It is conceivable that an exceptional development of such fibres may account for the possession of a good memory, or, at any rate, for the power easily to learn such co-ordinations as are implied in violin-playing, billiards, cricket, or baseball. Granting the power of nerve-cells, even when adult, to form new processes, it might be supposed that the exercise of this power accounts for the acquirement of certain habits of thought or action.
Now, whether or not nerve-cells have power to form new association fibres late in life, it is important to notice that the association fibres which exist at birth or form in childhood are the means by which one idea suggests another; and the means by which, as I said just now, upon the utterance of the word "wine" all we have remembered to have read or heard about wine is repeated by the memory "record."
And, just as a phonograph record can only repeat the song or speech that is printed upon it, so the memory can only repeat what it contains, and it contains nothing that has not been printed there through the medium of the senses.
That is why the word "marriage" carries with it no moral revulsion against polygamy in the mind of a Turk. The brain of a Turk has no "record" on its grey matter of any moral teaching against polygamy. And the "still small voice" does not make good the absence of the "record," and tell him that polygamy is wrong. This being so, what becomes of the theory that conscience is a mysterious agent of God implanted in the mind of man to guide him to do right and to shun wrong?
A cannibal chief was told by a missionary that it was wicked to have two wives. He went away and ate one wife. The missionary had printed on his brain "record" the lesson that to have two wives was wrong; but there was no "record" there to tell him he must not kill one wife and eat her.
Where was the "still small voice," the "divine guide to right conduct"?
THE free will delusion has been a stumbling block in the way of human thought for thousands of years. Let us try whether common sense and common knowledge cannot remove it.
Free will is a subject of great importance to us in this case; and it is one we must come to with our eyes wide open and our wits wide awake; not because it is very difficult, but because it has been tied and twisted into a tangle of Gordian knots by twenty centuries full of wordy but unsuccessful philosophers, The free will party claim that man is responsible for his acts, because his will is free to choose between right and wrong.
We reply that the will is not free; and that if it were free man could not know right from wrong until he was taught.
As to the knowledge of good and evil the free will party will claim that conscience is an unerring guide. But I have already proved that conscience does not and cannot tell us what is right and what is wrong: it only reminds us of the lessons we have learnt as to right and wrong.
The "still small voice" is not the voice of God: it is the voice of heredity and environment.
And now to the freedom of the will.
When a man says his will is free, he means that it is free of all control or interference: that it can over-rule heredity and environment.
We reply that the will is ruled by heredity and environment.
The cause of all the confusion on this subject may be shown in a few words.
When the free will party say that man has a free will, they mean that he is free to act as he chooses to act.
There is no need to deny that. But what causes him to choose?
That is the pivot upon which the whole discussion turns.
The free will party seem to think of the will as something independent of the man, as something outside him. They seem to think that the will decides without the control of the man's reason.
If that were so, it would not prove the man responsible. "The will" would be responsible, and not the man. It would be as foolish to blame a man for the act of a "free" will, as to blame a horse for the action of its rider.
But I am going to prove to my readers, by appeals to their common sense and common knowledge, that the will is not free; and that it is ruled by heredity and environment.
To begin with, the average man will be against me. He knows that he chooses between two courses every hour, and often every minute, and he thinks his choice is free. But that is a delusion: his choice is not free. He can choose, and does choose. But he can only choose as his heredity and his environment cause him to choose. He never did choose and never will choose except as his heredity and his environment—his temperament and his training—cause him to choose. And his heredity and his environment have fixed his choice before he makes it.
The average man says "I know that I can act as I wish to act."
But what causes him to wish?
The free will party say, "We know that a man can and does choose between two acts." But what settles the choice?
There is a cause for every wish, a cause for every choice; and every cause of every wish and choice arises from heredity, or from environment.
For a man acts always from temperament, which is heredity, or from training, which is environment.
And in cases where a man hesitates in his choice between two acts, the hesitation is due to a conflict between his temperament and his training, or, as some would express it, "between his desire and his conscience."
A man is practising at a target with a gun, when a rabbit crosses his line of fire. The man has his eye and his sights on the rabbit, and his finger on the trigger. The man's will is free. If he press the trigger the rabbit will be killed.
