law in the sense, not merely of a rule, but of a cause." But this revival
of the teaching of the _Vestiges_ has already been examined {287} and
disposed of; and when the Duke of Argyll states that the "observed order"
which Kepler had discovered was simply a necessary consequence of the force
of "gravitation," I need not recapitulate the evidence which proves such a
statement to be wholly fallacious. But it may be useful to say, once more,
that, at this present moment, nobody knows anything about the existence of
a "force" of gravitation apart from the fact; that Newton declared the
ordinary notion of such force to be inconceivable; that various attempts
have been made to account for the order of facts we call gravitation,
without recourse to the notion of attractive force; that, if such a force
exists, it is utterly incompetent to account for Kepler's laws, without
taking into the reckoning a great number of other considerations; and,
finally, that all we know about the "force" of gravitation, or any other
so-called "force," is that it is a name for the hypothetical cause of an
observed order of facts.
Thus, when the Duke of Argyll says: "Force, ascertained according to some
measure of its operation--this is indeed one of the definitions, but only
one, of a scientific law" (p. 71), I reply that it is a definition which
must be repudiated by every one who possesses an adequate acquaintance with
either the facts, or the philosophy, of science and relegated to the limbo
of pseudo-scientific fallacies. If the human mind had never entertained
this notion of "force," nay, if it substituted bare invariable succession
for the ordinary notion of causation, the idea of law, as the expression of
a constantly-observed order, which {288} generates a corresponding
intensity of expectation in our minds, would have exactly the same value,
and play its part in real science, exactly as it does now.
It is needless to extend further the present excursus on the origin and
history of modern pseudo-science. Under such high patronage as it has
enjoyed, it has grown and flourished until, nowadays, it is becoming
somewhat rampant. It has its weekly "Ephemerides," in which every new
pseudo-scientific mare's-nest is hailed and belauded with the unconscious
unfairness of ignorance; and an army of "reconcilers," enlisted in its
service, whose business seems to be to mix the black of dogma and the white
of science into the neutral tint of what they call liberal theology.
I remember that, not long after the publication of the _Vestiges_, a shrewd
and sarcastic countryman of the author defined it as "cauld kail made het
again." A cynic might find amusement in the reflection that, at the present
time, the principles and the methods of the much-vilified Vestigiarian are
being "made het again"; and are not only "echoed by the dome of St.
Paul's," but thundered from the castle of Inveraray. But my turn of mind is
not cynical, and I can but regret the waste of time and energy bestowed on
the endeavour to deal with the most difficult problems of science, by those
who have neither undergone the discipline, nor possess the information,
which are indispensable to the successful issue of such an enterprise.
I have already had occasion to remark that the {289} Duke of Argyll's views
of the conduct of controversy are different from mine; and this
much-to-be-lamented discrepancy becomes yet more accentuated when the Duke
reaches biological topics. Anything that was good enough for Sir Charles
Lyell, in his department of study, is certainly good enough for me in mine;
and I by no means demur to being pedagogically instructed about a variety
of matters with which it has been the business of my life to try to
acquaint myself. But the Duke of Argyll is not content with favouring me
with his opinions about my own business; he also answers for mine; and, at
that point, really the worm must turn. I am told that "no one knows better
than Professor Huxley" a variety of things which I really do not know; and
I am said to be a disciple of that "Positive Philosophy" which I have, over
and over again, publicly repudiated in language which is certainly not
lacking in intelligibility, whatever may be its other defects.
I am told that I have been amusing myself with a "metaphysical exercitation
or logomachy" (may I remark incidentally that these are not quite
convertible terms?), when, to the best of my belief, I have been trying to
expose a process of mystification, based upon the use of scientific
language by writers who exhibit no sign of scientific training, of accurate
scientific knowledge, or of clear ideas respecting the philosophy of
science, which is doing very serious harm to the public. Naturally enough,
they take the lion's skin of scientific phraseology for evidence that the
voice which issues from beneath it is the voice of {290} science, and I
desire to relieve them from the consequences of their error.
