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Cambridge
International AS and A Level Mathematics

Statistics
Sophie Goldie
Series Editor: Roger Porkess
Questions from the Cambridge International Examinations AS and A Level Mathematics papers
are reproduced by permission of University of Cambridge International Examinations.

Questions from the MEI AS and A Level Mathematics papers are reproduced by permission of OCR.

We are grateful to the following companies, institutions and individuals who have given permission
to reproduce photographs in this book.

Photo credits: page 3 © Artur Shevel / Fotolia; page 77 © Luminis / Fotolia; page 105 © Ivan Kuzmin / Alamy; page 123
© S. Ferguson; page 134 © Peter Küng / Fotolia; page 141 © Mathematics in Education and Industry; p.192 © Claudia
Paulussen / Fotolia.com; page 202 © Ingram Publishing Limited; page 210 © Peter Titmuss / Alamy; page 216 © Monkey
Business / Fotolia; page 233 © StockHouse / Fotolia; page 236 © Ingram Publishing Limited / Ingram Image Library
500-Animals; page 256 © Kevin Peterson / Photodisc / Getty Images; page 277 © Charlie Edwards / Getty Images;
page 285 © Stuart Miles / Fotolia.com

All designated trademarks and brands are protected by their respective trademarks.

Every effort has been made to trace and acknowledge ownership of copyright. The publishers will be
glad to make suitable arrangements with any copyright holders whom it has not been possible to contact.

Hachette UK’s policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are
expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Orders: please contact Bookpoint Ltd, 130 Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4SB.
Telephone: (44) 01235 827720. Fax: (44) 01235 400454. Lines are open 9.00–5.00, Monday
to Saturday, with a 24-hour message answering service. Visit our website at www.hoddereducation.co.uk

Much of the material in this book was published originally as part of the MEI Structured
Mathematics series. It has been carefully adapted for the Cambridge International AS and A Level
Mathematics syllabus.

The original MEI author team for Statistics comprised Michael Davies, Ray Dunnett, Anthony Eccles,
Bob Francis, Bill Gibson, Gerald Goddall, Alan Graham, Nigel Green and Roger Porkess.

Copyright in this format © Roger Porkess and Sophie Goldie, 2012

First published in 2012 by

Hodder Education, an Hachette UK company,
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

Impression number 54321

Year 2016 2015 2014 2013 2012

All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, no part of this
publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or held within any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or under licence from
the Copyright Licensing Agency Limited. Further details of such licences (for reprographic
reproduction) may be obtained from the Copyright Licensing Agency Limited, Saffron
House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

Cover photo © Kaz Chiba/Photodisc/Getty Images/Natural Patterns BS13

Illustrations by Pantek Media, Maidstone, Kent
Typeset in 10.5pt Minion by Pantek Media, Maidstone, Kent
Printed in Dubai

A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1444 14650 9

 Contents
Key to symbols in this book vi
Introduction vii
The Cambridge International AS and A Level Mathematics syllabus viii

S1 Statistics 1 1
Chapter 1 Exploring data 2
Looking at the data 4
Stem-and-leaf diagrams 7
Categorical or qualitative data 13
Numerical or quantitative data 13
Measures of central tendency 14
Frequency distributions 19
Grouped data 24
Measures of spread (variation) 34
Working with an assumed mean 45

Chapter 2 Representing and interpreting data 52

Histograms 53
Measures of central tendency and of spread using quartiles 62
Cumulative frequency curves 65

Chapter 3 Probability 77
Measuring probability 78
Estimating probability 79
Expectation 81
The probability of either one event or another 82
Independent and dependent events 87
Conditional probability 94

Chapter 4 Discrete random variables 105

Discrete random variables 106
Expectation and variance 114

iii
 Chapter 5 Permutations and combinations 123
Factorials 124
Permutations 129
Combinations 130
The binomial coefficients 132
Using binomial coefficients to calculate probabilities 133

Chapter 6 The binomial distribution 141

The binomial distribution 143
The expectation and variance of B(n, p) 146
Using the binomial distribution 147

Chapter 7 The normal distribution 154

Using normal distribution tables 156
The normal curve 161
Modelling discrete situations 172
Using the normal distribution as an approximation for the
binomial distribution 173

S2 Statistics 2 179
Chapter 8 Hypothesis testing using the binomial distribution 180
Defining terms 182
Hypothesis testing checklist 183
Choosing the significance level 184
Critical values and critical (rejection) regions 189
One-tail and two-tail tests 193
Type I and Type II errors 196

Chapter 9 The Poisson distribution 202

The Poisson distribution 204
Modelling with a Poisson distribution 207
The sum of two or more Poisson distributions 210
The Poisson approximation to the binomial distribution 216
Using the normal distribution as an approximation for the
Poisson distribution 224

iv
Chapter 10 Continuous random variables 233
Probability density function 235
Mean and variance 244
The median 246
The mode 247
The uniform (rectangular) distribution 249

Chapter 11 Linear combinations of random variables 256

The expectation (mean) of a function of X, E(g[X]) 256
Expectation: algebraic results 258
The sums and differences of independent random variables 262
More than two independent random variables 269

Chapter 12 Sampling 277

Terms and notation 277
Sampling 278
Sampling techniques 281

Chapter 13 Hypothesis testing and confidence intervals using

the normal distribution 285
Interpreting sample data using the normal distribution 285
The Central Limit Theorem 298
Confidence intervals 300
How large a sample do you need? 304
Confidence intervals for a proportion 306

Answers 312
Index 342

v
 Key to symbols in this book

●
? This symbol means that you may want to discuss a point with your teacher. If
you are working on your own there are answers in the back of the book. It is
important, however, that you have a go at answering the questions before looking
up the answers if you are to understand the mathematics fully.

! This is a warning sign. It is used where a common mistake, misunderstanding or

tricky point is being described.

This is the ICT icon. It indicates where you could use a graphic calculator or a
computer. Graphic calculators and computers are not permitted in any of the
examinations for the Cambridge International AS and A Level Mathematics 9709
syllabus, however, so these activities are optional.

This symbol and a dotted line down the right-hand side of the page indicate
material which is beyond the syllabus for the unit but which is included for
completeness.

vi
Introduction

This is part of a series of books for the University of Cambridge International

Examinations syllabus for Cambridge International AS and A Level Mathematics
9709. There are thirteen chapters in this book; the first seven cover Statistics 1
and the remaining six Statistics 2. The series also includes two books for pure
mathematics and one for mechanics.

These books are based on the highly successful series for the Mathematics in
Education and Industry (MEI) syllabus in the UK but they have been redesigned
for Cambridge international students; where appropriate, new material has been
written and the exercises contain many past Cambridge examination questions.
An overview of the units making up the Cambridge international syllabus is given
in the diagram on the next page.

Throughout the series the emphasis is on understanding the mathematics as well

as routine calculations. The various exercises provide plenty of scope for practising
basic techniques; they also contain many typical examination questions.

An important feature of this series is the electronic support. There is an

accompanying disc containing two types of Personal Tutor presentation:
examination-style questions, in which the solutions are written out, step by step,
with an accompanying verbal explanation, and test-yourself questions; these are
multiple-choice with explanations of the mistakes that lead to the wrong answers
as well as full solutions for the correct ones. In addition, extensive online support
is available via the MEI website, www.mei.org.uk.

The books are written on the assumption that students have covered and
understood the work in the Cambridge IGCSE® syllabus. However, some
of the early material is designed to provide an overlap and this is designated
‘Background’. There are also places where the books show how the ideas can be
taken further or where fundamental underpinning work is explored and such
work is marked as ‘Extension’.

The original MEI author team would like to thank Sophie Goldie who has carried
out the extensive task of presenting their work in a suitable form for Cambridge
international students and for her original contributions. They would also like to
thank University of Cambridge International Examinations for their detailed advice
in preparing the books and for permission to use many past examination questions.

Roger Porkess
Series Editor

vii
 The Cambridge International AS
and A Level Mathematics syllabus

P2
Cambridge
AS Level
IGCSE P1 S1
Mathematics
Mathematics
M1

M1
S1
S2
A Level
P3
Mathematics
S1
M1
M2

viii
Statistics 1

S1
 1
S1 Exploring data
1
Exploring data

A judicious man looks at statistics, not to get knowledge but to save

himself from having ignorance foisted on him.
Carlyle

2 Source: The Times 2012

 The cuttings on page 2 all appeared in one newspaper on one day. Some of them
give data as figures, others display them as diagrams. S1
How do you interpret this information? Which data do you take seriously and 1
which do you dismiss as being insignificant or even misleading?

Exploring data
To answer these questions fully you need to understand how data are collected
and analysed before they are presented to you, and how you should evaluate what
you are given to read (or see on the television). This is an important part of the
subject of statistics.
In this book, many of the examples are set as stories from fictional websites.
Some of them are written as articles or blogs; others are presented from the
journalists’ viewpoint as they sort through data trying to write an interesting
story. As you work through the book, look too at the ways you are given such
information in your everyday life.

bikingtoday.com
Another cyclist seriously hurt. Will you be next?
On her way back home from school on
Wednesday afternoon, little Rita Roy
was knocked off her bicycle and taken to
hospital with suspected concussion.
Rita was struck by a Ford Transit van, only
50 metres from her own house.
Rita is the fourth child from the Nelson
Mandela estate to be involved in a serious
cycling accident this year. The busy road where Rita Roy was
knocked off her bicycle yesterday.

After reading the blog, the editor of a local newspaper commissioned one of the
paper’s reporters to investigate the situation and write a leading article for the
paper on it. She explained to the reporter that there was growing concern locally
about cycling accidents involving children. She emphasised the need to collect
good quality data to support presentations to the paper’s readers.

●
? Is the aim of the investigation clear?
Is the investigation worth carrying out?
What makes good quality data?

The reporter started by collecting data from two sources. He went through back
numbers of the newspaper for the previous two years, finding all the reports of
cycling accidents. He also asked an assistant to carry out a survey of the ages of 3
 local cyclists; he wanted to know whether most cyclists were children, young
S1 adults or whatever.

1
●
? Are the reporter’s data sources appropriate?
Exploring data

Before starting to write his article, the reporter needed to make sense of the data
for himself. He then had to decide how he was going to present the information
to his readers. These are the sorts of data he had to work with.