Now, how does the man decide whether or not he shall fire? He decides by feeling, and by reason.
He would like to fire, just to make sure that he could hit the mark. He would like to fire, because he would like to have the rabbit for supper. He would like to fire, because there is in him the old, old hunting instinct, to kill.
But the rabbit does not belong to him. He is not sure that he will not get into trouble if he kills it. Perhaps—if he is a very uncommon kind of man—he feels that it would be cruel and cowardly to shoot a helpless rabbit.
Well. The man's will is free. He can fire if he likes: he can let the rabbit go if he likes. How will he decide? On what does his decision depend?
His decision depends upon the relative strength of his desire to kill the rabbit, and of his scruples about cruelty, and the law. Not only that, but, if we knew the man fairly well, we could guess how his free will would act before it acted. The average spoiling Briton would kill the rabbit. But we know that there are men who would on no account shoot any harmless wild creature.
Broadly put, we may say that the sportsman would will to fire, and that the humanitarian would not will to fire.
Now, as both their wills are free, it must be something outside the wills that makes the difference.
Well. The sportsman will kill, because he is a sportsman: the humanitarian will not kill, because he is a humanitarian.
And what makes one man a sportsman and another a humanitarian? Heredity and environment: temperament and training.
One man is merciful, another cruel, by nature; or one is thoughtful and the other thoughtless, by nature. That is a difference of heredity.
One may have been taught all his life that to kill wild things is "sport"; the other may have been taught that it is inhuman and wrong: that is a difference of environment.
Now, the man by nature cruel or thoughtless, who has been trained to think of killing animals as sport, becomes what we call a sportsman, because heredity and environment have made him a sportsman.
The other man's heredity and environment have made him a humanitarian.
The sportsman kills the rabbit, because he is a sportsman, and he is a sportsman because heredity and environment have made him one.
That is to say the "free will" is really controlled by heredity and environment.
Allow me to give a case in point. A man who had never done any fishing was taken out by a fisherman. He liked the sport, and for some months followed it eagerly. But one day an accident brought home to his mind the cruelty of catching fish with a hook, and he instantly laid down his rod, and never fished again.
Before the change he was always eager to go fishing if invited: after the change he could not be persuaded to touch a line. His will was free all the while. How was it that his will to fish changed to his will not to fish? It was the result of environment. He had learnt that fishing was cruel. This knowledge controlled his will.
But, it may be asked, how do you account for a man doing the thing he does not wish to do?
No man ever did a thing he did not wish to do. When there are two wishes the stronger rules.
Let us suppose a case. A young woman gets two letters by the same post; one is an invitation to go with her lover to a concert, the other is a request that she will visit a sick child in the slums. The girl is very fond of music, and is rather afraid of the slums. She wishes to go to the concert, and to be with her lover; she dreads the foul street and the dirty home, and shrinks from the risk of measles or fever. But she goes to the sick child, and she foregoes the concert. Why?
Because her sense of duty is stronger than her self-love.
Now, her sense of duty is partly due to her nature—that is, to her heredity—but it is chiefly due to environment. Like all of us, this girl was born without any kind of knowledge, and with only the rudiments of a conscience. But she has been well taught, and the teaching is part of her environment.
We may say that the girl is free to act as she chooses, but she does act as she has been taught that she ought to act. This teaching, which is part of her environment, controls her will.
We may say that a man is free to act as he chooses. He is free to act as he chooses, but he will choose as heredity and environment cause him to choose. For heredity and environment have made him that which he is.
A man is said to be free to decide between two courses. But really he is only free to decide in accordance with his temperament and training.
Brown is a Member of Parliament. He is given to understand that by suppressing his principles he may get a seat in the next Cabinet.
Brown is very anxious to get into the Cabinet. He is ambitious. His wife is ambitious. He wants to make a name; he wants to please his wife. But he has been taught that to sacrifice one's principles for a bribe is disgraceful.
Now, his ambition is part of his heredity; the things he has been taught are part of his environment.
The conflict in his mind is a conflict between the old Adam and the new; between the older egotism and the newer altruism. It is a conflict between good heredity and bad heredity; between heredity and environment; and the victory will be to the stronger.
