Part 9

That there must be some circumstances present, if there is to be any self-determination on the part of the will, we have already admitted; the freedom of the will implies the presence of more alternatives or motives than one--and we always have the alternative of acting or abstaining from action. But this admission only limits the powers of the will; it does not lessen its liberty. The mind can only choose between the alternatives offered to it; but as long as it has real alternatives it is free. That there must be definite circumstances if there is to be any definite determination of the will is in accordance with the fact that a cause is not some one individual thing, but a sum of conditions, every one of which is necessary to the effect, and the absence of any one of which is enough to prevent the occurrence of the result. It is a vulgar error to single out some one of the conditions (_e.g._ the force acting on a body) and dub it the cause, to the neglect of all the other conditions (_e.g._ the body's mass) which are equally necessary to the effect. It is the error committed by the necessitarian who calls the circumstances the cause, in the case of a determination of the will, and neglects the part played by the will itself.

This point of view illustrates the untenability of another objection to the freedom of the will, viz. that it implies that under the same conditions different results can ensue, or, to put it in other words, that without any change in the conditions either this or that consequence may issue. Freedom of the will is thus alleged to be inconsistent with the uniformity of nature, with the law that a cause must produce its effect. The fallacy here obviously lies in assuming that, in a modification of the will, the circumstances by themselves constitute the cause, whereas in point of fact the cause consists of the sum of the conditions, _i.e._, in this case, of the circumstances and the will taken in combination. Alter any one of the conditions, and the effect will be changed--whether the condition which is changed be one of the circumstances or be the will, matters not. Conversely, if under the same circumstances a man acts one way one time and another another, the inference is not that the uniformity of nature has been violated, and that the same conditions produce different effects, but that one of the conditions was different; and as _ex hypothesi_ the circumstances (_i.e._ all the conditions except the will) were in this case the same, it remains that the condition which was different in this case was the will.

Really, it is the theory of necessity which violates the uniformity of nature, for it requires us to believe that provided certain of the conditions (viz. all the circumstances except the will) are the same, then the result must be the same, no matter how much the remaining condition (the will) changes. We may, indeed, evade this conclusion by simply denying that the will is one of the conditions of its own modifications, and we may say that the wax contributes nothing to the form which it takes on when impressed by the seal. The truth is that if the will or the wax appears in the result, it must have been present and active as one of the conditions: it contributes to its own determination, and is in part self-determining.

If it be in accordance with the uniformity of nature and with our experience of what actually happens, that the circumstances should be the same and the will different on two different occasions, then the theory of necessity breaks down: if we can will and act differently under the same circumstances, we have all the freedom we want. But if--all the circumstances, save the will, being the same--the resulting modification or determination of the will is different, then the difference of result must be due to some difference in the conditions; all the conditions save one were _ex hypothesi_ the same; the remaining condition, therefore, viz. the will, must have changed. What caused the change? Not the circumstances: one attempt to explode a barrel of gunpowder may resemble another in all the circumstances save one (the dampness of the powder), but the circumstances which remain the same (application of the spark, etc.) are not the cause of the difference in the remaining condition.

If, then, we do as a matter of fact at times under the same circumstances will different things, and if the circumstances are not the cause of the change of will, then the will changes itself, _i.e._ is self-determining, self-modifying. And, as we all know from experience, it determines itself at the moment of choice, not before. Until all the conditions requisite for the effect are combined, neither physical nor mental science requires us to assume that they must combine in this particular way--that the light must be applied to the powder because an explosion will take place if it is applied, that the motive of gain must be adopted because it will be gratified if it is obeyed.