Name Age Distance Cause Injuries Treatment

from home
Rahim Khan 45 3 km skid Concussion Hospital
outpatient
Debbie Lane 5 75 km hit kerb Broken arm Hospital
outpatient
Arvinder Sethi 12 1200 m lorry Multiple Hospital
fractures 3 weeks

}
Husna Mahar 8 300 m hit Bruising Hospital
each outpatient
David Huker 8 50 m other Concussion Hospital
outpatient

There were 92 accidents listed in the reporter’s table.

Ages of cyclists (from survey)

66 6 62 19 20 15 21 8 21 63 44 10 44 34 18
35 26 61 13 61 28 21 7 10 52 13 52 20 17 26
64 11 39 22 9 13 9 17 64 32 8 9 31 19 22
37 18 138 16 67 45 10 55 14 66 67 14 62 28 36
9 23 12 9 37 7 36 9 88 46 12 59 61 22 49
18 20 11 25 7 42 29 6 60 60 16 50 16 34 14
18 15

This information is described as raw data, which means that no attempt has yet
been made to organise it in order to look for any patterns.

Looking at the data

At the moment the arrangement of the ages of the 92 cyclists tells you very little
at all. Clearly these data must be organised so as to reveal the underlying shape,
the distribution. The figures need to be ranked according to size and preferably
grouped as well. The reporter had asked an assistant to collect the information
4 and this was the order in which she presented it.
 Tally

Tallying is a quick, straightforward way of grouping data into suitable intervals.

S1
You have probably met it already. 1

Looking at the data

Stated age Tally Frequency
(years)
0–9    13
10–19       26
20–29     16
30–39   10
40–49   6
50–59  5
60–69    14
70–79 0
80–89  1

130–139  1
Total 92

Extreme values

A tally immediately shows up any extreme values, that is values which are far
away from the rest. In this case there are two extreme values, usually referred to
as outliers: 88 and 138. Before doing anything else you must investigate these.
In this case the 88 is genuine, the age of Millie Smith, who is a familiar sight
cycling to the shops.
The 138 needless to say is not genuine. It was the written response of a man who
was insulted at being asked his age. Since no other information about him is
available, this figure is best ignored and the sample size reduced from 92 to 91.
You should always try to understand an outlier before deciding to ignore it; it
may be giving you important information.

! Practical statisticians are frequently faced with the problem of outlying

observations, observations that depart in some way from the general pattern of
a data set. What they, and you, have to decide is whether any such observations
belong to the data set or not. In the above example the data value 88 is a genuine
member of the data set and is retained. The data value 138 is not a member of the
data set and is therefore rejected.
5
 Describing the shape of a distribution
S1 An obvious benefit of using a tally is that it shows the overall shape of the
1 distribution.
Exploring data

30

frequency density (people/10 years)

20

10

age (years)
0 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90

Figure 1.1 Histogram to show the ages of people involved in cycling accidents

You can now see that a large proportion (more than a quarter) of the sample are
in the 10 to 19 year age range. This is the modal group as it is the one with the
most members. The single value with the most members is called the mode, in
this case age 9.

You will also see that there is a second peak among those in their sixties; so this
distribution is called bimodal, even though the frequency in the interval 10–19 is
greater than the frequency in the interval 60–69.

Different types of distribution are described in terms of the position of their

modes or modal groups, see figure 1.2.

(a) (b) (c)

Figure 1.2 Distribution shapes: (a) unimodal and symmetrical (b) uniform (no
mode but symmetrical) (c) bimodal

When the mode is off to one side the distribution is said to be skewed. If the
mode is to the left with a long tail to the right the distribution has positive (or
right) skewness; if the long tail is to the left the distribution has negative (or left)
6 skewness. These two cases are shown in figure 1.3.
 S1
1

Stem-and-leaf diagrams
(a) (b)

Figure 1.3 Skewness: (a) positive (b) negative

Stem-and-leaf diagrams
The quick and easy view of the distribution from the tally has been achieved at
the cost of losing information. You can no longer see the original figures which
went into the various groups and so cannot, for example, tell from looking at the
tally whether Millie Smith is 80, 81, 82, or any age up to 89. This problem of the
loss of information can be solved by using a stem-and-leaf diagram (or stemplot).

This is a quick way of grouping the data so that you can see their distribution
and still have access to the original figures. The one below shows the ages of the
91 cyclists surveyed.

n = 91
6 7 represents 67 years This is the scale.
These are branches.
0 6 8 7 9 9 8 9 9 9 7 9 7 6
1 9 5 0 8 3 0 3 7 1 3 7 9 8 6 0 4 4 2 2 8 1 6 6 4 8 5
2 0 1 1 6 8 1 0 6 2 2 8 3 2 0 5 9
3 4 5 9 2 1 7 6 7 6 4
4 4 4 5 6 9 2
5 2 2 5 9 0
Individual numbers
6 6 2 3 1 1 4 4 7 6 7 2 1 0 0 are called leaves.
7
8 8
Extreme values are placed on a separate
HIGH or LOW branch. These values are given
HIGH 138 in full as they may not fit in with the scale
being used for more central values.
This is the stem.

Value 138 is ignored

Figure 1.4 Stem-and-leaf diagram showing the ages of a sample of
91 cyclists (unsorted)

●
? Do all the branches have leaves?

7
 The column of figures on the left (going from 0 to 8) corresponds to the tens
S1 digits of the ages. This is called the stem and in this example it consists of
9 branches. On each branch on the stem are the leaves and these represent the
1 units digits of the data values.
Exploring data

In figure 1.4, the leaves for a particular branch have been placed in the order in
which the numbers appeared in the original raw data. This is fine for showing the
general shape of the distribution, but it is usually worthwhile sorting the leaves,
as shown in figure 1.5.

n = 91
6 7 represents 67 years

0 6 6 7 7 7 8 8 9 9 9 9 9 9
1 0 0 0 1 1 2 2 3 3 3 4 4 4 5 5 6 6 6 7 7 8 8 8 8 9 9
2 0 0 0 1 1 1 2 2 2 3 5 6 6 8 8 9
3 1 2 4 4 5 6 6 7 7 9
4 2 4 4 5 6 9
5 0 2 2 5 9
6 0 0 1 1 1 2 2 3 4 4 6 6 7 7
7
8 8
Note that the value 138 is left out as it has been identified as not belonging to this set of
data.

Figure 1.5 Stem-and-leaf diagram showing the ages of a sample of

91 cyclists (sorted)

The stem-and-leaf diagram gives you a lot of information at a glance:

●● The youngest cyclist is 6 and the oldest is 88 years of age

●● More people are in the 10–19 year age range than in any other 10 year age
range

●● There are three 61 year olds

●● The modal age (i.e. the age with the most people) is 9

●● The 17th oldest cyclist in the survey is 55 years of age.

If the values on the basic stem-and-leaf diagram are too cramped, that is, if there
are so many leaves on a line that the diagram is not clear, you may stretch it. To
do this you put values 0, 1, 2, 3, 4 on one line and 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 on another. Doing
this to the example results in the diagram shown in figure 1.6.

When stretched, this stem-and-leaf diagram reveals the skewed nature of the
distribution.

8
 n = 91
6 7 represents 67 years S1
0
0 6 6 7 7 7 8 8 9 9 9 9 9 9
1

Stem-and-leaf diagrams
1* 0 0 0 1 1 2 2 3 3 3 4 4 4
1 5 5 6 6 6 7 7 8 8 8 8 9 9
2* 0 0 0 1 1 1 2 2 2 3
2 5 6 6 8 8 9
3* 1 2 4 4
3 5 6 6 7 7 9
4* 2 4 4
4 5 6 9
5* 0 2 2
5 5 9
6* 0 0 1 1 1 2 2 3 4 4
6 6 6 7 7
7*
7
8*
8 8

Figure 1.6 Stem-and-leaf diagram showing the ages of a sample of

91 cyclists (sorted)

●
? How would you squeeze a stem-and-leaf diagram? What would you do if the data
have more significant figures than can be shown on a stem-and-leaf diagram?

Stem-and-leaf diagrams are particularly useful for comparing data sets. With two
data sets a back-to-back stem-and-leaf diagram can be used, as shown in figure 1.7.

represents 590 9 5 2 represents 520

9 5 1 7
2 6 0 2 3 5 8
5 3 0 7 1 2 5 6 6 7
9 7 5 1 1 8 3 5
8 6 2 1 9 2

Note the numbers on the left

of the stem still have the smallest
Figure 1.7 number next to the stem.

●
? How would you represent positive and negative data on a stem-and-leaf diagram?

9
 EXERCISE 1A 1 Write down the numbers which are represented by this stem-and-leaf diagram.
S1 n = 15
1 32 1   represents 3.21 cm

32 7
Exploring data

33 2 6
34 3 5 9
35 0 2 6 6 8
36 1 1 4
37 2

2 Write down the numbers which are represented by this stem-and-leaf diagram.

n = 19
8 9   represents 0.089 mm

8 3 6 7
9 0 1 4 8
10 2 3 5 8 9 9
11 0 1 4
12 3 5
13 1

3 Show the following numbers on a sorted stem-and-leaf diagram with six

branches, remembering to include the appropriate scale.

0.212 0.223 0.226 0.230 0.233 0.237 0.241

0.242 0.248 0.253 0.253 0.259 0.262

4 Show the following numbers on a sorted stem-and-leaf diagram with five

branches, remembering to include the appropriate scale.

81.07 82.00 78.01 80.08 82.05

81.09 79.04 81.03 79.06 80.04

5 Write down the numbers which are represented by this stem-and-leaf diagram.

n = 21
34 5   represents 3.45 m
LOW   0.013, 0.089, 1.79
34 3
35 1 7 9
36 0 4 6 8
37 1 1 3 8 9
38 0 5
39 4
HIGH   7.45, 10.87
10
6  orty motorists entered for a driving competition. The organisers were
F
anxious to know if the contestants had enjoyed the event and also to know S1
their ages, so that they could plan and promote future events effectively. They
therefore asked entrants to fill in a form on which they commented on the 1
various tests and gave their ages.