If Brown is very ambitious, and not very conscientious, he will take the bribe. If his conscience is stronger than his ambition, he will refuse it. But to say that he is free to choose is a misuse of terms: he is only free to decide as the stronger of the two motives compels him to decide. And the motives arise from heredity and environment.
Macbeth was ambitious; but he had a conscience. He wanted Duncan's crown; but he shrank from treason and ingratitude. Ambition pulled him one way, honour pulled him the other way. The opposing forces were so evenly balanced that he seemed unable to decide. Was Macbeth free to choose? To what extent was he free? He was so free that he could arrive at no decision, and it was the influence of his wife that turned the scale to crime.
Was Lady Macbeth free to choose? She did not hesitate. Because her ambition was so much stronger than her conscience that she never was in doubt. She chose as her over-powering ambition compelled her to choose.
And most of us in our decisions resemble either Macbeth or his wife. Either our nature is so much stronger than our training, or our training is so much stronger than our nature, that we decide for good or evil as promptly as a stream decides to run down hill; or our nature and our training are so nearly balanced that we can hardly decide at all.
In Macbeth's case the contest is quite clear and easy to follow. He was ambitious, and his environment had taught him to regard the crown as a glorious and desirable possession. But environment had also taught him that murder, and treason, and ingratitude were wicked and disgraceful.
Had he never been taught these lessons, or had he been taught that gratitude was folly, that honour was weakness, and murder excusable when it led to power, he would not have hesitated at all. It was his environment that hampered his will.
We may say that Wellington was free to take a bribe. But his heredity and environment had only left him free to refuse one. Everyone who knew the Iron Duke knew how his free will would act if a bribe were offered him.
We may say that Nelson was free to run away from an enemy. But we know that Nelson's nature and training had left him free only to run after an enemy. All the world knew before the event how Nelson's free will would act when a hostile fleet hove into view. Heredity and environment had settled the action of Nelson's free will in that matter before the occasion to act arose.
We may say that Nelson's will was free in the case of Lady Hamilton. But it seems only to have been free to do as Lady Hamilton wished.
When Nelson met an enemy's fleet, he made haste to give them battle; when he met Lady Hamilton he struck his flag. Some other man might have been free to avoid a battle; some other man might have been free to resist the fascinations of a friend's wife. Horatio Nelson was only free to act as his nature and his training compelled him to act. To Nelson honour was dearer than life; but Lady Hamilton was dearer than honour.
Nelson's action in Lady Hamilton's case was largely due to the influence of environment. To hesitate in war was universally regarded as shameful. But, in Nelson's environment, a love intrigue was condoned as an amiable human weakness. Hence the failure of Nelson's will and conscience to resist the blandishments of the handsome Emma.
We may say that Jack Sheppard and Cardinal Manning were free to steal, or to refrain from stealing. But we know that the heredity and environment of the thief had made robbery, for him, a proof of prowess, and a question of the value of the spoil; and we know that the Cardinal would not have stolen the Crown jewels if he could; that he did not want them, and would not have taken them if he had wanted them.
We say that a drunkard and a lifelong abstainer are free to drink or to refuse a glass of whisky. But we know that in both cases the action of the free will is a foregone conclusion.
In all cases the action of the will depends upon the relative strength of two or more motives. The stronger motive decides the will; just as the heavier weight decides the balance of a pair of scales.
In Macbeth's case the balance seemed almost even: Lady Macbeth's persuasion brought down the scale on the wrong side.
If the will were free, it would be independent of the temperament and training, and so would act as freely in one case as in another. So that it would be as easy for the drunkard as for the lifelong abstainer to refuse to drink; as easy for the thief as for the Cardinal to be honest; as easy for Macbeth as for Lady Macbeth to seal the fate of Duncan.
But we all know that it is harder for one man than for another to be sober, or honest, or virtuous; and we all know that the sobriety, or honesty, or virtue of any man depends upon his temperament and training; that is to say, upon his heredity and his environment.
How, then, can we believe that free will is outside and superior to heredity and environment?
In the case of the slum children rescued by Dr. Baraado and others we know that had they been left in the slums their wills would have willed evil, and we know that when taken out of the slums their wills willed good.
There was no change in the freedom of the will; the will that is free in Whitechapel is free in Manitoba. The difference was the environment. In Canada as in London the environment controlled the will.