The Duke of Argyll asks, apparently with sorrow that it should be his duty
to subject me to reproof--
What shall we say of a philosophy which confounds the organic with the
inorganic, and, refusing to take note of a difference so profound,
assumes to explain under one common abstraction, the movements due to
gravitation and the movements due to the mind of man?
To which I may fitly reply by another question: What shall we say to a
controversialist who attributes to the subject of his attack opinions which
are notoriously not his; and expresses himself in such a manner that it is
obvious he is unacquainted with even the rudiments of that knowledge which
is necessary to the discussion into which he has rushed?
What line of my writing can the Duke of Argyll produce which confounds the
organic with the inorganic?
As to the latter half of the paragraph, I have to confess a doubt whether
it has any definite meaning. But I imagine that the Duke is alluding to my
assertion that the law of gravitation is nowise "suspended" or "defied"
when a man lifts his arm; but that, under such circumstances, part of the
store of energy in the universe operates on the arm at a mechanical
advantage as against the operation of another part. I was simple enough to
think that no one who had as much knowledge of physiology as is to be found
in an elementary primer, or who had ever heard of the greatest physical
generalisation of modern {291} times--the doctrine of the conservation of
energy--would dream of doubting my statement; and I was further simple
enough to think that no one who lacked these qualifications would feel
tempted to charge me with error. It appears that my simplicity is greater
than my powers of imagination.
The Duke of Argyll may not be aware of the fact, but it is nevertheless
true, that when a man's arm is raised, in sequence to that state of
consciousness we call a volition, the volition is not the immediate cause
of the elevation of the arm. On the contrary, that operation is effected by
a certain change of form, technically known as "contraction," in sundry
masses of flesh, technically known as muscles, which are fixed to the bones
of the shoulder in such a manner that, if these muscles contract, they must
raise the arm. Now each of these muscles is a machine comparable, in a
certain sense, to one of the donkey-engines of a steamship, but more
complete, inasmuch as the source of its ability to change its form, or
contract, lies within itself. Every time that, by contracting, the muscle
does work, such as that involved in raising the arm, more or less of the
material which it contains is used up, just as more or less of the fuel of
a steam-engine is used up, when it does work. And I do not think there is a
doubt in the mind of any competent physicist or physiologist that the work
done in lifting the weight of the arm is the mechanical equivalent of a
certain proportion of the energy set free by the molecular changes which
take place in the muscle. It is further a tolerably {292} well-based belief
that this, and all other forms of energy, are mutually convertible; and,
therefore, that they all come under that general law or statement of the
order of facts, called the conservation of energy. And, as that certainly
is an abstraction, so the view which the Duke of Argyll thinks so extremely
absurd is really one of the commonplaces of physiology. But this Review is
hardly an appropriate place for giving instruction in the elements of that
science, and I content myself with recommending the Duke of Argyll to
devote some study to Book II. chap. v. section 4 of my friend Dr. Foster's
excellent textbook of Physiology (1st edition, 1877, p. 321), which begins
thus:--
Broadly speaking, the animal body is a machine for converting potential
into actual energy. The potential energy is supplied by the food; this
the metabolism of the body converts into the actual energy of heat and
mechanical labour.
There is no more difficult problem in the world than that of the relation
of the state of consciousness, termed volition, to the mechanical work
which frequently follows upon it. But no one can even comprehend the nature
of the problem, who has not carefully studied the long series of modes of
motion which, without a break, connect the energy which does that work with
the general store of energy. The ultimate form of the problem is this: Have
we any reason to believe that a feeling, or state of consciousness, is
capable of directly affecting the motion of even the smallest conceivable
molecule of matter? Is such a thing even conceivable? If we answer these
{293} questions in the negative, it follows that volition may be a sign,
but cannot be a cause, of bodily motion. If we answer them in the
affirmative, then states of consciousness become undistinguishable from
material things; for it is the essential nature of matter to be the vehicle
or substratum of mechanical energy.
