S. Laing

Christianity based on morals—Origin of morality—Traced in Judaism—Originates in evolution—Instance of murder—Freedom of will—Will suspended in certain states of brain—Hypnotism—Mechanical theory—Pre-established harmony—Human and animal conscience—Analysis of will—Explained by polarity—Practical conclusion.

The great advantage which Christianity possesses over most other religions is that it is based to a much greater extent on the solid foundation of an elevated morality. The creeds of ancient Egypt, of Buddhism, and of Confucianism contain many excellent moral precepts; and the injunctions to ‘do unto others as you would be done by,’ and to ‘love your neighbour as yourself,’ are to be found long before the Sermon on the Mount. But these religions in the main followed other lines of development, and branched off either into metaphysical conceptions or into formal rites and ceremonies. With the exception of Judaism, of which Christianity is the lineal descendant, no religion has ever to the same extent become to the great mass of its adherents a rule of conduct and an incentive, strengthened by divine sanction, to lead pure and upright lives. This is the sense in which Christianity has always been understood by the vast majority of Christians, and its corruptions have come much more from above than from below; from theologians, priests, and politicians, than from the instincts of the millions; and this it is which enables it to retain such a wonderful vitality even in modern times, when faith in dogmas and miracles has been so greatly weakened. In order to appreciate the solidity of this basis it is necessary to understand the origin of morals, and to see that the fundamental precepts of moral law are not mere chance inventions of a few exceptional minds, or the teachings of doubtful revelations, but are the necessary growth and products of human nature, in the course of the evolution of society from rude beginnings to a high civilisation. This gives them a certainty and sanction which could be derived from no other source, and makes them what in fact they have become—almost primary instincts of the natural and normal mind in civilised communities. I proceed, therefore, to endeavour to trace shortly the process by which moral laws have originated and grown up to their present certainty and cogency in the course of evolution.

As I have already said, the element of morality is one of the latest to be developed in religious conceptions. The first impressions of savage races reflect the feelings of vague superstitious terror with which they regard unknown phenomena and powers. They are afraid of ghosts and afraid of thunder, long before they rise to a belief in a future state of rewards and punishments, or to the notion of an almighty Being acting by natural laws. In a higher state of development they personify natural powers in gods, who have no more idea of morality than if they were so many parallels of latitude or degrees of longitude; and they invent tribal gods, who are simply great chiefs, bound by no laws, but granting favours when appeased and inflicting injuries when angry. By slow degrees, as civilisation advances, moral ideas are evolved, and the more enlightened minds begin to attribute moral attributes to their deities. Earnest men, prophets, and reformers take up these ideas and preach them to the world, and, if circumstances are favourable and the soil prepared, they take root and become popular convictions, surviving in the struggle for life, and becoming stronger from generation to generation.

This evolution of moral ideas is most clearly traced in the religious history of the Jews. In their earlier conceptions Jehovah is represented with all the traits of a jealous and capricious Oriental sultan. The one virtue in his eyes is implicit obedience; the one unpardonable crime, anything that looks like disrespect. David is the man after God’s own heart, though he commits crimes of the foulest description, and treats as nullities the moral commandments against adultery and murder. But when he takes a census of his people Jehovah is offended, and, with a total disregard of justice, visits his anger, not on the offender, but on the innocent people whom he decimates by a pestilence. In like manner, Abraham is favoured because he is ready to obey the inhuman command to sacrifice his son; while Saul loses Jehovah’s favour because he hesitates to massacre his captives in cold blood. The first ideas of a higher moral sense appear with the prophets in the troubled times of the later kings—when poor little Palestine was being ground between the upper millstone of Assyria and the nether one of Egypt. Sufferings and persecutions, anxieties and tribulations, wrought a ferment in the Jewish mind from which new ideas were generated. Sacrifices had been duly offered, and yet the enemies of Jehovah waxed and his chosen people waned. It must be that He was offended with them because He required something better than the blood of bulls—justice and mercy. So taught the popular preachers of the day—men like Isaiah and Amos—and by degrees their words found acceptance. It was not, however, until the Captivity that these ideas of morality were wrought into the Jewish nation so as to become, so to speak, flesh of their flesh and blood of their blood, as they have remained ever since. Whether it was contact with the more advanced moral ideas of religions like those of Buddha and Zoroaster, or, more probably, their sufferings from the cruelty and injustice of their conquerors, the Captivity certainly made them a new nation, attached ardently to morality and monotheism—thus effecting in a few years, and by purely human agencies, what, according to received beliefs, centuries of miraculous dispensation had failed to accomplish. How speedily and how effectually the work was done appears from that most interesting narrative of the domestic life of a middle-class Jew of Nineveh, the Book of Tobit. The simple piety and homely household virtues are almost identically the same as those of many a Jewish family living to-day in London or Frankfort. From that time forward Jewish morality maintains a high level, and in the age immediately preceding Christianity it had attained great purity and spirituality in the school of the early doctors of the Talmud, and of the Jewish colony of Alexandria. The Sermon on the Mount, beautiful as it is, is but an admirable rÉsumÉ of maxims which are to be found in the works of Philo and other Jewish teachers, and which were current in the synagogues of the day. Hillel, who was president of the Sanhedrin when Christ was born, when asked what was the law, replied, ‘Do not unto another what thou wouldst not have another do unto thee. This is the whole Law, the rest is mere commentary.’ And again, ‘Do not judge thy neighbour until thou hast stood in his place.’