Exercise 1A
The information was copied from the forms and the ages listed as:

28 52 44 28 38 46 62 59 37 60
19 55 34 35 66 37 22 26 45 5
61 38 26 29 63 38 29 36 45 33
37 41 39 81 35 35 32 36 39 33

(i) Plot these data as a sorted stem-and-leaf diagram.

(ii) Describe the shape of the distribution.

7 The unsorted stem-and-leaf diagram below gives the ages of males whose
marriages were reported in a local newspaper one week.

n = 42
1 9   represents 19

0
1 9 6 9 8
2 5 6 8 9 1 1 0 3 6 8 4 1 2 7
3 0 0 5 2 3 9 1 2 0
4 8 4 7 9 6 5 3 3 5 6
5 2 2 1 7
6
7
8 3

(i) What was the age of the oldest person whose marriage is included?
(ii) Redraw the stem-and-leaf diagram with the leaves sorted.
(iii) Stretch the stem-and-leaf diagram by using steps of five years between the
levels rather than ten.
(iv) Describe and comment on the distribution.

8 On 1 January the average daily temperature was recorded for 30 cities around
the world. The temperatures, in °C, were as follows.

21 3 18 –4 10 27 14 7 19 –14
32 2 –9 29 11 26 –7 –11 15 4
35 14 23 19 –15 8 8 –2 3 1

(i) Illustrate the distribution of temperatures on a stem-and-leaf diagram.

(ii) Describe the shape of the distribution.
11
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
and it may serve to show pretty fairly what the moral sense of an
Englishman is like. We must next consider what account we can give of
these facts by the scientific method.

But first let us stop to note that we really have used the scientific method in
making this first step; and also that to the same extent the method has been
used by all serious moralists. Some would have us define virtue, to begin
with, in terms of some other thing which is not virtue, and then work out
from our definition all the details of what we ought to do. So Plato said that
virtue was knowledge, Aristotle that it was the golden mean, and Bentham
said that the right action was that which conduced to the greatest happiness
of the greatest number. But so also, in physical speculations, Thales said
that everything was Water, and Heraclitus said it was All-becoming, and
Empedocles said it was made out of Four Elements, and Pythagoras said it
was Number. But we only began to know about things when people looked
straight at the facts, and made what they could out of them; and that is the
only way in which we can know anything about right and wrong. Moreover,
it is the way in which the great moralists have set to work, when they came
to treat of verifiable things and not of theories all in the air. A great many
people think of a prophet as a man who, all by himself, or from some secret
source, gets the belief that this thing is right and that thing wrong. And then
(they imagine) he gets up and goes about persuading other people to feel as
he does about it; and so it becomes a part of their conscience, and a new
duty is created. This may be in some cases, but I have never met with any
example of it in history. When Socrates puzzled the Greeks by asking them
what they precisely meant by Goodness and Justice and Virtue, the mere
existence of the words shows that the people, as a whole, possessed a moral
sense, and felt that certain things were right and others wrong. What the
moralist did was to show the connection between different virtues, the
likeness of virtue to certain other things, the implications which a
thoughtful man could find in the common language. Wherever the Greek
moral sense had come from, it was there in the people before it could be
enforced by a prophet or discussed by a philosopher. Again, we find a
wonderful collection of moral aphorisms in those shrewd sayings of the
Jewish fathers which are preserved in the Mishna or oral law. Some of this
teaching is familiar to us all from the popular exposition of it which is
contained in the three first Gospels. But the very plainness and homeliness
of the precepts shows that they are just acute statements of what was
already felt by the popular common sense; protesting, in many cases,
against the formalism of the ceremonial law with which they are curiously
mixed up. The Rabbis even show a jealousy of prophetic interference, as if
they knew well that it takes not one man, but many men, to feel what is
right. When a certain Rabbi Eliezer, being worsted in argument, cried out,
‘If I am right, let heaven pronounce in my favor!’ there was heard a Bath-
kol or voice from the skies, saying, ‘Do you venture to dispute with Rabbi
Eliezer, who is an authority on all religious questions?’ But Rabbi Joshua
rose and said, ‘Our law is not in heaven, but in the book which dates from
Sinai, and which teaches us that in matters of discussion the majority makes
the law.’2

One of the most important expressions of the moral sense for all time is that
of the Stoic philosophy, especially after its reception among the Romans. It
is here that we find the enthusiasm of humanity—the caritas generis
humani—which is so large and important a feature in all modern
conceptions of morality, and whose widespread influence upon Roman
citizens may be traced in the Epistles of St. Paul. In the Stoic emperors,
also, we find probably the earliest example of great moral principles
consciously applied to legislation on a large scale. But are we to attribute
this to the individual insight of the Stoic philosophers? It might seem at first
sight that we must, if we are to listen to that vulgar vituperation of the older
culture which has descended to us from those who had everything to gain
by its destruction.3 We hear enough of the luxurious feasting of the Roman
capital, how it would almost have taxed the resources of a modern pastry-
cook; of the cruelty of gladiatorial shows, how they were nearly as bad as
autos-da-fé, except that a man had his fair chance and was not tortured for
torture’s sake; of the oppression of provincials by people like Verres, of
whom it may even be said that if they had been the East India Company
they could not have been worse; of the complaints of Tacitus against bad
and mad emperors (as Sir Henry Maine says); and of the still more serious
complaints of the modern historian against the excessive taxation4 which
was one great cause of the fall of the empire. Of all this we are told a great
deal; but we are not told of the many thousands of honorable men who
carried civilization to the ends of the known world, and administered a
mighty empire so that it was loved and worshiped to the furthest corner of
it. It is to these men and their common action that we must attribute the
morality which found its organized expression in the writings of the Stoic
philosophers. From these three cases we may gather that Right is a thing
which must be done before it can be talked about, although after that it may
only too easily be talked about without being done. Individual effort and
energy may insist upon getting that done which was already felt to be right;
and individual insight and acumen may point out consequences of an action
which bring it under previously known moral rules. There is another dispute
of the Rabbis that may serve to show what is meant by this. It was
forbidden by the law to have any dealings with the Sabæan idolaters during
the week preceding their idolatrous feasts. But the doctors discussed the
case in which one of these idolaters owes you a bill; are you to let him pay
it during that week or not? The school of Shammai said ‘No; for he will
want all his money to enjoy himself at the feast.’ But the school of Hillel
said, ‘Yes, let him pay it; for how can he enjoy his feast while his bills are
unpaid?’ The question here is about the consequences of an action; but there
is no dispute about the moral principle, which is that consideration and
kindness are to be shown to idolaters, even in the matter of their idolatrous
rites.

It seems, then, that we are no worse off than anybody else who has studied
this subject, in finding our materials ready made for us; sufficiently definite
meanings given in the common speech to the words right and wrong, good
and bad, with which we have to deal; a fair body of facts familiarly known,
which we have to organize and account for as best we can. But our special
inquiry is, what account can be given of these facts by the scientific
method? to which end we cannot do better than fix our ideas as well as we
can upon the character and scope of that method.

Now the scientific method is a method of getting knowledge by inference,

and that of two different kinds. One kind of inference is that which is used
in the physical and natural sciences, and it enables us to go from known
phenomena to unknown phenomena. Because a stone is heavy in the
morning, I infer that it will be heavy in the afternoon; and I infer this by
assuming a certain uniformity of nature. The sort of uniformity that I
assume depends upon the extent of my scientific education; the rules of
inference become more and more definite as we go on. At first I might
assume that all things are always alike; this would not be true, but it has to
be assumed in a vague way, in order that a thing may have the same name at
different times. Afterward I get the more definite belief that certain
particular qualities, like weight, have nothing to do with the time of day;
and subsequently I find that weight has nothing to do with the shape of the
stone, but only with the quantity of it. The uniformity which we assume,
then, is not that vague one that we started with, but a chastened and
corrected uniformity. I might go on to suppose, for example, that the weight
of the stone had nothing to do with the place where it was; and a great deal
might be said for this supposition. It would, however, have to be corrected
when it was found that the weight varies slightly in different latitudes. On
the other hand, I should find that this variation was just the same for my
stone as for a piece of iron or wood; that it had nothing to do with the kind
of matter. And so I might be led to the conclusion that all matter is heavy,
and that the weight of it depends only on its quantity and its position
relative to the earth. You see here that I go on arriving at conclusions
always of this form; that some one circumstance or quality has nothing to
do with some other circumstance or quality. I begin by assuming that it is
independent of everything; I end by finding that it is independent of some
definite things. That is, I begin by assuming a vague uniformity. I always
use this assumption to infer from some one fact a great number of other
facts; but as my education proceeds, I get to know what sort of things may
be inferred and what may not. An observer of scientific mind takes note of
just those things from which inferences may be drawn, and passes by the
rest. If an astronomer, observing the sun, were to record the fact that at the
moment when a sun-spot began to shrink there was a rap at his front door,
we should know that he was not up to his work. But if he records that sun-
spots are thickest every eleven years, and that this is also the period of extra
cloudiness in Jupiter, the observation may or may not be confirmed, and it
may or may not lead to inferences of importance; but still it is the kind of
thing from which inferences may be drawn. There is always a certain
instinct among instructed people which tells them in this way what kinds of
inferences may be drawn; and this is the unconscious effect of the definite
uniformity which they have been led to assume in nature. It may
subsequently be organized into a law or general truth, and no doubt
becomes a surer guide by that process. Then it goes to form the more
precise instinct of the next generation.

What we have said about this first kind of inference, which goes from
phenomena to phenomena, is shortly this. It proceeds upon an assumption
of uniformity in nature; and this assumption is not fixed and made once for
all, but is a changing and growing thing, becoming more definite as we go
on.