Whether the conditions combine so as to produce A, or so as to produce B, the uniformity of nature is equally obeyed in either case, the law that a cause must produce its effect is equally fulfilled, and either sequence is as amenable to scientific explanation as the other. But though science and the uniformity of nature both require us to believe that when the conditions are combined the result will follow, neither requires us to assume that the combination is fixed before it is effected. And this is true equally of purely physical events and of human actions. This truth, in the case of the latter class of actions, is expressed by the statement that alternative courses of action are open to the agent, and that they are real alternatives, alternatives such that any one of them may in this particular instance be followed. From the point of view of science and of the uniformity of nature, we do not conceive that there is any difference in this respect between human actions and physical events: if science is to include both kinds of sequence and to render a rational account of them, we must assume that the principles on which conditions combine or fail to combine are the same in both cases. If physical events and human actions are both constituents in the process of evolution, there must be a continuity between them. It follows, therefore, that, in the case of physical events as well as of human actions, until the conditions are combined in such a way as to involve one determinate result to the exclusion of all others, they might combine in other ways with other results--in fine, that before the combination is effected there are always other alternatives.

At this point it becomes necessary to take into account the diversity as well as the uniformity of nature--in this case a diversity which will lead us to a higher uniformity. To the human agent alternative courses of action are open in the sense that he is conscious of their possibility and that after deliberation he adopts one or other of them. With purely physical phenomena and material things the case is different: they may be combined in this way _or_ in that; the alternative is indeed open, so long as the combination is not effected, but it is not open to them nor is it adopted, when adopted, by them. It is adopted for them. In some cases by man. In all cases by that by which alone alternative courses of action can be contemplated and adopted--a conscious will. The course and form which man imparts to material things--to his implements or his works of art--make them so far the expression of his will; for the rest they are equally an expression of will, though of a will not his.

For those at the present day who unfeignedly accept the general principles of evolution and philosophise from them, a dualistic philosophy is impossible. They cannot hold that matter is subject to evolution and that mind is not; and the continuity of the process of evolution forbids us to suppose that there is any real discontinuity between that which appears at one stage as matter and at another as mind. There is no discontinuity if material things (_i.e._ the things of which we have sense-perception, but which differ from our sensations in being permanent) are on the one side the permanent expressions of Will and on the other are the transient impressions made on us in the shape of sense-phenomena.

What is true thus of the content of evolution, of that which is in process of evolution, is true also of the law of the process. We cannot suppose that it extends only to matter--that the behaviour of matter is susceptible of a rational explanation and the behaviour of mind is not. The continuity of the process excludes the possibility of a dual control: either the power which manifests itself in all things is intelligent throughout or it is not. If there is no reason in the behaviour of things, but only necessity, then those human actions and conceptions which man considers to be the result of his reason are really the result of unintelligent necessity.

It is the latter hypothesis which is expressed by the necessitarian theory. The ordinary belief of mankind--a belief which it is impossible to resist at the moment when you are making up your mind whether you will do this or not--is that you _can_ do the thing or not, that the alternatives are real and the motives such that either of them may be acted on. The necessitarian hypothesis is that the alternatives are not real, that even before you have made up your mind there is only one alternative which you can follow--the other courses are only apparent alternatives, because you cannot choose or act on any of them; the other motives are not real motives, because by a necessity dating from the beginning of things they cannot possibly influence you on this occasion. Your action is as automatic as that of a piano which responds to the touch. The difference is that you think about the stimulus received and the piano does not. Consequently the piano makes no mistakes; you make two. You think of various possible consequences of the stimulus--which are all impossible--and you imagine that the one which you choose is the consequence of your intelligent choice, whereas it is the automatic outcome of that iron law of necessity which binds together the whole process of evolution.

It will be readily understood that a hypothesis of this kind, which is apparently in violent conflict with the plainest facts of our daily personal experience, and gives the lie to that consciousness of freedom which we all possess, would not be held in theory--it cannot be acted on in practice--unless it appeared to be the consequence of some well-established facts. It is, of course, held by its supporters to be a logical consequence from the uniformity of nature and the law of universal causation, and to be a necessary pre-supposition if we are to give any scientific account of human nature and its evolution. If, as we have argued at length in this chapter, that is not the case, if the law of universal causation only requires that a thing cannot take place unless the requisite conditions combine--and not that conditions, which did or may combine, were or are bound to combine--the question still remains, what if any value the hypothesis has on its own intrinsic merits.