There is nothing new in all this. I have merely put into modern language
the issue raised by Descartes more than two centuries ago. The philosophies
of the Occasionalists, of Spinoza, of Malebranche, of modern idealism and
modern materialism, have all grown out of the controversies which
Cartesianism evoked. Of all this the pseudo-science of the present time
appears to be unconscious; otherwise it would hardly content itself with
"making het again" the pseudo-science of the past.
In the course of these observations I have already had occasion to express
my appreciation of the copious and perfervid eloquence which enriches the
Duke of Argyll's pages. I am almost ashamed that a constitutional
insensibility to the Sirenian charms of rhetoric has permitted me, in
wandering through these flowery meads, to be attracted, almost exclusively,
to the bare places of fallacy and the stony grounds of deficient
information, which are disguised, though not concealed, by these floral
decorations. But, in his concluding sentences, the Duke soars into a
Tyrtaean strain which roused even my dull soul.
It was high time, indeed, that some revolt should be raised against
that Reign of Terror which had come to be established in the scientific
world under the abuse of a great name. {294} Professor Huxley has not
joined this revolt openly, for as yet, indeed, it is only beginning to
raise its head. But more than once--and very lately--he has uttered a
warning voice against the shallow dogmatism that has provoked it. The
time is coming when that revolt will be carried further. Higher
interpretations will be established. Unless I am much mistaken, they
are already coming in sight (p. 339).
I have been living very much out of the world for the last two or three
years, and when I read this denunciatory outburst, as of one filled with
the spirit of prophecy, I said to myself, "Mercy upon us, what has
happened? Can it be that X. and Y. (it would be wrong to mention the names
of the vigorous young friends which occurred to me) are playing Danton and
Robespierre; and that a guillotine is erected in the courtyard of
Burlington House for the benefit of all anti-Darwinian Fellows of the Royal
Society? Where are the secret conspirators against this tyranny, whom I am
supposed to favour, and yet not have the courage to join openly? And to
think of my poor oppressed friend, Mr. Herbert Spencer, 'compelled to speak
with bated breath' (p. 338) certainly for the first time in my thirty-odd
years' acquaintance with him!" My alarm and horror at the supposition that,
while I had been fiddling (or at any rate physicking), my beloved Rome had
been burning, in this fashion, may be imagined.
I am sure the Duke of Argyll will be glad to hear that the anxiety he
created was of extremely short duration. It is my privilege to have access
to the best sources of information, and nobody in the scientific world can
tell me anything about either the "Reign of {295} Terror" or "the Revolt."
In fact, the scientific world laughs most indecorously at the notion of the
existence of either; and some are so lost to the sense of the scientific
dignity, that they descend to the use of transatlantic slang, and call it a
"bogus scare." As to my friend Mr. Herbert Spencer, I have every reason to
know that, in the _Factors of Organic Evolution_, he has said exactly what
was in his mind, without any particular deference to the opinions of the
person whom he is pleased to regard as his most dangerous critic and
Devil's Advocate-General, and still less of any one else.