If I were told to pick out some one character which especially colors this
guiding conception of uniformity in our present stage of science, I should
certainly reply, Atomism. The form of this with which we are most familiar
is the molecular theory of bodies; which represents all bodies as made up of
small elements of uniform character, each practically having relations only
with the adjacent ones, and these relations the same all through—namely,
some simple mechanical action upon each other’s motions. But this is only
a particular case. A palace, a cottage, the tunnel of the underground railway,
and a factory chimney, are all built of bricks; the bricks are alike in all these
cases, each brick is practically related only to the adjacent ones, and the
relation is throughout the same, namely, two flat sides are stuck together
with mortar. There is an atomism in the sciences of number, of quantity, of
space; the theorems of geometry are groupings of individual points, each
related only to the adjacent ones by certain definite laws. But what concerns
us chiefly at present is the atomism of human physiology. Just as every
solid is built up of molecules, so the nervous system is built up of nerve-
threads and nerve-corpuscles. We owe to Mr. Lewes our very best thanks
for the stress which he has laid on the doctrine that nerve-fiber is uniform in
structure and function, and for the word neurility, which expresses its
common properties. And similar gratitude is due to Dr. Hughlings Jackson
for his long defense of the proposition that the element of nervous structure
and function is a sensori-motor process. In structure, this is two fibers or
bundles of fibers going to the same gray corpuscle; in function it is a
message traveling up one fiber or bundle to the corpuscle, and then down
the other fiber or bundle. Out of this, as a brick, the house of our life is
built. All these simple elementary processes are alike, and each is
practically related only to the adjacent ones; the relation being in all cases
of the same kind, viz., the passage from a simple to a complex message, or
vice versâ.

The result of atomism in any form, dealing with any subject, is that the
principle of uniformity is hunted down into the elements of things; it is
resolved into the uniformity of these elements or atoms, and of the relations
of those which are next to each other. By an element or an atom we do not
here mean something absolutely simple or indivisible, for a molecule, a
brick, and a nerve-process are all very complex things. We only mean that,
for the purpose in hand, the properties of the still more complex thing
which is made of them have nothing to do with the complexities or the
differences of these elements. The solid made of molecules, the house made
of bricks, the nervous system made of sensori-motor processes, are nothing
more than collections of these practically uniform elements, having certain
relations of nextness, and behavior uniformly depending on that nextness.

The inference of phenomena from phenomena, then, is based upon an

assumption of uniformity, which in the present stage of science may be
called an atomic uniformity.

The other mode of inference which belongs to the scientific method is that
which is used in what are called the mental and moral sciences; and it
enables us to go from phenomena to the facts which underlie phenomena,
and which are themselves not phenomena at all. If I pinch your arm, and
you draw it away and make a face, I infer that you have felt pain. I infer this
by assuming that you have a consciousness similar to my own, and related
to your perception of your body as my consciousness is related to my
perception of my body. Now is this the same assumption as before, a mere
assumption of the uniformity of nature? It certainly seems like it at first; but
if we think about it we shall find that there is a very profound difference
between them. In physical inference I go from phenomena to phenomena;
that is, from the knowledge of certain appearances or representations
actually present to my mind I infer certain other appearances that might be
present to my mind. From the weight of a stone in the morning—that is,
from my feeling of its weight, or my perception of the process of weighing
it, I infer that the stone will be heavy in the afternoon—that is, I infer the
possibility of similar feelings and perceptions in me at another time. The
whole process relates to me and my perceptions, to things contained in my
mind. But when I infer that you are conscious from what you say or do, I
pass from that which is my feeling or perception, which is in my mind and
part of me, to that which is not my feeling at all, which is outside me
altogether, namely, your feelings and perceptions. Now there is no possible
physical inference, no inference of phenomena from phenomena, that will
help me over that gulf. I am obliged to admit that this second kind of
inference depends upon another assumption, not included in the assumption
of the uniformity of phenomena.

How does a dream differ from waking life? In a fairly coherent dream
everything seems quite real, and it is rare, I think, with most people to know
in a dream that they are dreaming. Now, if a dream is sufficiently vivid and
coherent, all physical inferences are just as valid in it as they are in waking
life. In a hazy or imperfect dream, it is true, things melt into one another
unexpectedly and unaccountably; we fly, remove mountains, and stop
runaway horses with a finger. But there is nothing in the mere nature of a
dream to hinder it from being an exact copy of waking experience. If I find
a stone heavy in one part of my dream, and infer that it is heavy at some
subsequent part, the inference will be verified if the dream is coherent
enough; I shall go to the stone, lift it up, and find it as heavy as before. And
the same thing is true of all inferences of phenomena from phenomena. For
physical purposes a dream is just as good as real life; the only difference is
in vividness and coherence.

What, then, hinders us from saying that life is all a dream? If the
phenomena we dream of are just as good and real phenomena as those we
see and feel when we are awake, what right have we to say that the material
universe has any more existence apart from our minds than the things we
see and feel in our dreams? The answer which Berkeley gave to that
question was, No right at all. The physical universe which I see and feel,
and infer, is just my dream and nothing else; that which you see is your
dream; only it so happens that all our dreams agree in many respects. This
doctrine of Berkeley’s has now been so far confirmed by the physiology of
the senses, that it is no longer a metaphysical speculation, but a
scientifically established fact.

But there is a difference between dreams and waking life, which is of far
too great importance for any of us to be in danger of neglecting it. When I
see a man in my dream, there is just as good a body as if I were awake;
muscles, nerves, circulation, capability of adapting means to ends. If only
the dream is coherent enough, no physical test can establish that it is a
dream. In both cases I see and feel the same thing. In both cases I assume
the existence of more than I can see and feel, namely, the consciousness of
this other man. But now here is a great difference, and the only difference—
in a dream this assumption is wrong; in waking life it is right. The man I see
in my dream is a mere machine, a bundle of phenomena with no underlying
reality; there is no consciousness involved except my consciousness, no
feeling in the case except my feelings. The man I see in waking life is more
than a bundle of phenomena; his body and its actions are phenomena, but
these phenomena are merely the symbols and representatives in my mind of
a reality which is outside my mind, namely, the consciousness of the man
himself which is represented by the working of his brain, and the simpler
quasi-mental facts, not woven into his consciousness, which are represented
by the working of the rest of his body. What makes life not to be a dream is
the existence of those facts which we arrive at by our second process of
inference; the consciousness of men and the higher animals, the sub-
consciousness of lower organisms and the quasi-mental facts which go
along with the motions of inanimate matter. In a book which is very largely
and deservedly known by heart, ‘Through the Looking-glass,’ there is a
very instructive discussion upon this point. Alice has been taken to see the
Red King as he lies snoring; and Tweedledee asks, ‘Do you know what he
is dreaming about?’ ‘Nobody can guess that,’ replies Alice. ‘Why, about
you,’ he says triumphantly. ‘And if he stopped dreaming about you, where
do you suppose you’d be?’ ‘Where I am now of course,’ said Alice. ‘Not
you,’ said Tweedledee, ‘you’d be nowhere. You are only a sort of thing in
his dream.’ ‘If that there King was to wake,’ added Tweedledum, ‘you’d go
out, bang! just like a candle.’ Alice was quite right in regarding these
remarks as unphilosophical. The fact that she could see, think, and feel was
proof positive that she was not a sort of thing in anybody’s dream. This is
the meaning of that saying, Cogito ergo sum, of Descartes. By him, and by
Spinoza after him, the verb cogito and the substantive cogitatio were used
to denote consciousness in general, any kind of feeling, even what we now
call sub-consciousness. The saying means that feeling exists in and for
itself, not as a quality or modification or state or manifestation of anything
else.

We are obliged in every hour of our lives to act upon beliefs which have
been arrived at by inferences of these two kinds; inferences based on the
assumption of uniformity in nature, and inferences which add to this the
assumption of feelings which are not our own. By organizing the ‘common
sense’ which embodies the first class of inferences, we build up the physical
sciences; that is to say, all those sciences which deal with the physical,
material, or phenomenal universe, whether animate or inanimate. And so by
organizing the common sense which embodies the second class of
inferences, we build up various sciences of mind. The description and
classification of feelings, the facts of their association with each other, and
of their simultaneity with phenomena of nerve-action,—all this belongs to
psychology, which may be historical and comparative. The doctrine of
certain special classes of feelings is organized into the special sciences of
those feelings; thus the facts about the feelings which we are now
considering, about the feelings of moral approbation and reprobation, are
organized into the science of ethics and the facts about the feeling of beauty
or ugliness are organized into the science of æsthetics, or, as it is sometimes
called, the philosophy of art. For all of these the uniformity of nature has to
be assumed as a basis of inference; but over and above that it is necessary to
assume that other men are conscious in the same way that I am. Now in
these sciences of mind, just as in the physical sciences, the uniformity
which is assumed in the inferred mental facts is a growing thing which
becomes more definite as we go on, and each successive generation of
observers knows better what to observe and what sort of inferences may be
drawn from observed things. But, moreover, it is as true of the mental
sciences as of the physical ones that the uniformity is in the present stage of
science an atomic uniformity. We have learned to regard our consciousness
as made up of elements practically alike, having relations of succession in
time and of contiguity at each instant, which relations are in all cases
practically the same. The element of consciousness is the transference of an
impression into the beginning of action. Our mental life is a structure made
out of such elements, just as the working of our nervous system is made out
of sensori-motor processes. And accordingly the interaction of the two
branches of science leads us to regard the mental facts as the realities or
things-in-themselves, of which the material phenomena are mere pictures or
symbols. The final result seems to be that atomism is carried beyond
phenomena into the realities which phenomena represent; and that the
observed uniformities of nature, in so far as they can be expressed in the
language of atomism, are actual uniformities of things in themselves.

So much for the two things which I have promised to bring together; the
facts of our moral feelings, and the scientific method. It may appear that the
latter has been expounded at more length than was necessary for the
treatment of this particular subject; but the justification for this length is to
be found in certain common objections to the claims of science to be the
sole judge of mental and moral questions. Some of the chief of these
objections I will now mention.

It is sometimes said that science can only deal with what is, but that art and
morals deal with what ought to be. The saying is perfectly true, but it is
quite consistent with what is equally true, that the facts of art and morals are
fit subject-matter of science. I may describe all that I have in my house, and
I may state everything that I want in my house; these are two very different
things, but they are equally statements of facts. One is a statement about
phenomena, about the objects which are actually in my possession; the
other is a statement about my feelings, about my wants and desires. There
are facts, to be got at by common sense, about the kind of thing that a man
of a certain character and occupation will like to have in his house, and
these facts may be organized into general statements on the assumption of
uniformity in nature. Now the organized results of common sense dealing
with facts are just science and nothing else. And in the same way I may say
what men do at the present day, how we live now, or I may say what we
ought to do, namely, what course of conduct, if adopted, we should morally
approve; and no doubt these would be two very different things. But each of
them would be a statement of facts. One would belong to the sociology of
our time; in so far as men’s deeds could not be adequately described to us
without some account of their feelings and intentions, it would involve facts
belonging to psychology as well as facts belonging to the physical sciences.
But the other would be an account of a particular class of our feelings,
namely, those which we feel toward an action when it is regarded as right or
wrong. These facts may be organized by common sense on the assumption
of uniformity in nature just as well as any other facts. And we shall see
farther on that not only in this sense, but in a deeper and more abstract
sense, ‘what ought to be done’ is a question for scientific inquiry.

