repudiate scholastic realism in any form, "law" is often inadvertently
employed in the sense of cause, just as, in common life, a man will say
that he is compelled by the law to do so and so, when, in point of fact,
all he means is that the law orders him to do it, and tells him what will
happen if he does not do it. We commonly hear of bodies falling to the
ground by reason of the law of gravitation, whereas that law is simply the
record of the fact that, according to all experience, they have so fallen
(when free to move), and of the grounds of a reasonable expectation that
they will so fall. If it should be worth anybody's while to seek for
examples of such misuse of language on my own part, I am not at all sure he
might not succeed, though I have usually been on my guard against such
looseness of expression. If I am guilty, I do penance beforehand, and only
hope that I may thereby deter others from committing the like fault. And I
venture on this personal observation by way of showing that I have no wish
to bear hardly on the preacher for falling into an error for which he might
find good precedents. But it is one of those errors which, in the case of a
person engaged in scientific pursuits, do little harm, because it is
corrected as soon as its consequences {255} become obvious; while those who
know physical science only by name are, as has been seen, easily led to
build a mighty fabric of unrealities on this fundamental fallacy. In fact,
the habitual use of the word "law," in the sense of an active thing, is
almost a mark of pseudo-science; it characterises the writings of those who
have appropriated the forms of science without knowing anything of its
substance.
There are two classes of these people: those who are ready to believe in
any miracle so long as it is guaranteed by ecclesiastical authority; and
those who are ready to believe in any miracle so long as it has some
different guarantee. The believers in what are ordinarily called
miracles--those who accept the miraculous narratives which they are taught
to think are essential elements of religious doctrine--are in the one
category; the spirit-rappers, table-turners, and all the other devotees of
the occult sciences of our day are in the other: and, if they disagree in
most things they agree in this, namely, that they ascribe to science a
dictum that is not scientific; and that they endeavour to upset the dictum
thus foisted on science by a realistic argument which is equally
unscientific.
It is asserted, for example, that, on a particular occasion, water was
turned into wine; and, on the other hand, it is asserted that a man or a
woman "levitated" to the ceiling, floated about there, and finally sailed
out by the window. And it is assumed that the pardonable scepticism, with
which most scientific men receive these statements, is due to the {256}
fact that they feel themselves justified in denying the possibility of any
such metamorphosis of water or of any such levitation, because such events
are contrary to the laws of nature. So the question of the preacher is
triumphantly put: How do you know that there are not "higher" laws of
nature than your chemical and physical laws, and that these higher laws may
not intervene and "wreck" the latter?
The plain answer to this question is, Why should anybody be called upon to
say how he knows that which he does not know? You are assuming that laws
are agents--efficient causes of that which happens--and that one law can
interfere with another. To us, that assumption is as nonsensical as if you
were to talk of a proposition of Euclid being the cause of the diagram
which illustrates it, or of the integral calculus interfering with the rule
of three. Your question really implies that we pretend to complete
knowledge not only of all past and present phenomena, but of all that are
possible in the future, and we leave all that sort of thing to the adepts
of esoteric Buddhism. Our pretensions are infinitely more modest. We have
succeeded in finding out the rules of action of a little bit of the
universe; we call these rules "laws of nature," not because anybody knows
whether they bind nature or not, but because we find it is obligatory on us
to take them into account, both as actors under nature, and as interpreters
of nature. We have any quantity of genuine miracles of our own, and if you
will furnish us with as good evidence of your miracles as we have {257} of
ours, we shall be quite happy to accept them and to amend our expression of
the laws of nature in accordance with the new facts.
As to the particular cases adduced, we are so perfectly fair-minded as to
be willing to help your case as far as we can. You are quite mistaken in
supposing that anybody who is acquainted with the possibilities of physical
science will undertake categorically to deny that water may be turned into
wine. Many very competent judges are already inclined to think that the
bodies, which we have hitherto called elementary, are really composite
arrangements of the particles of a uniform primitive matter. Supposing that
view to be correct, there would be no more theoretical difficulty about
turning water into alcohol, ethereal and colouring matters, than there is,
at this present moment, any practical difficulty in working other such
miracles; as when we turn sugar into alcohol, carbonic acid, glycerine, and
succinic acid; or transmute gas-refuse into perfumes rarer than musk and
dyes richer than Tyrian purple. If the so-called "elements," oxygen and
hydrogen, which compose water, are aggregates of the same ultimate
particles, or physical units, as those which enter into the structure of
the so-called element "carbon," it is obvious that alcohol and other
substances, composed of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen, may be produced by a
rearrangement of some of the units of oxygen and hydrogen into the
"element" carbon, and their synthesis with the rest of the oxygen and
hydrogen. {258}
Theoretically, therefore, we can have no sort of objection to your miracle.