"What! Cannot a man be honest if he choose?" Yes, if he choose. But that is only another way of saying that he can be honest if his nature and his training lead him to choose honesty.
"What! Cannot I please myself whether I drink or refrain from drinking?" Yes. But that is only to say you will not drink because it pleases you to be sober. But it pleases another man to drink, because his desire for drink is strong, or because his self-respect is weak.
And you decide as you decide, and he decides as he decides, because you are you, and he is he; and heredity and environment made you both that which you are.
And the sober man may fall upon evil days, and may lose his self-respect, or find the burden of his trouble greater than he can bear, and may fly to drink for comfort, or oblivion, and may become a drunkard. Has it not been often so?
And the drunkard may, by some shock, or some disaster, or some passion, or some persuasion, regain his self-respect, and may renounce drink, and lead a sober and useful life. Has it not been often so?
And in both cases the freedom of the will is untouched: it is the change in the environment that lifts the fallen up, and beats the upright down.
We might say that a woman's will is free, and that she could, if she wished, jump off a bridge and drown herself. But she cannot wish. She is happy, and loves life, and dreads the cold and crawling river. And yet, by some cruel turn of fortune's wheel, she may become destitute and miserable; so miserable that she hates life and longs for death, and then she can jump into the dreadful river and die.
Her will was free at one time as at another. It is the environment that has wrought the change. Once she could not wish to die: now she cannot wish to live.
The apostles of free will believe that all men's wills are free.
But a man can only will that which he is able to will. And one man is able to will that which another man is unable to will. To deny this is to deny the commonest and most obvious facts of life.
The will is as free in one nation and in one class as in another. Who would more willingly return a blow, an Irish soldier, or an English Quaker? Who would be readier to stab a rival, an English curate, or a Spanish smuggler? The difference does not concern the freedom of the will: it is a difference of heredity and environment.
The wills of a priest and a sailor are free—free to make love in every port, and to swear in every breeze. The difference is one of environment.
The free will party look upon a criminal as a bad man, who could be good if he wished: but he cannot wish.
The free will party say that if Smith wills to drink he is bad. But we say that Smith drinks, and to drink is bad; but Smith drinks because he is Smith.
The free will party say, "then he was born bad." But we say "no: he was born Smith."
We all know that we can foretell the action of certain men in certain cases, because we know the men.
We know that under the same conditions Jack Sheppard would steal and Cardinal Manning would not steal. We know that under the same conditions the sailor would flirt with the waitress, and the priest would not; that the drunkard would get drunk, and the abstainer would remain sober. We know that Wellington would refuse a bribe, that Nelson would not run away, that Buonaparte would grasp at power, that Abraham Lincoln would be loyal to his country, that Torquemada would not spare a heretic. Why? If the will is free, how can we be sure, before a test arises, how the will must act?
Simply because we know that heredity and environment have so formed and moulded men and women that under certain circumstances the action of their wills is certain.
Heredity and environment having made a man a thief, he will steal. Heredity and environment having made a man honest, he will not steal.
That is to say, heredity and environment have decided the action of the will, before the time has come for the will to act.
This being so—and we all know that it is so—what becomes of the sovereignty of the will?
Let any man that believes that he can "do as he likes" ask himself why he likes, and he will see the error of the theory of free will, and will understand why the will is the servant and not the master of the man: for the man is the product of heredity and environment, and these control the will.
As we want to get this subject as clear as we can, let us take one or two familiar examples of the action of the will.
Jones and Robinson meet and have a glass of whisky. Jones asks Robinson to have another. Robinson says, "no thank you, one is enough." Jones says, "all right: have another cigarette." Robinson takes the cigarette. Now, here we have a case where a man refuses a second drink, but takes a second smoke. Is it because he would like another cigarette, but would not like another glass of whisky? No. It is because he knows that it is safer not to take another glass of whisky.
How does he know that whisky is dangerous? He has learnt it—from his environment.
"But he could have taken another glass if he wished."
But he could not wish to take another, because there was something he wished more strongly—to be safe.
