propose to stop it by throwing out the Reform Bill
was like proposing to stop a child's growth by forcing him to go on
wearing his long clothes. Sydney Smith's answer might be immoral if it
simply meant, don't fight because you will be beaten. It may often be a
duty to take a beating. But it was, perhaps, rather a way of saying
that if you want to stop the growth of democracy, you must begin by
altering the course of the social, intellectual and moral changes which
have been operating through many generations, and that unless you can
do that, it is idle to oppose one particular corollary, and so to make
a revolution inevitable, instead of a peaceful development. To say
that any change is impossible in the absolute sense, may be fatalism;
but it is simple good sense, and therefore good science, to say that to
produce any change whatever you must bring to bear a force adequate to
the change. When a man's leg is broken, you can't expect to heal it by
a bit of sticking-plaster; a pill is not supposed, now, to be a cure
for an earthquake; and to insist upon such facts is not to be
fatalistic, but simply to say that a remedy must bear some proportion
to an evil. It is a commonplace to observe upon the advantage which
would have been gained if our grandfathers would have looked at the
French Revolution scientifically. A terrible catastrophe had occurred
abroad. The true moral, as we all see now, was that England should make
such reforms as would obviate the danger of a similar catastrophe at
home. The moral which too many people drew was too often, that all
reforms should be stopped; with the result that the evils grew worse
and social strata more profoundly alienated. It is a first principle of
scientific reasoning, that a break-down of social order implies some
antecedent defect, demanding an adequate remedy. It is a primary
assumption of party argument, that the opposite party is wholly wrong,
that its action is perfectly gratuitous, and either causeless or
produced by the direct inspiration of the devil. The struggle, upon the
scientific theory, represents two elements in an evolution which can be
accomplished peacefully by such a reconstruction as will reconcile the
conflicting aims and substitute harmony for discord. On the other
doctrine, it is a conflict of hopelessly antagonistic principles, one
of which is to be forcibly crushed.
I hope that I am not too sanguine, but I cannot help believing that in
this respect we have improved, and improved by imbibing some of the
scientific doctrine. I think that in recent discussions of the most
important topics, however bitter and however much distorted by the old
party spirit, there is yet a clearer recognition than of old, that
widely-spread discontent is not a reason for arbitrary suppression, but
for seeking to understand and remove its causes. We should act in the
spirit of Spinoza's great saying; and it should be our aim, as it was
his care, "neither to mock, to bewail, nor to denounce men's actions,
but to understand them". That is equally true of men's opinions. If
they are violent, passionate, subversive of all order, our duty is not
bare denunciations, but a clear comprehension of the causes, not of the
ostensible reasons, of their opinions, and a resolution to remove those
causes. I think this view has made some way: I am sure that it will
make more way if we become more scientific in spirit; and it is one of
the main reasons for encouraging such a spirit. The most obvious
difficulty just now is one upon which I must touch, though with some
fear and trembling. A terrible weapon has lately been coming into
perfection, to which its inventors have given the elegant name of a
"boom". The principle is--so far as I can understand--that the right
frame of mind for dealing with the gravest problems is to generate a
state of violent excitement, to adopt any remedy, real or supposed,
which suggests itself at the moment, and to denounce everybody who
suggests difficulties as a cynic or a cold-blooded egoist; and
therefore to treat grave chronic and organic diseases of society by
spasmodic impulses, to make stringent laws without condescending to ask
whether they will work, and try the boldest experiments without
considering whether they are likely to increase or diminish the evil.
This, as some people think, is one of the inevitable consequences of
democracy. I hope that it is not; but if it is, it is one of the
inevitable consequences against which we, as cultivators of science,
should most seriously protest, in the hope that we may some day find
Philip sober enough to consider the consequences of his actions under
the influence of spiritual intoxication. Professor Huxley, in one of
those smart passages of arms which so forcibly illustrated his
intellectual vigour, gave an apologue, which I wish that I could steal
without acknowledgment. He spoke of an Irish carman who, on being told
that he was not going in the right direction, replied that he was at
any rate going at a great pace. The scientific doctrine is simply that
we should look at the map before we set out for Utopia; and I think
that a doctrine which requires to be enforced by every means in our
power.
This tendency, of course, comes out prominently in the important
discussions of social and economic problems. That is a matter upon
which I cannot now dwell, and which has been sufficiently emphasised by
many eminent writers. If modern orators confined themselves to urging
that the old economists exaggerated their claims to scientific
accuracy, and were, in point of fact, guilty of many logical errors and
hasty generalisations, I, at least, could fully agree with them. But
the general impression seems to be, that because the old arguments were
faulty, all argument is irrelevant: that because the alleged laws of
nature were wrongly stated, there are no laws of nature at all; and
that we may proceed to rearrange society, to fix the rate of wages or
the rent of land or the incomes of capitalists without any reference at
all to the conditions under which social arrangements have been worked
out and actually carried on. This is, in short, to sanction the most
obvious weakness of popular movements, and to assure the ignorant and
thoughtless that they are above reason, and their crude guesses
infallible guides to truth.
One view which tries to give some plausibility to these assumptions is
summed up in the now current phrase about the "masses" and the
"classes". We all know the regular process of logical fence of the
journalist, _i.e._, thrust and parry, which is repeated whenever such
questions turn up. The Radical calls his opponent Tory and reactionary.
The wicked Tory, it is said, thinks only of the class interest; believes
that the nation exists for the sake of the House of Lords; lives in a
little citadel provided with all the good things, which he is ready to
defend against every attempt at a juster distribution; selfishness is
his one motive; repression by brute force his only theory of government;
and his views of life in general are those of the wicked cynics who gaze
from their windows in Pall Mall. Then we have the roll of all the abuses
which have been defended by this miscreant and his like since the days
of George III.--slavery and capital punishment, and pensions and
sinecures, and protection and the church establishment. The popular
instinct, it is urged, has been in the right in so many cases that there
is an enormous presumption in favour of the infallibility of all its
instincts. The reply, of course, is equally obvious. Your boast, says
the Conservative, that you please the masses, is in effect a confession
that you truckle to the mob. You mean that your doctrines spread in
proportion to the ignorance of your constituents. You prove the merits
of your theories by showing that they disgust people the more they
think. The Liberalism of a district, it has been argued, varies with the
number of convictions for drunkenness. If it be easy to denounce our
ancestors, it is also easy to show how they built up the great empire
which now shelters us; and how, if they had truckled, as you would have
us truckle, to popular whims, we should have been deprived of our
commerce, our manufactures, and our position in the civilised world. And
then it is easy to produce a list of all the base demagogues who have
misled popular impatience and ignorance from the days of Cleon to those
of the French Convention, or of the last disreputable "boss" bloated
with corruption and the plunder of some great American city. This is the
result, it is suggested, of pandering to the mob, and generally
ostracising the intelligent citizen.