The same objection is sometimes put into another form. It is said that laws
of chemistry, for example, are general statements about what happens when
bodies are treated in a certain way, and that such laws are fit matter for
science; but that moral laws are different, because they tell us to do certain
things, and we may or may not obey them. The mood of the one is
indicative, of the other imperative. Now it is quite true that the word law in
the expression ‘law of nature,’ and in the expressions ‘law of morals,’ ‘law
of the land,’ has two totally different meanings, which no educated person
will confound; and I am not aware that any one has rested the claim of
science to judge moral questions on what is no better than a stale and
unprofitable pun. But two different things may be equally matters of
scientific investigation, even when their names are alike in sound. A
telegraph post is not the same thing as a post in the War Office, and yet the
same intelligence may be used to investigate the conditions of the one and
the other. That such and such things are right or wrong, that such and such
laws are laws of morals or laws of the land, these are facts, just as the laws
of chemistry are facts; and all facts belong to science, and are her portion
forever.

Again, it is sometimes said that moral questions have been authoritatively

settled by other methods; that we ought to accept this decision, and not to
question it by any method of scientific inquiry; and that reason should give
way to revelation on such matters. I hope before I have done to show just
cause why we should pronounce on such teaching as this no light sentence
of moral condemnation: first, because it is our duty to form those beliefs
which are to guide our actions by the two scientific modes of inference, and
by these alone; and, secondly, because the proposed mode of settling ethical
questions by authority is contrary to the very nature of right and wrong.

Leaving this, then, for the present, I pass on to the most formidable
objection that has been made to a scientific treatment of ethics. The
objection is that the scientific method is not applicable to human action,
because the rule of uniformity does not hold good. Whenever a man
exercises his will, and makes a voluntary choice of one out of various
possible courses, an event occurs whose relation to contiguous events
cannot be included in a general statement applicable to all similar cases.
There is something wholly capricious and disorderly, belonging to that
moment only; and we have no right to conclude that if the circumstances
were exactly repeated, and the man himself absolutely unaltered, he would
choose the same course.

It is clear that if the doctrine here stated is true, the ground is really cut from
under our feet, and we cannot deal with human action by the scientific
method. I shall endeavor to show, moreover, that in this case, although we
might still have a feeling of moral approbation or reprobation toward
actions, yet we could not reasonably praise or blame men for their deeds,
nor regard them as morally responsible. So that, if my contention is just, to
deprive us of the scientific method is practically to deprive us of morals
altogether. On both grounds, therefore, it is of the greatest importance that
we should define our position in regard to this controversy; if, indeed, that
can be called a controversy in which the practical belief of all mankind and
the consent of nearly all serious writers are on one side.

Let us in the first place consider a little more closely the connection
between conscience and responsibility. Words in common use, such as these
two, have their meanings practically fixed before difficult controversies
arise; but after the controversy has arisen each party gives that slight tinge
to the meaning which best suits its own view of the question. Thus it
appears to each that the common language obviously supports their own
view, that this is the natural and primary view of the matter, and that the
opponents are using words in a new meaning and wrestling them from their
proper sense. Now this is just my position. I have endeavored so far to use
all words in their common every-day sense, only making this as precise as I
can; and, with two exceptions, of which due warning will be given, I shall
do my best to continue this practice in future. I seem to myself to be talking
the most obvious platitudes; but it must be remembered that those who take
the opposite view will think I am perverting the English language.

There is a common meaning of the word ‘responsible,’ which though not

the same as that of the phrase ‘morally responsible,’ may throw some light
upon it. If we say of a book, ‘A is responsible for the preface and the first
half, and B is responsible for the rest,’ we mean that A wrote the preface
and the first half. If two people go into a shop and choose a blue silk dress
together, it might be said that A was responsible for its being silk and B for
its being blue. Before they chose, the dress was undetermined both in color
and in material. A’s choice fixed the material, and then it was undetermined
only in color. B’s choice fixed the color; and if we suppose that there were
no more variable conditions (only one blue silk dress in the shop), the dress
was then completely determined. In this sense of the word we say that a
man is responsible for that part of an event which was undetermined when
he was left out of account, and which became determined when he was
taken account of. Suppose two narrow streets, one lying north and south,
one east and west, and crossing one another. A man is put down where they
cross, and has to walk. Then he must walk either north, south, east, or west,
and he is not responsible for that; what he is responsible for is the choice of
one of these four directions. May we not say in the present sense of the
word that the external circumstances are responsible for the restriction on
his choice? We should mean only that the fact of his going in one or other
of the four directions was due to external circumstances, and not to him.
Again, suppose I have a number of punches of various shapes, some square,
some oblong, some oval, some round, and that I am going to punch a hole
in a piece of paper. Where I shall punch the hole may be fixed by any kind
of circumstances; but the shape of the hole depends on the punch I take.
May we not say that the punch is responsible for the shape of the hole, but
not for the position of it?
It may be said that this is not the whole of the meaning of the word
‘responsible,’ even in its loosest sense; that it ought never to be used except
of a conscious agent. Still this is part of its meaning; if we regard an event
as determined by a variety of circumstances, a man’s choice being among
them, we say that he is responsible for just that choice which is left him by
the other circumstances.

When we ask the practical question, ‘Who is responsible for so-and-so?’ we

want to find out who is to be got at in order that so-and-so may be altered.
If I want to change the shape of the hole I make in my paper, I must change
my punch; but this will be of no use if I want to change the position of the
hole. If I want the color of the dress changed from blue to green, it is B, and
not A, that I must persuade.

We mean something more than this when we say that a man is morally
responsible for an action. It seems to me that moral responsibility and
conscience go together, both in regard to the man and in regard to the
action. In order that a man may be morally responsible for an action, the
man must have a conscience, and the action must be one in regard to which
conscience is capable of acting as a motive, that is, the action must be
capable of being right or wrong. If a child were left on a desert island and
grew up wholly without a conscience, and then were brought among men,
he would not be morally responsible for his actions until he had acquired a
conscience by education. He would of course be responsible, in the sense
just explained, for that part of them which was left undetermined by
external circumstances, and if we wanted to alter his actions in these
respects we should have to do it by altering him. But it would be useless
and unreasonable to attempt to do this by means of praise or blame, the
expression of moral approbation or disapprobation, until he had acquired a
conscience which could be worked upon by such means.

It seems, then, that in order that a man may be morally responsible for an
action, three things are necessary:—

1. He might have done something else; that is to say, the action was not
wholly determined by external circumstances, and he is responsible only for
the choice which was left him.

2. He had a conscience.

3. The action was one in regard to the doing or not doing of which
conscience might be a sufficient motive.

These three things are necessary, but it does not follow that they are
sufficient. It is very commonly said that the action must be a voluntary one.
It will be found, I think, that this is contained in my third condition, and
also that the form of statement I have adopted exhibits more clearly the
reason why the condition is necessary. We may say that an action is
involuntary either when it is instinctive, or when one motive is so strong
that there is no voluntary choice between motives. An involuntary cough
produced by irritation of the glottis is no proper subject for blame or praise.
A man is not responsible for it, because it is done by a part of his body
without consulting him. What is meant by him in this case will require
further investigation. Again, when a dipsomaniac has so great and
overmastering an inclination to drink that we cannot conceive of conscience
being strong enough to conquer it, he is not responsible for that act, though
he may be responsible for having got himself into the state. But if it is
conceivable that a very strong conscience fully brought to bear might
succeed in conquering the inclination, we may take a lenient view of the fall
and say there was a very strong temptation, but we shall still regard it as a
fall, and say that the man is responsible and a wrong has been done.

But since it is just in this distinction between voluntary and involuntary

action that the whole crux of the matter lies, let us examine more closely
into it. I say that when I cough or sneeze involuntarily, it is really not I that
cough or sneeze, but a part of my body which acts without consulting me.
This action is determined for me by the circumstances, and is not part of the
choice that is left to me, so that I am not responsible for it. The question
comes then to determining how much is to be called circumstances, and
how much is to be called me. Now I want to describe what happens when I
voluntarily do anything, and there are two courses open to me. I may
describe the things in themselves, my feelings and the general course of my
consciousness, trusting to the analogy between my consciousness and yours
to make me understood; or I may describe these things as nature describes
them to your senses, namely in terms of the phenomena of my nervous
system, appealing to your memory of phenomena and your knowledge of
physical action. I shall do both, because in some respects our knowledge is
more complete from the one source, and in some respects from the other.
When I look back and reflect upon a voluntary action, I seem to find that it
differs from an involuntary action in the fact that a certain portion of my
character has been consulted. There is always a suggestion of some sort,
either the end of a train of thought or a new sensation; and there is an action
ensuing, either the movement of a muscle or set of muscles, or the fixing of
attention upon something. But between these two there is a consultation, as
it were, of my past history. The suggestion is viewed in the light of
everything bearing on it that I think of at the time, and in virtue of this light
it moves me to act in one or more ways. Let us first suppose that no
hesitation is involved, that only one way of acting is suggested, and I yield
to this impulse and act in the particular way. This is the simplest kind of
voluntary action. It differs from involuntary or instinctive action in the fact
that with the latter there is no such conscious consultation of past history. If
we describe these facts in terms of the phenomena which picture them to
other minds, we shall say that in involuntary action a message passes
straight through from the sensory to the motor center, and so on to the
muscles, without consulting the cerebrum; while involuntary action the
message is passed on from the sensory center to the cerebrum, there
translated into appropriate motor stimuli, carried down to the motor center,
and so on to the muscles. There may be other differences, but at least there
is this difference. Now on the physical side that which determines, what
groups of cerebral fibers shall be set at work by the given message, and
what groups of motor stimuli shall be set at work by these, is the
mechanism of my brain at the time; and on the mental side that which
determines what memories shall be called up by the given sensation, and
what motives these memories shall bring into action, is my mental
character. We may say, then, in this simplest case of voluntary action, that
when the suggestion is given it is the character of me which determines the
character of the ensuing action; and consequently that I am responsible for
choosing that particular course out of those which were left open to me by
the external circumstances.