And why did he want to be safe? Because he had learnt—from his environment—that it was unhealthy, unprofitable, and shameful to get drunk. Because he had learnt—from his environment—that it is easier to avoid forming a bad habit than to break a bad habit when formed. Because he valued the good opinion of his neighbours, and also his position and prospects.
These feelings and this knowledge ruled his will, and caused him to refuse the second glass.
But there was no sense of danger, no well-learned lesson of risk to check his will to smoke another cigarette. Heredity and environment did not warn him against that. So, to please his friend, and himself, he accepted.
Now suppose Smith asks Williams to have another glass. Williams takes it, takes several, finally goes home—as he often goes home. Why?
Largely because drinking is a habit with him. And not only does the mind instinctively repeat an action, but, in the case of drink, a physical craving is set up, and the brain is weakened.
It is easier to refuse the first glass than the second; easier to refuse the second than the third; and it is very much harder for a man to keep sober who has frequently got drunk.
So, when poor Williams has to make his choice, he has habit against him, he has a physical craving against him, and he has a weakened brain to think with.
"But Williams could have refused the first glass."
No. Because in his case the desire to drink, or to please a friend, was stronger than his fear of the danger. Or he may not have been so conscious of the danger as Robinson was. He may not have been so well taught, or he may not have been so sensible, or he may not have been so cautious. So that his heredity and environment, his temperament and training, led him to take the drink, as surely as Robinson's heredity and environment led him to refuse it.
And now, it is my turn to ask a question. If the will is "free," if conscience is a sure guide, how is it that the free will and the conscience of Robinson caused him to keep sober, while the free will and the conscience of Williams caused him to get drunk?
Robinson's will was curbed by certain feelings which failed to curb the will of Williams. Because in the case of Williams the feelings were stronger on the other side.
It was the nature and the training of Robinson which made him refuse the second glass, and it was the nature and the training of Williams which made him drink the second glass.
We are told that every man has a free will, and a conscience.
Now, if Williams had been Robinson, that is to say if his heredity and his environment had been exactly like Robinson's, he would have done exactly as Robinson did.
It was because his heredity and environment were not the same that his act was not the same.
Both men had free wills. What made one do what the other refused to do?
Heredity and environment. To reverse their conduct we should have to reverse their heredity and environment.
Let us take another familiar instance. Bill Hicks is a loafer. He "doesn't like work." He used to work, but he was out on strike for six months, and since then he has done no more work than he could help. What has changed this man's free will to work into a free will to avoid work?
Hicks used to work. He was a steady young fellow. Why did he work? He did not know. He had always worked. He went to work just as he ate his dinner, or washed his hands. But he did not think much. He lived chiefly by custom; habit. He did things because he had always done them, and because other men did them. He knew no other way.
He worked. He worked hard: for nine hours a day. He got twenty-five shillings a week. He paid twelve shillings for lodging and board, and he spent the rest, as others spent it, on similar boots and coats, and a better suit, and the usual amount of beer and tobacco, and the usual music hall.
He thought those things were necessary, or rather he felt that they were.
He did not love his work. There was no interest in it. It was hard, it was dirty, there was no credit to be got by doing it. It was just an affair of habit—and wages.
Then he was half a year on strike. He had less food, and less beer, and no music hall. But he had a very great deal less work, and more liberty, and—no "boss".
Men love liberty. It is a love that is bred in the race. They do not love shovelling clay into a barrow, and pushing the barrow up a plank. There is nothing in it that appeals to their humanity: and it is dirty, and laborious, and it makes a man a prisoner and a slave.
Hicks found that the difference between working and loafing was a difference of food, clothing, and beer, on the one hand, and on the other hand, of unpleasant and hard labour.
He found he could do with much less beer and beef, and that liberty was sweet. He did not think this out. He seldom thought: he was never trained to think. But the habit of toil was broken, and the habit of freedom was formed. Also he had found out that he could live without so much toil, and live more pleasantly, if more sparely.
What had changed the free will of Hicks from a will to work to a will to loaf? Change of experience: change of environment.
Now Hicks is as lazy, as useless, and as free as a duke.