I do not know whether the Duke of Argyll pictures himself as the Tallien of
this imaginary revolt against a no less imaginary Reign of Terror. But if
so, I most respectfully but firmly decline to join his forces. It is only a
few weeks since I happened to read over again the first article which I
ever wrote (now twenty-seven years ago) on the _Origin of Species_, and I
found nothing that I wished to modify in the opinions that are there
expressed, though the subsequent vast accumulation of evidence in favour of
Mr. Darwin's views would give me much to add. As is the case with all new
doctrines, so with that of Evolution, the enthusiasm of advocates has
sometimes tended to degenerate into fanaticism; and mere speculation has,
at times, threatened to shoot beyond its legitimate bounds. I have
occasionally thought it wise to warn the more adventurous spirits among us
against these dangers, in sufficiently plain language; and I have sometimes
jestingly said that I expected, {296} if I lived long enough, to be looked
on as a reactionary by some of my more ardent friends. But nothing short of
midsummer madness can account for the fiction that I am waiting till it is
safe to join openly a revolt, hatched by some person or persons unknown,
against an intellectual movement with which I am in the most entire and
hearty sympathy. It is a great many years since, at the outset of my
career, I had to think seriously what life had to offer that was worth
having. I came to the conclusion that the chief good, for me, was freedom
to learn, think, and say what I pleased, when I pleased. I have acted on
that conviction, and have availed myself of the "rara temporum felicitas
ubi sentire quae velis, et quae sentias dicere licet," which is now
enjoyable, to the best of my ability; and though strongly, and perhaps
wisely, warned that I should probably come to grief, I am entirely
satisfied with the results of the line of action I have adopted.
My career is at an end. I have
Warmed both hands before the fire of life;
and nothing is left me, before I depart, but to help, or at any rate to
abstain from hindering, the younger generation of men of science in doing
better service to the cause we have at heart than I have been able to
render.
And yet, forsooth, I am supposed to be waiting for the signal of "revolt,"
which some fiery spirits among these young men are to raise before I dare
express my real opinions concerning questions about which we {297} older
men had to fight, in the teeth of fierce public opposition and obloquy--of
something which might almost justify even the grandiloquent epithet of a
Reign of Terror--before our excellent successors had left school.
It would appear that the spirit of pseudo-science has impregnated even the
imagination of the Duke of Argyll. The scientific imagination always
restrains itself within the limits of probability.
* * * * *
{298}
VIII
AN EPISCOPAL TRILOGY
If there is any truth in the old adage that a burnt child dreads the fire,
I ought to be very loath to touch a sermon, while the memory of what befell
me on a recent occasion, possibly not yet forgotten by the readers of this
Review, is uneffaced. But I suppose that even the distinguished censor of
that unheard-of audacity to which not even the newspaper report of a sermon
is sacred, can hardly regard a man of science as either indelicate or
presumptuous, if he ventures to offer some comments upon three discourses,
specially addressed to the great assemblage of men of science which
recently gathered at Manchester, by three bishops of the State Church. On
my return to England not long ago, I found a pamphlet[76] containing a
version, which I presume to be authorised, of these sermons, among the huge
mass of letters and papers which had accumulated during two months'
absence; and I have read them not only {299} with attentive interest, but
with a feeling of satisfaction which is quite new to me as a result of
hearing, or reading, sermons. These excellent discourses, in fact, appear
to me to signalise a new departure in the course adopted by theology
towards science, and to indicate the possibility of bringing about an
honourable _modus vivendi_ between the two. How far the three bishops speak
as accredited representatives of the Church is a question to be considered
by and by. Most assuredly, I am not authorised to represent any one but
myself. But I suppose that there must be a good many people in the Church
of the bishops' way of thinking; and I have reason to believe that, in the
ranks of science, there are a good many persons who, more or less, share my
views. And it is to these sensible people on both sides, as the bishops and
I must needs think those who agree with us, that my present observations
are addressed. They will probably be astonished to learn how insignificant,
in principle, their differences are.
It is impossible to read the discourses of the three prelates without being
impressed by the knowledge which they display, and by the spirit of equity,
I might say of generosity, towards science which pervades them. There is no
trace of that tacit or open assumption that the rejection of theological
dogmas, on scientific grounds, is due to moral perversity, which is the
ordinary note of ecclesiastical homilies on this subject, and which makes
them look so supremely silly to men whose lives have been spent in
wrestling with these questions. There is no attempt to hide {300} away real
stumbling-blocks under rhetorical stucco; no resort to the _tu quoque_
device of setting scientific blunders against theological errors; no
suggestion that an honest man may keep contradictory beliefs in separate
pockets of his brain; no question that the method of scientific
investigation is valid, whatever the results to which it may lead; and that
the search after truth, and truth only, ennobles the searcher and leaves no
doubt that his life, at any rate, is worth living. The Bishop of Carlisle
declares himself pledged to the belief that "the advancement of science,
the progress of human knowledge, is in itself a worthy aim of the greatest
effort of the greatest minds."