This is when I yield to the impulse. But suppose I do not; suppose that the
original suggestion, viewed in the light of memory, sets various motives in
action, each motive belonging to a certain class of things which I remember.
Then I choose which of these motives shall prevail. Those who carefully
watch themselves find out that a particular motive is made to prevail by the
fixing of the attention upon that class of remembered things which calls up
the motive. The physical side of this is the sending of blood to a certain set
of nerves—namely, those whose action corresponds to the memories which
are to be attended to. The sending of blood is accomplished by the pinching
of arteries; and there are special nerves, called vaso-motor nerves, whose
business it is to carry messages to the walls of the arteries and get them
pinched. Now this act of directing the attention may be voluntary or
involuntary just like any other act. When the transformed and re-enforced
nerve-message gets to the vaso-motor center, some part of it may be so
predominant that a message goes straight off to the arteries, and sends a
quantity of blood to the nerves supplying that part; or the call for blood may
be sent back for revision by the cerebrum, which is thus again consulted. To
say the same thing in terms of my feelings, a particular class of memories
roused by the original suggestion may seize upon my attention before I
have time to choose what I will attend to; or the appeal may be carried to a
deeper part of my character dealing with wider and more abstract
conceptions, which views the conflicting motives in the light of a past
experience of motives, and by that light is drawn to one or the other of
them.

We thus get to a sort of motive of the second order or motive of motives. Is

there any reason why we should not go on to a motive of the third order,
and the fourth, and so on? None whatever that I know of, except that no one
has ever observed such a thing. There seems plenty of room for the requisite
mechanism on the physical side; and no one can say, on the mental side,
how complex is the working of his consciousness. But we must carefully
distinguish between the intellectual deliberation about motives, which
applies to the future and the past, and the practical choice of motives in the
moment of will. The former may be a train of any length and complexity:
we have no reason to believe that the latter is more than engine and tender.

We are now in a position to classify actions in respect of the kind of

responsibility which belongs to them; namely we have—

1. Involuntary or instinctive actions.

2. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is involuntary.

3. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is voluntary.

In each of these cases what is responsible is that part of my character which

determines what the action shall be. For instinctive actions we do not say
that I am responsible, because the choice is made before I know anything
about it. For voluntary actions I am responsible, because I make the choice;
that is, the character of me is what determines the character of the action. In
me, then, for this purpose, is included the aggregate of links of association
which determines what memories shall be called up by a given suggestion,
and what motives shall be set at work by these memories. But we
distinguish this mass of passions and pleasures, desire and knowledge and
pain, which makes up most of my character at the moment, from that inner
and deeper motive-choosing self which is called Reason, and the Will, and
the Ego; which is only responsible when motives are voluntarily chosen by
directing attention to them. It is responsible only for the choice of one
motive out of those presented to it, not for the nature of the motives which
are presented.

But again, I may reasonably be blamed for what I did yesterday, or a week
ago, or last year. This is because I am permanent; in so far as from my
actions of that date an inference may be drawn about my character now, it is
reasonable that I should be treated as praiseworthy or blamable. And within
certain limits I am for the same reason responsible for what I am now,
because within certain limits I have made myself. Even instinctive actions
are dependent in many cases upon habits which may be altered by proper
attention and care; and still more the nature of the connections between
sensation and action, the associations of memory and motive, may be
voluntarily modified if I choose to try. The habit of choosing among
motives is one which may be acquired and strengthened by practice, and the
strength of particular motives, by continually directing attention to them,
may be almost indefinitely increased or diminished. Thus, if by me is meant
not the instantaneous me of this moment, but the aggregate me of my past
life, or even of the last year, the range of my responsibility is very largely
increased. I am responsible for a very large portion of the circumstances
which are now external to me; that is to say, I am responsible for certain of
the restrictions on my own freedom. As the eagle was shot with an arrow
that flew on its own feather, so I find myself bound with fetters of my
proper forging.

Let us now endeavor to conceive an action which is not determined in any

way by the character of the agent. If we ask, ‘What makes it to be that
action and no other?’ we are told, ‘The man’s Ego.’ The words are here
used, it seems to me, in some non-natural sense, if in any sense at all. One
thing makes another to be what it is when the characters of the two things
are connected together by some general statement or rule. But we have to
suppose that the character of the action is not connected with the character
of the Ego by any general statement or rule. With the same Ego and the
same circumstances of all kinds, anything within the limits imposed by the
circumstances may happen at any moment. I find myself unable to conceive
any distinct sense in which responsibility could apply in this case; nor do I
see at all how it would be reasonable to use praise or blame. If the action
does not depend on the character, what is the use of trying to alter the
character? Suppose, however, that this indeterminateness is only partial;
that the character does add some restrictions to those already imposed by
circumstances, but leaves the choice between certain actions undetermined,
and to be settled by chance or the transcendental Ego. Is it not clear that the
man would be responsible for precisely that part of the character of the
action which was determined by his character, and not for what was left
undetermined by it? For it is just that part which was determined by his
character which it is reasonable to try to alter by altering him.

We who believe in uniformity are not the only people unable to conceive
responsibility without it. These are the words of Sir W. Hamilton, as quoted
by Mr. J. S. Mill:—5

‘Nay, were we even to admit as true what we cannot think as possible, still
the doctrine of a motiveless volition would be only casualism; and the free
acts of an indifferent are, morally and rationally, as worthless as the pre-
ordered passions of a determined will.’

‘That, though inconceivable, a motiveless volition would, if conceived, be

conceived as morally worthless, only shows our impotence more clearly.’

‘Is the person an original undetermined cause of the determination of his

will? If he be not, then he is not a free agent, and the scheme of Necessity is
admitted. If he be, in the first place, it is impossible to conceive the
possibility of this; and in the second, if the fact, though inconceivable, be
allowed, it is impossible to see how a cause, undetermined by any motive,
can be a rational, moral, and accountable cause.’

It is true that Hamilton also says that the scheme of necessity is

inconceivable, because it leads to an infinite non-commencement; and that
‘the possibility of morality depends on the possibility of liberty; for if a man
be not a free agent, he is not the author of his actions, and has, therefore, no
responsibility—no moral personality at all.’

I know nothing about necessity; I only believe that nature is practically

uniform even in human action. I know nothing about an infinitely distant
past; I only know that I ought to base on uniformity those inferences which
are to guide my actions. But that man is a free agent appears to me obvious,
and that in the natural sense of the words. We need ask for no better
definition than Kant’s:—

‘Will is a kind of causality belonging to living agents, in so far as they are

rational; and freedom is such a property of that causality as enables them to
be efficient agents independently of outside causes determining them; as, on
the other hand, necessity (Naturnothwendigkeit) is that property of all
irrational beings which consists in their being determined to activity by the
influence of outside causes.’ (‘Metaphysics of Ethics,’ chap. iii.)
I believe that I am a free agent when my actions are independent of the
control of circumstances outside me; and it seems a misuse of language to
call me a free agent if my actions are determined by a transcendental Ego
who is independent of the circumstances inside me—that is to say, of my
character. The expression ‘free will’ has unfortunately been imported into
mental science from a theological controversy rather different from the one
we are now considering. It is surely too much to expect that good and
serviceable English words should be sacrificed to a phantom.

In an admirable book, ‘The Methods of Ethics,’ Mr. Henry Sidgwick has

stated, with supreme fairness and impartiality, both sides of this question.
After setting forth the ‘almost overwhelming cumulative proof’ of
uniformity in human action, he says that it seems ‘more than balanced by a
single argument on the other side: the immediate affirmation of
consciousness in the moment of deliberate volition.’ ‘No amount of
experience of the sway of motives ever tends to make me distrust my
intuitive consciousness that in resolving, after deliberation, I exercise free
choice as to which of the motives acting upon me shall prevail.’

The only answer to this argument is that it is not ‘on the other side.’ There is
no doubt about the deliverance of consciousness; and even if our powers of
self-observation had not been acute enough to discover it, the existence of
some choice between motives would be proved by the existence of vaso-
motor nerves. But perhaps the most instructive way of meeting arguments
of this kind is to inquire what consciousness ought to say in order that its
deliverances may be of any use in the controversy. It is affirmed, on the side
of uniformity, that the feelings in my consciousness in the moment of
voluntary choice have been preceded by facts out of my consciousness
which are related to them in a uniform manner, so that if the previous facts
had been accurately known the voluntary choice might have been predicted.
On the other side this is denied. To be of any use in the controversy, then,
the immediate deliverance of my consciousness must be competent to
assure me of the non-existence of something which by hypothesis is not in
my consciousness. Given an absolutely dark room, can my sense of sight
assure me that there is no one but myself in it? Can my sense of hearing
assure me that nothing inaudible is going on? As little can the immediate
deliverance of my consciousness assure me that the uniformity of nature
does not apply to human actions.