And our reply to the levitators is just the same. Why should not your
friend "levitate"? Fish are said to rise and sink in the water by altering
the volume of an internal air-receptacle; and there may be many ways
science, as yet, knows nothing of, by which we, who live at the bottom of
an ocean of air, may do the same thing. Dialectic gas and wind appear to be
by no means wanting among you, and why should not long practice in
pneumatic philosophy have resulted in the internal generation of something
a thousand times rarer than hydrogen, by which, in accordance with the most
ordinary natural laws, you would not only rise to the ceiling and float
there in quasi-angelic posture, but perhaps, as one of your feminine adepts
is said to have done, flit swifter than train or telegram to "still-vexed
Bermoothes," and twit Ariel, if he happens to be there, for a sluggard? We
have not the presumption to deny the possibility of anything you affirm;
only, as our brethren are particular about evidence, do give us as much to
go upon as may save us from being roared down by their inextinguishable
laughter.
Enough of the realism which clings about "laws." There are plenty of other
exemplifications of its vitality in modern science, but I will cite only
one of them.
This is the conception of "vital force" which comes straight from the
philosophy of Aristotle. It is a fundamental proposition of that philosophy
that {259} a natural object is composed of two constituents--the one its
matter, conceived as inert or even, to a certain extent, opposed to orderly
and purposive motion; the other its form, conceived as a quasi-spiritual
something, containing or conditioning the actual activities of the body and
the potentiality of its possible activities.
I am disposed to think that the prominence of this conception in
Aristotle's theory of things arose from the circumstance that he was, to
begin with and throughout his life, devoted to biological studies. In fact
it is a notion which must force itself upon the mind of any one who studies
biological phenomena, without reference to general physics, as they now
stand. Everybody who observes the obvious phenomena of the development of a
seed into a tree, or of an egg into an animal, will note that a relatively
formless mass of matter gradually grows, takes a definite shape and
structure, and, finally, begins to perform actions which contribute towards
a certain end, namely, the maintenance of the individual in the first
place, and of the species in the second. Starting from the axiom that every
event has a cause, we have here the _causa finalis_ manifested in the last
set of phenomena, the _causa materialis_ and _formalis_ in the first, while
the existence of a _causa efficiens_ within the seed or egg and its
product, is a corollary from the phenomena of growth and metamorphosis,
which proceed in unbroken succession and make up the life of the animal or
plant.
Thus, at starting, the egg or seed is matter having {260} a "form" like all
other material bodies. But this form has the peculiarity, in
contradistinction to lower substantial "forms," that it is a power which
constantly works towards an end by means of living organisation.
So far as I know, Leibnitz is the only philosopher (at the same time a man
of science, in the modern sense, of the first rank) who has noted that the
modern conception of Force, as a sort of atmosphere enveloping the
particles of bodies, and having potential or actual activity, is simply a
new name for the Aristotelian Form.[67] In modern biology, up till within
quite recent times, the Aristotelian conception held undisputed sway;
living matter was endowed with "vital force," and that accounted for
everything. Whosoever was not satisfied with that explanation was treated
to that very "plain argument"--"confound you eternally"--wherewith Lord
Peter overcomes the doubts of his brothers in the _Tale of a Tub_.
"Materialist" was the mildest term applied to him--fortunate if he escaped
pelting with "infidel" and "atheist." There may be scientific Rip Van
Winkles about, who still hold by vital force; but among those biologists
who have not been asleep for the last quarter of a century "vital force" no
longer figures in the vocabulary of science. It is a patent survival of
realism; the generalisation from experience that all living bodies exhibit
certain activities of a definite character is made the basis of the notion
{261} that every living body contains an entity, "vital force," which is
assumed to be the cause of those activities.
It is remarkable, in looking back, to notice to what an extent this and
other survivals of scholastic realism arrested or, at any rate, impeded the
application of sound scientific principles to the investigation of
biological phenomena. When I was beginning to think about these matters,
the scientific world was occasionally agitated by discussions respecting
the nature of the "species" and "genera" of Naturalists, of a different
order from the disputes of a later time. I think most were agreed that a
"species" was something which existed objectively, somehow or other, and
had been created by a Divine fiat. As to the objective reality of genera,
there was a good deal of difference of opinion. On the other hand, there
were a few who could see no objective reality in anything but individuals,
and looked upon both species and genera as hypostatised universals. As for
myself, I seem to have unconsciously emulated William of Occam, inasmuch as
almost the first public discourse I ever ventured upon, dealt with "Animal
Individuality," and its tendency was to fight the Nominalist battle even in
that quarter.
Realism appeared in still stranger forms at the time to which I refer. The
community of plan which is observable in each great group of animals was
hypostatised into a Platonic idea with the appropriate name of "archetype,"
and we were told, as a disciple of Philo-Judaeus might have told us, that
this realistic figment was "the archetypal light" by which Nature {262} has
been guided amidst the "wreck of worlds." So, again, another naturalist,
who had no less earned a well-deserved reputation by his contributions to
positive knowledge, put forward a theory of the production of living things
which, as nearly as the increase of knowledge allowed, was a reproduction
of the doctrine inculcated by the Jewish Cabbala.