The Talmud anticipates in a wonderful degree not only the moral precepts of the Gospel, but to a great extent its phraseology and technical terms. ‘Redemption,’ ‘grace,’ ‘faith,’ ‘salvation,’ ‘Son of man,’ ‘Son of God,’ ‘kingdom of heaven,’ were all, as Deutsch shows, not invented by Christianity, but were household words of contemporary Judaism. In one respect only Christianity shows a higher evolution of morality than Judaism—viz. its universality. Pure Judaism hardly rises above the idea of ‘neighbour,’ or those who were of the same race or common faith; while Christianity, as enlarged by St. Paul, embraces all mankind, and may truly say: ‘Humani nihil a me alienum puto.’

The idea that morality and religion are products of a slowly developing evolution is denounced by many as degrading and materialistic. In many the instinct of the ‘good’ is so strong that it seems to them sacrilege to attempt to explain it. They insist that it is either a universal instinct implanted from the first in all mankind, or else that it has been so implanted by a divine revelation. They forget that, to use the vigorous phraseology of Carlyle, ‘It matters not whether you call a thing pan-theism or pot-theism; what really concerns us is to know whether it is true.’ Now it admits of no question that, whether we like it or not, the evolutionist theory of morality is the true one. Take an extreme instance, that of murder. We feel an instinctive horror at the idea, and even a brutal ruffian like Bill Sikes becomes an accursed thing to himself and his companions when he has transgressed the commandment ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’ But is it so everywhere, and was it so always? By no means; the Fiji islander kills and eats a stranger or enemy without scruple; the Red Indian and the Dyak are not accounted men until they have murdered some one and brought home his scalp or his head as a trophy. Even at a late period among ourselves murder was considered to be rather as a civil injury, to be met by compensation, than as a crime; and a regular tariff was established of the amount to be paid according as the victim was a slave or a freeman.

The origin and progress of the idea that murder is a crime can almost be traced step by step. The wife of a rude savage does something which offends him; a violent perception of anger flashes from the visual organ to the perceptive area of the brain, and a reflex action flashes from it along the motor nerve to the muscles of the arm. He strikes and kills her, almost as unconsciously and instinctively as he walks or breathes. But other perceptions follow on the act. He finds next day that he has no one to cook his food; the image of her dying face photographed on his brain is an unpleasant one; and thus by degrees a series of secondary perceptions get attached to the primary one of striking when he feels angry. If he gets another wife who again provokes him, the primary perception calls up the secondary ones, and the nerve-centres of his brain, instead of being solicited only in one direction, are acted on in opposite ways by conflicting impressions. He hesitates, and, as the primary impulse of passion is probably the more evanescent, the restraining impulses prevail, and every time they prevail they acquire more strength. Gradually they extend to a conviction that it is both inconvenient and disagreeable to kill any one with whom he is closely related either by family or tribal ties, and that, in a word, murder does not pay, and is wrong, unless practised on an enemy. This idea accumulates by heredity, and evidently those tribes or races in whom it is strongest will have an advantage in the struggle for life and be most likely to survive.