It is perhaps necessary, in connection with this question, to refer to that

singular Materialism of high authority and recent date which makes
consciousness a physical agent, ‘correlates’ it with Light and Nerve-force,
and so reduces it to an objective phenomenon. This doctrine is founded on a
common and very useful mode of speech, in which we say, for example,
that a good fire is a source of pleasure on a cold day, and that a man’s
feeling of chill may make him run to it. But so also we say that the sun rises
and sets every morning and night, although the man in the moon sees
clearly that this is due to the rotation of the earth. One cannot be pedantic
all day. But if we choose for once to be pedantic, the matter is after all very
simple. Suppose that I am made to run by feeling a chill. When I begin to
move my leg, I may observe if I like a double series of facts. I have the
feeling of effort, the sensation of motion in my leg; I feel the pressure of my
foot on the ground. Along with this I may see with my eyes, or feel with my
hands, the motion of my leg as a material object. The first series of facts
belongs to me alone; the second may be equally observed by anybody else.
The mental series began first; I willed to move my leg before I saw it move.
But when I know more about the matter, I can trace the material series
further back, and find nerve-messages going to the muscles of my leg to
make it move. But I had a feeling of chill before I chose to move my leg.
Accordingly, I can find nerve-messages, excited by the contraction due to
the low temperature, going to my brain from the chilled skin. Assuming the
uniformity of nature, I carry forward and backward both the mental and the
material series. A uniformity is observed in each, and a parallelism is
observed between them, whenever observations can be made. But
sometimes one series is known better, and sometimes the other; so that in
telling a story we quite naturally speak sometimes of mental facts and
sometimes of material facts. A feeling of chill made a man run; strictly
speaking, the nervous disturbance which co-existed with that feeling of chill
made him run, if we want to talk about material facts; or the feeling of chill
produced the form of sub-consciousness which co-exists with the motion of
legs, if we want to talk about mental facts. But we know nothing about the
special nervous disturbance which co-exists with a feeling of chill, because
it has not yet been localized in the brain; and we know nothing about the
form of sub-consciousness which co-exists with the motion of legs;
although there is very good reason for believing in the existence of both. So
we talk about the feeling of chill and the running, because in one case we
know the mental side, and in the other the material side. A man might show
me a picture of the battle of Gravelotte, and say, ‘You can’t see the battle,
because it’s all over, but there is a picture of it.’ And then he might put a
chassepot into my hand, and say, ‘We could not represent the whole
construction of a chassepot in the picture, but you can examine this one, and
find it out.’ If I now insisted on mixing up the two modes of communication
of knowledge, if I expected that the chassepots in the picture would go off,
and said that the one in my hand was painted on heavy canvas, I should be
acting exactly in the spirit of the new materialism. For the material facts are
a representation or symbol of the mental facts, just as a picture is a
representation or symbol of a battle. And my own mind is a reality from
which I can judge by analogy of the realities represented by other men’s
brains, just as the chassepot in my hand is a reality from which I can judge
by analogy of the chassepots represented in the picture. When, therefore, we
ask, ‘What is the physical link between the ingoing message from chilled
skin and the outgoing message which moves the leg?’ and the answer is, ‘A
man’s Will,’ we have as much right to be amused as if we had asked our
friend with the picture what pigment was used in painting the cannon in the
foreground, and received the answer, ‘Wrought iron.’ It will be found
excellent practice in the mental operations required by this doctrine to
imagine a train, the fore part of which is an engine and three carriages
linked with iron couplings, and the hind part three other carriages linked
with iron couplings; the bond between the two parts being made out of the
sentiments of amity subsisting between the stoker and the guard.

To sum up: the uniformity of nature in human actions has been denied on
the ground that it takes away responsibility, that it is contradicted by the
testimony of consciousness, and that there is a physical correlation between
mind and matter. We have replied that the uniformity of nature is necessary
to responsibility, that it is affirmed by the testimony of consciousness
whenever consciousness is competent to testify, and that matter is the
phenomenon or symbol of which mind or quasi-mind is the symbolized and
represented thing. We are now free to continue our inquiries on the
supposition that nature is uniform.

We began by describing the moral sense of an Englishman. No doubt the

description would serve very well for the more civilized nations of Europe;
most closely for Germans and Dutch. But the fact that we can speak in this
way discloses that there is more than one moral sense, and that what I feel
to be right another man may feel to be wrong. Thus we cannot help asking
whether there is any reason for preferring one moral sense to another;
whether the question, ‘What is right to do?’ has in any one set of
circumstances a single answer which can be definitely known.

Clearly, in the first rough sense of the word, this is not true. What is right
for me to do now, seeing that I am here with a certain character, and a
certain moral sense as part of it, is just what I feel to be right. The
individual conscience is, in the moment of volition, the only possible judge
of what is right; there is no conflicting claim. But if we are deliberating
about the future, we know that we can modify our conscience gradually by
associating with people, reading certain books, and paying attention to
certain ideas and feelings; and we may ask ourselves, ‘How shall we
modify our conscience, if at all? what kind of conscience shall we try to
get? what is the best conscience?’ We may ask similar questions about our
sense of taste. There is no doubt at present that the nicest things to me are
the things I like; but I know that I can train myself to like some things and
dislike others, and that things which are very nasty at one time may come to
be great delicacies at another. I may ask, ‘How shall I train myself? What is
the best taste?’ And this leads very naturally to putting the question in
another form, namely, ‘What is taste good for? What is the purpose or
function of taste?’ We should probably find as the answer to that question
that the purpose or function of taste is to discriminate wholesome food from
unwholesome; that it is a matter of stomach and digestion. It will follow
from this that the best taste is that which prefers wholesome food, and that
by cultivating a preference for wholesome and nutritious things I shall be
training my palate in the way it should go. In just the same way our
question about the best conscience will resolve itself into a question about
the purpose or function of the conscience—why we have got it, and what it
is good for.

Now to my mind the simplest and clearest and most profound philosophy
that was ever written upon this subject is to be found in the 2d and 3d
chapters of Mr. Darwin’s ‘Descent of Man.’ In these chapters it appears that
just as most physical characteristics of organisms have been evolved and
preserved because they were useful to the individual in the struggle for
existence against other individuals and other species, so this particular
feeling has been evolved and preserved because it is useful to the tribe or
community in the struggle for existence against other tribes, and against the
environment as a whole. The function of conscience is the preservation of
the tribe as a tribe. And we shall rightly train our consciences if we learn to
approve those actions which tend to the advantage of the community in the
struggle for existence.

There are here some words, however, which require careful definition. And
first the word purpose. A thing serves a purpose when it is adapted to some
end; thus a corkscrew is adapted to the end of extracting corks from bottles,
and our lungs are adapted to the end of respiration. We may say that the
extraction of corks is the purpose of the corkscrew, and that respiration is
the purpose of the lungs. But here we shall have used the word in two
different senses. A man made the corkscrew with a purpose in his mind, and
he knew and intended that it should be used for pulling out corks. But
nobody made our lungs with a purpose in his mind, and intended that they
should be used for breathing. The respiratory apparatus was adapted to its
purpose by natural selection—namely, by the gradual preservation of better
and better adaptations, and the killing off of the worse and imperfect
adaptations. In using the word purpose for the result of this unconscious
process of adaptation by survival of the fittest, I know that I am somewhat
extending its ordinary sense, which implies consciousness. But it seems to
me that on the score of convenience there is a great deal to be said for this
extension of meaning. We want a word to express the adaptation of means
to an end, whether involving consciousness or not; the word purpose will do
very well, and the adjective purposive has already been used in this sense.
But if the use is admitted, we must distinguish two kinds of purpose. There
is the unconscious purpose which is attained by natural selection, in which
no consciousness need be concerned; and there is the conscious purpose of
an intelligence which designs a thing that it may serve to do something
which he desires to be done. The distinguishing mark of this second kind,
design or conscious purpose, is that in the consciousness of the agent there
is an image or symbol of the end which he desires, and this precedes and
determines the use of the means. Thus the man who first invented a
corkscrew must have previously known that corks were in bottles, and have
desired to get them out. We may describe this if we like in terms of matter,
and say that a purpose of the second kind implies a complex nervous
system, in which there can be formed an image or symbol of the end, and
that this symbol determines the use of the means. The nervous image or
symbol of anything is that mode of working of part of my brain which goes
on simultaneously and is correlated with my thinking of the thing.

Aristotle defines an organism as that in which the part exists for the sake of
the whole. It is not that the existence of the part depends on the existence of
the whole, for every whole exists only as an aggregate of parts related in a
certain way; but that the shape and nature of the part are determined by the
wants of the whole. Thus the shape and nature of my foot are what they are,
not for the sake of my foot itself, but for the sake of my whole body, and
because it wants to move about. That which the part has to do for the whole
is called its function. Thus the function of my foot is to support me, and
assist in locomotion. Not all the nature of the part is necessarily for the sake
of the whole: the comparative callosity of the skin of my sole is for the
protection of my foot itself.

Society is an organism, and man in society is part of an organism according

to this definition, in so far as some portion of the nature of man is what it is
for the sake of the whole—society. Now conscience is such a portion of the
nature of man, and its function is the preservation of society in the struggle
for existence. We may be able to define this function more closely when we
know more about the way in which conscience tends to preserve society.

Next let us endeavor to make precise the meaning of the words community
and society. It is clear that at different times men may be divided into
groups of greater or less extent—tribes, clans, families, nations, towns. If a
certain number of clans are struggling for existence, that portion of the
conscience will be developed which tends to the preservation of the clan;
so, if towns or families are struggling, we shall get a moral sense adapted to
the advantage of the town or the family. In this way different portions of the
moral sense may be developed at different stages of progress. Now it is
clear that for the purpose of the conscience the word community at any time
will mean a group of that size and nature which is being selected or not
selected for survival as a whole. Selection may be going on at the same time
among many different kinds of groups. And ultimately the moral sense will
be composed of various portions relating to various groups, the function or
purpose of each portion being the advantage of that group to which it relates
in the struggle for existence. Thus we have a sense of family duty, of
municipal duty, of national duty, and of duties toward all mankind.

It is to be noticed that part of the nature of a smaller group may be what it is

for the sake of a larger group to which it belongs; and then we may speak of
the function of the smaller group. Thus it appears probable that the family,
in the form in which it now exists among us, is determined by the good of
the nation; and we may say that the function of the family is to promote the
advantage of the nation or larger society in some certain ways. But I do not
think it would be right to follow Auguste Comte in speaking of the function
of humanity; because humanity is obviously not a part of any larger
organism for whose sake it is what it is.

Now that we have cleared up the meanings of some of our words, we are
still a great way from the definite solution of our question, ‘What is the best
conscience? or what ought I to think right?’ For we do not yet know what is
for the advantage of the community in the struggle for existence. If we
choose to learn by the analogy of an individual organism, we may see that
no permanent or final answer can be given, because the organism grows in
consequence of the struggle, and develops new wants while it is satisfying
the old ones. But at any given time it has quite enough to do to keep alive
and to avoid dangers and diseases. So we may expect that the wants and
even the necessities of the social organism will grow with its growth, and
that it is impossible to predict what may tend in the distant future to its
advantage in the struggle for existence. But still, in this vague and general
statement of the functions of conscience, we shall find that we have already
established a great deal.