In the first place it is a hypothesis which can never either be proved or disproved. The hypothesis is that our supposed consciousness of freedom is an illusion, that if we imagine we are free to choose what we will do, or that we could in the past have chosen otherwise than we did, we are deceived. The hypothesis is not based on any facts of consciousness: it is a suggestion that consciousness may be deceptive. It may: there is no means of proving or disproving the suggestion, for any reply must proceed from one consciousness to another, both of which are suspected by the maker of the suggestion to be not wholly trustworthy. We cannot ask him to concede to us, in order that we may convince him by argument, the very point which is in dispute.

In the next place, the hypothesis of necessity does formally account for all the facts which it is designed to explain: it accounts for the whole process of evolution. If everything that happens does so because it must, then the mere occurrence of any step in the process carries its own explanation with it: the mere fact that it occurred shows that it was bound to occur. If we ask, "Why was it bound to occur?" the answer is, "Because it was." Various intermediate reasons may be interpolated--because everything must have a cause, and every cause must have its effect--but if we ask, "Why must everything have a cause? why must every cause produce its effect?" the ultimate answer is always, "It must because it must." If we ask, "What proof is there that it must?" there is none. As we have already said, the hypothesis is one which does not admit either of proof or disproof.

The case is much the same with the opposite theory of freedom. Formally, the hypothesis that the whole process of evolution is throughout the expression of self-determining will is adequate to account for all the facts. But it is a hypothesis which can be neither proved nor disproved if the testimony of consciousness to our freedom may not be accepted. We cannot prove that the testimony of consciousness is true or to be trusted in this or any other matter. We take it on faith. The questions arise, therefore, Is it reasonable to take anything on faith? and if so, what? and why?

VIII.

INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE

The theory of Design is singularly tenacious of existence, as many errors and all truths are. Science still speaks of "organs," that is of "tools" (_ὄργανα_), and of organs as performing "functions"; for the fact remains that organs are the instruments by means of which the organism acts, and that they have each their appropriate work to do, their function to perform, though science may decline to draw the inference that the instruments were designed to perform the work they do.

The Argument from Design was a comparatively simple affair as long as the organism and the environment were assumed to have been separately created: you had only to show how marvellously and perfectly they fitted one another when brought together, and it followed that they must have been designed to fit--to say they only chanced to fit was obviously absurd. But when science discovered that organism and environment were not thus independent of one another, the marvel vanished: if the environment shaped the organism, or the organism modified the environment to suit itself, no wonder that they fitted one another. It ceases to be remarkable that rivers should always flow by great cities, when we reflect that men selected sites near rivers. And chance seemed to have been established by Evolution where Design once reigned; for, if the only forms of life which can flourish in a given spot are those which are suited to the place, all we can say is that, if one form is fit to survive, it will; and if it is not, some other will. Whatever form survives will do so, not because it was designed to do so, but because it happened to be suited to its surroundings. In fine, organisms and their organs are what they are because circumstances and their past history have made them so: they have been evolved, not designed.

A little reflection, however, is enough to show that the Argument from Design is not completely excluded by evolution: things in general are what circumstances and their past history have made them; but were not those very circumstances designed to evolve what they did? Nay, are we not compelled to assume that they were so designed, if we believe in a Designer?

If, however, we ask Natural Science to discuss these questions with us, she declines the invitation on the ground that it is not her business to do so: her business is to find out in what way, not with what purpose, animal life has come to assume the various forms in which we know it; and she can do this, her business, quite well--indeed better--without discussing such questions. If it were proved that the history of animal life upon this earth had been intended from the beginning to follow the lines on which it has actually developed, not one of the problems which Natural Science has yet to solve would be brought a whit nearer solution; nor would she be any the better off, if it were proved that there was no design. She therefore very properly declines to discuss the question: there may be a Design and a Designer, or there may not; she does not know; if it is the business of science to answer the question, it must be of some other science, not of Natural Science.

So too Physical Science, when asked whether the laws of motion and matter were not designed to produce the effects which they actually do cause, replies that they may or may not, but that the law of gravitation, for instance, is equally true for her purposes, whether bodies were or were not designed to fall to the earth at the rate of sixteen feet in the first second, and so on. It may be the business of some other science to answer such questions: it is not the business of Physical Science.