But, someone asks, "where was his pride; where was his sense of duty; where was his manhood?" And it seems to me those questions ought to be put to the duke. But I should say that Bill Hicks' pride and sense of duty were just overpowered by his love of liberty, his distaste for soulless toil, and his forgetfulness of the beautiful moral lesson that a man who will not work like a horse for a pound a week is a lazy beast, whilst the man who does nothing—except harm—for a hundred thousand a year, is an honourable gentleman, with a hereditary seat in the House of Peers.
In fact Hicks had found his heredity too strong for his training. But what had free will to do with it?
The duke has a free will. Does it ever set him wheeling clay up a plank? No. Why not? Because, as in the case of Hicks, heredity and environment cause the duke to love some other.
"But the duke has no need to work." That is how Hicks feels. "But Hicks could work if he liked." So could the duke. But neither of these men can "like." That is just what is the matter with them both.
Two boys work at a hard and disagreeable trade. One leaves it, finds other work, "gets on," is praised for getting on. The other stays at the trade all his life, works hard all his life, is poor all his life, and is respected as an honest and humble working man; that is to say, he is regarded by society as Mr. Dorgan was regarded by Mr. Dooley—"he is a fine man, and I despise him."
What causes these two free wills to will so differently? One boy knew more than the other boy. He "knew better." All knowledge is environment. Both boys had free wills. It was in knowledge they differed: environment!
Those who exalt the power of the will, and belittle the power of environment, belie their words by their deeds.
For they would not send their children amongst bad companions or allow them to read bad books. They would not say the children have free will and therefore have power to take the good and leave the bad.
They know very well that evil environment has power to pervert the will, and that good environment has power to direct it properly.
They know that children may be made good or bad by good or evil training, and that the will follows the training.
That being so, they must also admit that the children of other people may be made good or bad by training.
And if a child gets bad training, how can free will save it? Or how can it be blamed for being bad? It never had a chance to be good. That they know this is proved by their carefulness in providing their own children with better environment.
As I have said before, every church, every school, every moral lesson is a proof that preachers and teachers trust to good environment, and not to free will, to make children good.
In this, as in so many other matters, actions speak louder than words.
That, I hope, disentangles the many knots into which thousands of learned men have tied the simple subject of free will; and disposes of the claim that man is responsible because his will is free. But there is one other cause of error, akin to the subject, on which I should like to say a few words.
We often hear it said that a man is to blame for his conduct because "he knows better."
It is true that men do wrong when they know better. Macbeth "knew better" when he murdered Duncan. But it is true, also, that we often think a man "knows better," when he does not know better.
For a man cannot be said to know a thing until he believes it.
If I am told that the moon is made of green cheese, it cannot be said that I know it to be made of green cheese.
Many moralists seem to confuse the words "to know" with the words "to hear."
Jones reads novels and plays opera music on Sunday. The Puritan says Jones "knows better," when he means that Jones has been told that it is wrong to do those things.
But Jones does not know that it is wrong. He has heard someone say that it is wrong, but does not believe it. Therefore it is not correct to say that he knows it.
And, again, as to that matter of belief. Some moralists hold that it is wicked not to believe certain things, and that men who do not believe those things will be punished.
But a man cannot believe a thing he is told to believe: he can only believe a thing which he can believe; and he can only believe that which his own reason tells him is true.
It would be no use asking Sir Roger Ball to believe that the earth is flat. He could not believe it.
It is no use asking an agnostic to believe the story of Jonah and the whale. He could not believe it. He might pretend to believe it. He might try to believe it. But his reason would not allow him to believe it.
Therefore it is a mistake to say that a man "knows better," when the fact is that he has been told "better" and cannot believe what he has been told.
That is a simple matter, and looks quite trivial; but how much ill-will, how much intolerance, how much violence, persecution, and murder have been caused by the strange idea that a man is wicked because his reason cannot believe that which to another man's reason seems quite true.
Free will has no power over a man's belief. A man cannot believe by will, but only by conviction. A man cannot be forced to believe. You may threaten him, wound him, beat him, burn him; and he may be frightened, or angered, or pained; but he cannot believe, nor can he be made to believe. Until he is convinced.
Now, truism as it may seem, I think it necessary to say here that a man cannot be convinced by abuse, nor by punishment He can only be convinced by reason.