From this point the idea may be traced historically, deepening and widening from generation to generation as civilisation advances, until in the higher races it assumes the form of an instinctive abhorrence of murder in the abstract, as we find it at the present day.

It is a mistake to suppose that the foundations of morality are in any way weakened by thus tracing them up to their first origins. On the contrary, if we consider the matter rightly, they are placed on a much more solid and unassailable basis. If we say that moral laws depend on a universal instinct implanted in all mankind, faith in them is shaken whenever we read in history, or hear from the report of travellers, of whole nations, constituting from first to last the immense majority of the human race, who had none of those ideas which we now consider fundamental. If, again, we base them on divine precepts miraculously conveyed, every discovery of science and development of thought which weakens faith in miracles impairs the basis of morals. And on this theory, hopeless contradictions arise within the sphere of those very moral laws which we seek to establish; as in reconciling the justice and mercy of the Creator in revealing this inspired code only to limited portions of the human race, and under conditions which leave large scope for legitimate doubt, and which, in point of fact, failed to ensure recognition for its moral precepts among His own chosen people for a long period after its promulgation.

But on the scientific theory of the evolution of morality by natural laws it stands on an impregnable footing. No one can deny that, as a matter of fact, such instincts do prevail, and have become part of the nature of all the best men and best races, and that each successive generation tends to fix them more firmly. Mathematical laws are not the less certain because they can be traced back to counting on the fingers, and moral laws will continue to have a certainty and cogency, scarcely inferior to the axioms of mathematics, although we can trace them back to origins as rude as the attempts of the Australian savage to extend his perceptions of number beyond ‘one, two, and a great many.’

The real difficulty is not in tracing the origin of these instincts of morality, but in that fundamental difficulty which underlies all theories of reconciling the consciousness of free-will with the material attributes with which it is indissolubly associated. Without freedom of will there can be no conscience, no right or wrong in acting in accordance or otherwise with the instincts of moral law, however those instincts may have been derived. Now it is certain that the will, like life, memory, consciousness, and other mental functions, is, so far as human knowledge extends, indissolubly connected with matter and natural laws, in the form of certain motions of the cells which form the grey substance of the nerves and of the nervous ganglia of which the cortex of the brain is the most considerable. This is conclusively proved by experiment. We know that, by removing certain portions of the brain of a dog or of a pigeon, we can destroy the power of motion while preserving the will, and by removing certain other portions we can destroy the will while preserving the powers of motion. Take away a certain portion of the brain of a pigeon, and although it retains the power of taking food, it has so totally lost the will to exercise this power that it will starve in the midst of abundance, though it can be kept alive by placing the food in its mouth. In like manner, in the human brain there are certain portions which, if destroyed by injury or disease, will paralyse the power of giving effect to the will by muscular movements, while the destruction of other portions will paralyse the will which originates such movements. Numerous cases are recorded in medical treatises in which the will is completely paralysed for the performance of certain functions, and in such cases the anatomist can lay his finger on the spot where the brain is affected, and when the brain is dissected after the death of the patient, it will be found that his prediction is verified, and that this region of the brain really was diseased. In sleep also, and in abnormal states of the brain such as somnambulism, and mesmerism or hypnotism, the action of the will is suspended. Hypnotism affords the most remarkable instances, for here the will seems to be transferred from the Ego or individuality of the patient to that of the operator, and the currents of nervous energy which induce motion in A are set going by impulses in the mind of A, not caused by his own will, but by that of B, conveyed by words, gestures, or other subtle indications. A ludicrous instance of this is recorded by Dr. Braid, in which an old lady, who had a true puritanical abhorrence of dancing as sinful, being hypnotised, began capering about the room when a waltz tune was struck up, on being told to do so by the operators.

There are some other curious effects produced by hypnotism, in the way of inducing a sort of double consciousness and memory, which makes people in this condition totally forget things which they remember when awake, and remember things which were totally forgotten in the waking state.