Annexing the archetype notion, and carrying it to its full logical
consequence, the author of this theory conceived that the species of
animals and plants were so many incarnations of the thoughts of
God--material representations of Divine ideas--during the particular period
of the world's history at which they existed. But, under the influence of
the embryological and palaeontological discoveries of modern times, which
had already lent some scientific support to the revived ancient theories of
cosmical evolution or emanation, the ingenious author of this speculation,
while denying and repudiating the ordinary theory of evolution by
successive modification of individuals, maintained and endeavoured to prove
the occurrence of a progressive modification in the Divine ideas of
successive epochs.
On the foundation of a supposed elevation of organisation in the whole
living population of any epoch as compared with that of its predecessor,
and a supposed complete difference in species between the populations of
any two epochs (neither of which suppositions has stood the test of further
inquiry), the author of this speculation based his conclusion that the
Creator had, so to speak, improved upon his thoughts as time went on; and
that, as each such {263} amended scheme of creation came up, the embodiment
of the earlier divine thoughts was swept away by a universal catastrophe,
and an incarnation of the improved ideas took its place. Only after the
last such "wreck" thus brought about, did the embodiment of a divine
thought, in the shape of the first man, make its appearance as the _ne plus
ultra_ of the cosmogonical process.
I imagine that Louis Agassiz, the genial backwoodsman of the science of my
young days, who did more to open out new tracks in the scientific forest
than most men, would have been much surprised to learn that he was
preaching the doctrine of the Cabbala, pure and simple. According to this
modification of Neoplatonism by contact with Hebrew speculation, the divine
essence is unknowable--without form or attribute; but the interval between
it and the world of sense is filled by intelligible entities, which are
nothing but the familiar hypostatised abstractions of the realists. These
have emanated, like immense waves of light, from the divine centre, and, as
ten consecutive zones of Sephiroth, form the universe. The farther away
from the centre, the more the primitive light wanes, until the periphery
ends in those mere negations, darkness and evil, which are the essence of
matter. On this, the divine agency transmitted through the Sephiroth
operates after the fashion of the Aristotelian forms, and, at first,
produces the lowest of a series of worlds. After a certain duration the
primitive world is demolished and its fragments used up in making a better;
and {264} this process is repeated, until at length a final world, with man
for its crown and finish, makes its appearance. It is needless to trace the
process of retrogressive metamorphosis by which, through the agency of the
Messiah, the steps of the process of evolution here sketched are retraced.
Sufficient has been said to prove that the extremest realism current in the
philosophy of the thirteenth century can be fully matched by the
speculations of our own time.
* * * * *
{265}
VII
SCIENCE AND PSEUDO-SCIENCE
In the opening sentences of a contribution to the last number of this
Review,[68] the Duke of Argyll has favoured me with a lecture on the
proprieties of controversy, to which I should be disposed to listen with
more docility if his Grace's precepts appeared to me to be based upon
rational principles, or if his example were more exemplary.
With respect to the latter point, the Duke has thought fit to entitle his
article "Professor Huxley on Canon Liddon," and thus forces into prominence
an element of personality, which those who read the paper which is the
object of the Duke's animadversions will observe I have endeavoured, most
carefully, to avoid. My criticisms dealt with a report of a sermon,
published in a newspaper, and thereby addressed to all the world. Whether
that sermon was preached by A or B was not a matter of the smallest
consequence; and I went out of my way to absolve the learned divine to whom
the discourse was attributed, from the responsibility for statements which,
for anything I knew to the contrary, might contain {266} imperfect, or
inaccurate, representations of his views. The assertion that I had the wish
or was beset by any "temptation to attack" Canon Liddon is simply contrary
to fact.
But suppose that if, instead of sedulously avoiding even the appearance of
such attack, I had thought fit to take a different course; suppose that,
after satisfying myself that the eminent clergyman whose name is paraded by
the Duke of Argyll had really uttered the words attributed to him from the
pulpit of St. Paul's, what right would any one have to find fault with my
action on grounds either of justice, expediency, or good taste?
Establishment has its duties as well as its rights. The clergy of a State
Church enjoy many advantages over those of unprivileged and unendowed
religious persuasions; but they lie under a correlative responsibility to
the State, and to every member of the body politic. I am not aware that any
sacredness attaches to sermons. If preachers stray beyond the doctrinal
limits set by lay lawyers, the Privy Council will see to it; and, if they
think fit to use their pulpits for the promulgation of literary, or
historical, or scientific errors, it is not only the right, but the duty,
of the humblest layman, who may happen to be better informed, to correct
the evil effects of such perversion of the opportunities which the State
affords them and such misuse of the authority which its support lends them.