And so the inquirer may go the round of the whole family of Sciences. It is an extraordinarily industrious family. It has an enormous amount of work to do: it has to feed, clothe, and generally provide for all mankind. And it can only carry on at all by a very careful division of labour: each science has her allotted task, and can only get the day's work done in the day by strictly confining herself to that task. Each science has her own questions to answer, and can only succeed in doing so by refusing to listen to any others.

The inquirer may think it strange that, in all this vast and active organisation for answering questions, no provision should be made for answering what seem to him to be some of the most important questions of all; and if he has been brought up really to believe in science, he will think it too strange to be true; he will persist with his questions, and will be eventually rewarded for his faith by discovering that there is a science which undertakes to answer them--Theology. But he will also discover that Theology is not very cordially esteemed by her sister sciences--not that they are jealous of her because she has the presumption to profess to answer questions which they acknowledge to be too high for them, but because there are grave suspicions as to her legitimacy: it is doubted whether she is a Science at all. She is, they are afraid it must be admitted, untruthful, immoral, and certainly altogether unscientific: she says what she cannot prove, and says she believes it. But they know she only pretends to believe it: they, of course, do not believe anything on insufficient evidence; what hypocrisy, then, to pretend that anyone can really believe anything except what is proved by scientific methods! They are thankful to say that they have no "faith." However, she may improve; she is certainly very backward; still, she may grow up into a common-sense science like her sisters; and then she will give up the foolish idea that she can answer questions which they cannot.

And now what truth is there in the picture thus drawn?

If there be a God, there is no other fact in the world of such awful or such blessed import to man. Religion is based on faith that there is a God. To tell the religious mind that there is no scientific proof of the existence of God is to tell it nothing new. Those were not the terms on which we took up our faith--that we should have scientific proof of everything before we did anything. On the contrary, religion begins when, and only when, a man begins "to walk humbly with his God," to know that he knows nothing except that his soul cleaves to God and humbly trusts in Him. We do not bargain so much belief, and no more, for so much proof: we give "ourselves, our souls and bodies." The gift is free. The soul shrinks from saying even that it has proof of God's existence; it only knows it hopes and longs for Him. "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for," and the strength of our assurance is as the strength of our hope. But scientific proof is not the thing hoped for: it is not what is desired when the soul is conscious of but one thing, that it thirsteth, like the hart after the water-brooks, for the living God. The humble confession of our illimitable ignorance is the foundation of our faith and will ever be its sure refuge, its inexpugnable stronghold. It is only when, being ignorant, we are tempted to deny our ignorance, that trouble begins. We drop the substance for the shadow when we believe not in God, but in some proof of God.

To the man of science all this talk about faith appears mere folly, sheer unreason, a morbid wallowing in ignorance from pure love of ignorance; and there are others who, whilst admitting that proof is not what is wanted by some minds, yet are aware, from their own sad experience, that other minds yearn for it, and can know no peace without it. And if we ask what kind of proof it is that they require, the answer is plain: it is the same kind as science insists on. Then let us go to the man of science and wait at his door: he at any rate is not ignorant, and we, if ignorant, at least are willing to learn. That he should rather look down upon us is only what might be expected in a man who by sheer force of reason has discovered the sole source of truth and built up the whole fabric of science. Certainly, when he has taken us over his palace and shown us its marvels--the balances he uses to weigh the sun, the plates with which he photographs invisible stars, the cinematographic pictures of the earth's past history, his forecasts of the future of the solar system--we are not merely willing but eager to learn how it is all done. And when we come to know him, we find that in spite of the marvels, all of his own making, by which he is surrounded, he is not puffed up, as he might have been: indeed he is, he assures us, only an ordinary man. "Scientific investigation is not, as many people seem to suppose, some kind of modern black art."[25] It is simply plain, ordinary common sense, consistently applied; and, above all, persistently declining to accept anything without sufficient evidence. In ordinary life, says the man of science, we do not swallow any statement that anybody chooses to make--we ask for some evidence; and if science waxes every day, and religion wanes, it is merely because science has made it the rule of her being never to believe anything without sufficient evidence, and religion has not.