These and a variety of other instances point to the conclusion that man is only a conscious machine. In other words, that the original impress, to use Dr. Temple’s words, was so perfect that it provided a pre-established harmony not only for the innumerable phenomena of the material universe as unfolded by evolution, but for the still more innumerable phenomena of life in all its manifestations and all its complex relations to outward environment. I say of life, for we clearly cannot confine the theory to human life. A dog, who with the two courses before him of doing wrong and chasing a rabbit, or doing right and remaining at his master’s heel, chooses one of them, is in exactly the same position as Hercules between the rival attractions of virtue and pleasure. If Hercules acted as a machine, yielding to the pre-established preponderance of the stronger attraction, so did the dog; but if Hercules exerted free-will and felt the approval or blame of conscience, so did the retriever. There is no fundamental distinction, but merely a question of degree, between human conscience and the shame which a dog feels when it knows that it has done wrong, and the pleasure which it manifests when conscious that it has behaved properly.

Shall we thus conclude, as Leibnitz and other great philosophers have done, in favour of the mechanical theory? But if we do, how are we to account for the instinctive ineradicable feeling, which comes home to every one with a conviction even stronger than the evidence of the senses, that we really have a choice between opposite courses, and can decide on our own actions—a conviction which is obviously the foundation of all conscience and of all morality?

Let us try to analyse more closely what Will really means, and under what conditions it is manifested. The circuit which connects any one single perception with action, through sensory nerve, sensory centre, motor centre, motor nerve and muscle, is as purely mechanical as that of an electric circuit. Reflex motions such as breathing, and even more complex motions which by repetition have become reflex or instinctive, are also mechanical and involve no exercise of will. But when perceptions become complex, and one primary evokes a number of secondary perceptions—in other words, when the cells of the corresponding portions of grey matter in the cortex of the brain are set vibrating by a variety of complex and conflicting molecular motions, the feeling of free-will inevitably arises. We feel the conviction that there is a something which we call soul, mind, or in the last analysis, ‘I myself I,’ which sits, as Von Moltke might do, in a cabinet receiving conflicting telegraphic messages from different generals, and deciding then and there what order to flash out in reply.

What can we say to this? That it is like space and time, one of the categories of thought, or primary moulds in which thought is cast. We do not know what space and time really are in their essence, or why they are the necessary conditions of thought, any more than we do in the case of will. They may be illusions, but we accept them, and of necessity accept them, as facts. For all practical purposes it is the same to us, as if we understood their essence and knew them to be realities. A man can no more doubt that he is an individual being, with a will which, in a great many cases, enables him to decide which of a variety of impulses shall prevail, than he can hesitate, if he is furnishing a room, to regulate his purchase of carpeting and paper by space of three dimensions, without regard to possible speculations as to quaternions.

Perhaps the principle of polarity may assist us in understanding that both theories may be true; or rather that matter and spirit, necessity and free-will, may be opposite poles of one fundamental truth which is beyond our comprehension. We cannot shake off this principle of polarity, and arrive at any knowledge, or even conception, of the absolute truth in regard to the atoms, energies, and natural laws, which make up the universe of matter and of all the ordinary and material functions of life; why should we expect to do so in the higher manifestations of the same life, which have been arrived at in the later stages of one unbroken course of evolution from monad to man?

This, at any rate, is the theory which best satisfies my own mind and enables me to reduce my own individual chaos into some sort of a cosmos. I draw from it the following conclusions:—

For all practical purposes assume that ‘right is right,’ and that the moral instincts, however they have been formed, are imperative laws. Assume also that

and that we have, to a great extent, the power of deciding what to do and what not to do. But in doing so, keep the mind open to all conclusions of science, and admit freely that these assumptions are indissolubly connected with natural laws and with material organs, and that man is to a very great extent dependent on his environment and his place in evolution, both for his moral code and for the force of will and conscience which enable him to conform to it. Learn therefore the lesson of a large toleration and of charity in thought and deed, towards those who, from inherited constitution or unfortunate conditions of education and outward circumstances, fall under the sway of the principle of evil, and lead bad, useless, and unlovely lives. Had you and I, reader, been in their place, should we have done better?