Whatever else it may claim to be, in its relations with the State, the
Established Church is a branch of the Civil Service; and, for those who
{267} repudiate the ecclesiastical authority of the clergy, they are merely
civil servants, as much responsible to the English people for the proper
performance of their duties as any others.
The Duke of Argyll tells us that the "work and calling" of the clergy
prevent them from "pursuing disputation as others can." I wonder if his
Grace ever reads the so-called religious newspapers. It is not an
occupation which I should commend to any one who wishes to employ his time
profitably; but a very short devotion to this exercise will suffice to
convince him that the "pursuit of disputation," carried to a degree of
acrimony and vehemence unsurpassed in lay controversies, seems to be found
quite compatible with the "work and calling" of a remarkably large number
of the clergy.
Finally, it appears to me that nothing can be in worse taste than the
assumption that a body of English gentlemen can, by any possibility, desire
that immunity from criticism which the Duke of Argyll claims for them.
Nothing would be more personally offensive to me than the supposition that
I shirked criticism, just or unjust, of any lecture I ever gave. I should
be utterly ashamed of myself if, when I stood up as an instructor of
others, I had not taken every pains to assure myself of the truth of that
which I was about to say; and I should feel myself bound to be even more
careful with a popular assembly, who would take me more or less on trust,
than with an audience of competent and critical experts.
I decline to assume that the standard of morality, {268} in these matters,
is lower among the clergy than it is among scientific men. I refuse to
think that the priest who stands up before a congregation, as the minister
and interpreter of the Divinity, is less careful in his utterances, less
ready to meet adverse comment, than the layman who comes before his
audience, as the minister and interpreter of nature. Yet what should we
think of the man of science who, when his ignorance or his carelessness was
exposed, whined about the want of delicacy of his critics, or pleaded his
"work and calling" as a reason for being let alone?
No man, nor any body of men, is good enough, or wise enough, to dispense
with the tonic of criticism. Nothing has done more harm to the clergy than
the practice, too common among laymen, of regarding them, when in the
pulpit, as a sort of chartered libertines, whose divagations are not to be
taken seriously. And I am well assured that the distinguished divine, to
whom the sermon is attributed, is the last person who would desire to avail
himself of the dishonouring protection which has been superfluously thrown
over him.
So much for the lecture on propriety. But the Duke of Argyll, to whom the
hortatory style seems to come naturally, does me the honour to make my
sayings the subjects of a series of other admonitions, some on
philosophical, some on geological, some on biological topics. I can but
rejoice that the Duke's authority in these matters is not always employed
to show that I am ignorant of them; on the contrary, I meet with an amount
of agreement, even of {269} approbation, for which I proffer such gratitude
as may be due, even if that gratitude is sometimes almost overshadowed by
surprise.
I am unfeignedly astonished to find that the Duke of Argyll, who professes
to intervene on behalf of the preacher, does really, like another Balaam,
bless me altogether in respect of the main issue.
I denied the justice of the preacher's ascription to men of science of the
doctrine that miracles are incredible, because they are violations of
natural law; and the Duke of Argyll says that he believes my "denial to be
well founded. The preacher was answering an objection which has now been
generally abandoned." Either the preacher knew this or he did not know it.
It seems to me, as a mere lay teacher, to be a pity that the "great dome of
St. Paul's" should have been made to "echo" (if so be that such stentorian
effects were really produced) a statement which, admitting the first
alternative, was unfair, and, admitting the second, was ignorant.[69]
{270}
Having thus sacrificed one half of the preacher's arguments, the Duke of
Argyll proceeds to make equally short work with the other half. It appears
that he fully accepts my position that the occurrence of those events,
which the preacher speaks of as catastrophes, is no evidence of disorder,
inasmuch as such catastrophes may be necessary occasional consequences of
uniform changes. Whence I conclude, his Grace agrees with me, that the talk
about royal laws "wrecking" ordinary laws may be eloquent metaphor, but is
also nonsense.
And now comes a further surprise. After having given these superfluous
stabs to the slain body of the preacher's argument, my good ally remarks,
with magnificent calmness: "So far, then, the preacher and the professor
are at one." "Let them smoke the calumet." By all means: smoke would be the
most appropriate symbol of this wonderful attempt to cover a retreat. After
all, the Duke has come to bury the preacher, not to praise him; only he
makes the funeral obsequies look as much like a triumphal procession as
possible.
So far as the questions between the preacher and myself are concerned,
then, I may feel happy. The authority of the Duke of Argyll is ranged on my
side. But the Duke has raised a number of other questions, with respect to
which I fear I shall have to dispense with his support--nay, even be
compelled to differ from him as much, or more, than I have done about his
Grace's new rendering of the "benefit of clergy." {271}