In the first place, right is an affair of the community, and must not be
referred to anything else. To go back to our analogy of taste: if I tried to
persuade you that the best palate was that which preferred things pretty to
look at, you might condemn me à priori without any experience, by merely
knowing that taste is an affair of stomach and digestion—that its function is
to select wholesome food. And so, if any one tries to persuade us that the
best conscience is that which thinks it right to obey the will of some
individual, as a deity or a monarch, he is condemned à priori in the very
nature of right and wrong. In order that the worship of a deity may be
consistent with natural ethics, he must be regarded as the friend and helper
of humanity, and his character must be judged from his actions by a moral
standard which is independent of him. And this, it must be admitted, is the
position which has been taken by most English divines, as long as they
were Englishmen first and divines afterward. The worship of a deity who is
represented as unfair or unfriendly to any portion of the community is a
wrong thing, however great may be the threats and promises by which it is
commended. And still worse, the reference of right and wrong to his
arbitrary will as a standard, the diversion of the allegiance of the moral
sense from the community to him, is the most insidious and fatal of social
diseases. It was against this that the Teutonic conscience protested in the
Reformation. Again, in monarchical countries, in order that allegiance to the
sovereign may be consistent with natural ethics, he must be regarded as the
servant and symbol of the national unity, capable of rebellion and
punishable for it. And this has been the theory of the English constitution
from time immemorial.

The first principle of natural ethics, then, is the sole and supreme allegiance
of conscience to the community. I venture to call this piety in accordance
with the older meaning of the word. Even if it should turn out impossible to
sever it from the unfortunate associations which have clung to its later
meaning, still it seems worth while to try.
An immediate deduction from our principle is that there are no self-
regarding virtues properly so called; those qualities which tend to the
advantage and preservation of the individual being only morally right in so
far as they make him a more useful citizen. And this conclusion is in some
cases of great practical importance. The virtue of purity, for example,
attains in this way a fairly exact definition: purity in a man is that course of
conduct which makes him to be a good husband and father, in a woman that
which makes her to be a good wife and mother, or which helps other people
so to prepare and keep themselves. It is easy to see how many false ideas
and pernicious precepts are swept away by even so simple a definition as
that.

Next, we may fairly define our position in regard to that moral system
which has deservedly found favor with the great mass of our countrymen.
In the common statement of utilitarianism the end of right action is defined
to be the greatest happiness of the greatest number. It seems to me that the
reason and the ample justification of the success of this system is that it
explicitly sets forth the community as the object of moral allegiance. But
our determination of the purpose of the conscience will oblige us to make a
change in the statement of it. Happiness is not the end of right action. My
happiness is of no use to the community except in so far as it makes me a
more efficient citizen; that is to say, it is rightly desired as a means and not
as an end. The end may be described as the greatest efficiency of all citizens
as such. No doubt happiness will in the long run accrue to the community as
a consequence of right conduct; but the right is determined independently of
the happiness, and, as Plato says, it is better to suffer wrong than to do
wrong.

In conclusion, I would add some words on the relation of Veracity to the

first principle of Piety. It is clear that veracity is founded on faith in man;
you tell a man the truth when you can trust him with it and are not afraid.
This perhaps is made more evident by considering the case of exception
allowed by all moralists—namely, that if a man asks you the way with a
view to committing a murder, it is right to tell a lie and misdirect him. The
reason why he must not have the truth told him is that he would make a bad
use of it; he cannot be trusted with it. About these cases of exception an
important remark must be made in passing. When we hear that a man has
told a lie under such circumstances, we are indeed ready to admit that for
once it was right, mensonge admirable; but we always have a sort of feeling
that it must not occur again. And the same thing applies to cases of
conflicting obligations, when for example the family conscience and the
national conscience disagree. In such cases no general rule can be laid
down; we have to choose the less of two evils; but this is not right
altogether in the same sense as it is right to speak the truth. There is
something wrong in the circumstances, that we should have to choose an
evil at all. The actual course to be pursued will vary with the progress of
society; that evil which at first was greater will become less, and in a
perfect society the conflict will be resolved into harmony. But meanwhile
these cases of exception must be carefully kept distinct from the
straightforward cases of right and wrong, and they always imply an
obligation to mend the circumstances if we can.

Veracity to an individual is not only enjoined by piety in virtue of the

obvious advantage which attends a straightforward and mutually trusting
community as compared with others, but also because deception is in all
cases a personal injury. Still more is this true of veracity to the community
itself. The conception of the universe or aggregate of beliefs which forms
the link between sensation and action for each individual is a public and not
a private matter; it is formed by society and for society. Of what enormous
importance it is to the community that this should be a true conception I
need not attempt to describe. Now to the attainment of this true conception
two things are necessary.

First, if we study the history of those methods by which true beliefs and
false beliefs have been attained, we shall see that it is our duty to guide our
beliefs by inference from experience on the assumption of uniformity of
nature and consciousness in other men, and by this only. Only upon this
moral basis can the foundations of the empirical method be justified.

Secondly, veracity to the community depends upon faith in man. Surely I

ought to be talking platitudes when I say that it is not English to tell a man a
lie, or to suggest a lie by your silence or your actions, because you are
afraid that he is not prepared for the truth, because you don’t quite know
what he will do when he knows it, because perhaps after all this lie is a
better thing for him than the truth would be, this same man being all the
time an honest fellow-citizen whom you have every reason to trust. Surely I
have heard that this craven crookedness is the object of our national
detestation. And yet it is constantly whispered that it would be dangerous to
divulge certain truths to the masses. ‘I know the whole thing is untrue: but
then it is so useful for the people; you don’t know what harm you might do
by shaking their faith in it.’ Crooked ways are none the less crooked
because they are meant to deceive great masses of people instead of
individuals. If a thing is true, let us all believe it, rich and poor, men,
women, and children. If a thing is untrue, let us all disbelieve it, rich and
poor, men, women, and children. Truth is a thing to be shouted from the
housetops, not to be whispered over rose-water after dinner when the ladies
are gone away.

Even in those whom I would most reverence, who would shrink with horror
from such actual deception as I have just mentioned, I find traces of a want
of faith in man. Even that noble thinker, to whom we of this generation owe
more than I can tell, seemed to say in one of his posthumous essays that in
regard to questions of great public importance we might encourage a hope
in excess of the evidence (which would infallibly grow into a belief and
defy evidence) if we found that life was made easier by it. As if we should
not lose infinitely more by nourishing a tendency to falsehood than we
could gain by the delusion of a pleasing fancy. Life must first of all be made
straight and true; it may get easier through the help this brings to the
commonwealth. And Lange, the great historian of materialism, says that the
amount of false belief necessary to morality in a given society is a matter of
taste. I cannot believe that any falsehood whatever is necessary to morality.
It cannot be true of my race and yours that to keep ourselves from
becoming scoundrels we must needs believe a lie. The sense of right grew
up among healthy men and was fixed by the practice of comradeship. It has
never had help from phantoms and falsehoods, and it never can want any.
By faith in man and piety toward men we have taught each other the right
hitherto; with faith in man and piety toward men we shall never more depart
from it.
1 Sunday Lecture Society, November 7, 1875. ↑
2 Treatise Baba Bathra, 59 b. ↑
3 Compare these passages from Merivale (‘Romans under the Empire,’ vi.), to whom ‘it
seems a duty to protest against the common tendency of Christian moralists to dwell only
on the dark side of Pagan society, in order to heighten by contrast the blessings of the
Gospel’:—
‘Much candor and discrimination are required in comparing the sins of one age with those
of another ... the cruelty of our inquisitions and sectarian persecutions, of our laws against
sorcery, our serfdom and our slavery; the petty fraudulence we tolerate in almost every
class and calling of the community; the bold front worn by our open sensuality; the deeper
degradation of that which is concealed; all these leave us little room for boasting of our
modern discipline, and must deter the thoughtful inquirer from too confidently contrasting
the morals of the old world and the new.’
‘Even at Rome, in the worst of times ... all the relations of life were adorned in turn with
bright instances of devotion, and mankind transacted their business with an ordinary
confidence in the force of conscience and right reason. The steady development of
enlightened legal principles conclusively proves the general dependence upon law as a
guide and corrector of manners. In the camp, however, more especially, as the chief sphere
of this purifying activity, the great qualities of the Roman character continued to be plainly
manifested. This history of the Cæsars presents to us a constant succession of brave,
patient, resolute, and faithful soldiers, men deeply impressed with a sense of duty, superior
to vanity, despisers of boasting, content to toil in obscurity and shed their blood at the
frontiers of the empire, unrepining at the cold mistrust of their masters, not clamorous for
the honors so sparingly awarded to them, but satisfied in the daily work of their hands, and
full of faith in the national destiny which they were daily accomplishing.’ ↑
4 Finlay, ‘Greece under the Romans.’ ↑
5 Examination, p. 495, 2d ed. ↑
 III. THE ETHICS OF BELIEF.

I. The Duty of Inquiry.—A shipowner was about to send to sea an emigrant-

ship. He knew that she was old, and not over-well built at the first; that she
had seen many seas and climes, and often had needed repairs. Doubts had
been suggested to him that possibly she was not seaworthy. These doubts
preyed upon his mind, and made him unhappy; he thought that perhaps he
ought to have her thoroughly overhauled and refitted, even though this
should put him to great expense. Before the ship sailed, however, he
succeeded in overcoming these melancholy reflections. He said to himself
that she had gone safely through so many voyages and weathered so many
storms that it was idle to suppose she would not come safely home from
this trip also. He would put his trust in Providence, which could hardly fail
to protect all these unhappy families that were leaving their fatherland to
seek for better times elsewhere. He would dismiss from his mind all
ungenerous suspicions about the honesty of builders and contractors. In
such ways he acquired a sincere and comfortable conviction that his vessel
was thoroughly safe and seaworthy; he watched her departure with a light
heart, and benevolent wishes for the success of the exiles in their strange
new home that was to be; and he got his insurance-money when she went
down in mid-ocean and told no tales.

What shall we say of him? Surely this, that he was verily guilty of the death
of those men. It is admitted that he did sincerely believe in the soundness of
his ship; but the sincerity of his conviction can in no wise help him, because
he had no right to believe on such evidence as was before him. He had
acquired his belief not by honestly earning it in patient investigation, but by
stifling his doubts. And although in the end he may have felt so sure about it
that he could not think otherwise, yet inasmuch as he had knowingly and
willingly worked himself into that frame of mind, he must be held
responsible for it.
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