How often was it my fate, a quarter of a century ago, to see the whole
artillery of the pulpit brought to bear upon the doctrine of evolution and
its supporters! Any one unaccustomed to the amenities of ecclesiastical
controversy would have thought we were too wicked to be permitted to live.
But let us hear the Bishop of Bedford. After a perfectly frank statement of
the doctrine of evolution and some of its obvious consequences, that
learned prelate pleads, with all earnestness, against
a hasty denunciation of what _may_ be proved to have at least some
elements of truth in it, a contemptuous rejection of theories which we
_may_ some day learn to accept as freely and with as little sense of
inconsistency with God's word as we now accept the theory of the
earth's motion round the sun, or the long duration of the geological
epochs (p. 28).
I do not see that the most convinced evolutionist could ask any one,
whether cleric or layman, to say {301} more than this; in fact, I do not
think that any one has a right to say more, with respect to any question
about which two opinions can be held, than that his mind is perfectly open
to the force of evidence.
There is another portion of the Bishop of Bedford's sermon which I think
will be warmly appreciated by all honest and clear-headed men. He
repudiates the views of those who say that theology and science
occupy wholly different spheres, and need in no way intermeddle with
each other. They revolve, as it were, in different planes, and so never
meet. Thus we may pursue scientific studies with the utmost freedom
and, at the same time, may pay the most reverent regard to theology,
having no fears of collision, because allowing no points of contact (p.
29).
Surely every unsophisticated mind will heartily concur with the Bishop's
remark upon this convenient refuge for the descendants of Mr.
Facing-both-ways. "I have never been able to understand this position,
though I have often seen it assumed." Nor can any demurrer be sustained
when the Bishop proceeds to point out that there are, and must be, various
points of contact between theological and natural science, and therefore
that it is foolish to ignore or deny the existence of as many dangers of
collision.
Finally, the Bishop of Manchester freely admits the force of the objections
which have been raised, on scientific grounds, to prayer, and attempts to
turn them by arguing that the proper objects of prayer are not physical but
spiritual. He tells us that natural accidents and moral misfortunes are not
to be taken {302} for moral judgments of God; he admits the propriety of
the application of scientific methods to the investigation of the origin
and growth of religions; and he is as ready to recognise the process of
evolution there, as in the physical world. Mark the following striking
passage:--
And how utterly all the common objections to Divine revelation vanish
away when they are set in the light of this theory of a spiritual
progression. Are we reminded that there prevailed, in those earlier
days, views of the nature of God and man, of human life and Divine
Providence, which we now find to be untenable? _That_, we answer, is
precisely what the theory of development presupposes. If early views of
religion and morality had not been imperfect, where had been the
development? If symbolical visions and mythical creations had found no
place in the early Oriental expression of Divine truth, where had been
the development? The sufficient answer to ninety-nine out of a hundred
of the ordinary objections to the Bible, as the record of a divine
education of our race, is asked in that one word--development. And to
what are we indebted for that potent word, which, as with the wand of a
magician, has at the same moment so completely transformed our
knowledge and dispelled our difficulties? To modern science, resolutely
pursuing its search for truth in spite of popular obloquy and--alas!
that one should have to say it--in spite too often of theological
denunciation (p. 53).
Apart from its general importance, I read this remarkable statement with
the more pleasure, since, however imperfectly I may have endeavoured to
illustrate the evolution of theology in a paper published in this Review
last year, it seems to me that in principle, at any rate, I may hereafter
claim high theological sanction for the views there set forth. {303}