Yes. If we wish a man to believe a thing, we shall find a few words of reason more powerful than a million curses, or a million bayonets. To burn a man alive for failing to believe that the sun goes round the world is not to convince him. The fire is searching, but it does not seem to him to be relevant to the issue. He never doubted that fire would burn; but perchance his dying eyes may see the sun sinking down into the west, as the world rolls on its axis. He dies in his belief. And knows no "better."
THE subject of self-control is another simple matter which has been made difficult by slovenly thinkers.
When we say that the will is not free, and that men are made by heredity and environment, we are met with the astonishing objection that if such were the case there could be no such things as progress or morality.
When we ask why, we are told that if a man is the creature of heredity and environment it is no use his making any effort: what is to be, will be.
But a man makes efforts because he wants something; and whether he be a "free agent," or a "creature of heredity and environment," he will continue to want things, and so he will continue to make efforts to get them.
"But," say the believers in free will, "the fact that he tries to get things shows that his will is free."
Not at all. The fact is that heredity and environment compel him to want things, and compel him to try for them.
The earth does not move of its own free will; but it moves. The earth is controlled by two forces: one is centrifugal force, the other is the force of gravity. Those two forces compel it to move, and to move in a certain path, or orbit.
"But a man does not move in a regular path or orbit." Neither does the earth. For every planet draws it more or less out of its true course. And so it is with man: each influence in his environment affects him in some way.
In every case the force of heredity compels us to move, and the force of environment controls or changes our movements.
And as this is a subject of great importance, and one upon which there is much confusion of thought, I shall ask my readers to give me their best attention, so that we may make it thoroughly clear and plain.
The control of man by heredity and environment is not the end of all effort; on the contrary, it is the beginning of all effort.
We do not say that the control of the earth by gravity and centrifugal force is the end of its motion: we know that it is the cause of its motion.
But, we shall be told, "the earth cannot resist. It is compelled to act Man is free."
Man is not free. Man is compelled to act. Directly a child is born it begins to act From that instant until the end of its life, it continues to act It must act It cannot cease from action. The force of heredity compels it to act.
And the nature of its actions is decided:
1. By the nature of the individual: which is his heredity.
2. By his experiences and training: which are his environment
Therefore to cease from all action is impossible. Therefore it is nonsense to say that if we are creatures of heredity and environment we shall cease to act.
But, it may be said, a man can cease from action: he has power to kill himself.
Well: the earth has power to destroy itself if it is caused to destroy itself. And man cannot destroy himself unless he is caused to destroy himself.
For the nature of a man—through heredity—is to love life. No man destroys himself without a cause. He may go mad, he may be in great grief, he may be disappointed, jealous, angry. But there is always a cause when a man takes his own life. And, be the cause what it may, it belongs to environment. So that a man cannot even take his own life until heredity and environment cause him to do it.
But there is a second argument, to the effect that if we believe ourselves to be creatures of heredity and environment we shall cease to make any effort to be good, or to be better than we are.
Those who use such an argument do not understand the nature and power of environment. Environment is powerful for good as well as for evil.
Well. We have seen that it is impossible for us to cease to act. Now we are told that we shall cease to act well.
But our acting well or ill depends upon the nature of our heredity and environment.
If our heredity be good, and if our environment be good, we must act well: we cannot help it.
If our heredity be bad, and if our environment be bad, we must act ill: we cannot help it.
"What? Do you mean to say I cannot be good if I try?"
Is it not evident that you must have some good in you if you wish to try? That good is put there by heredity and environment.
"But even a bad man sometimes tries to be good."
That is slovenly thinking. 'A man who is all bad has no desire for good. Any man who has a desire for good is not all bad.
Therefore a man who is "bad" never tries to be good, and a man who tries to be good is not "bad." When it is said that a bad man tries to be good the idea is that a very imperfect man tries to be rather better.
And he tries to be rather better because heredity or environment causes him to wish to be rather better.
Before a man can wish to be good he must know what goodness is. All men are born destitute of knowledge. To know what goodness is he must learn. All learning is environment.
But when a man knows what is good, and wishes to be good, he will try to be good. He cannot help trying. And he will try just as hard, and just as long as his temperament and training cause him to try; and he will succeed in being just as good as his temperament and training cause him to be. And his temperament is heredity, and his training is environment.
It does not follow, then, that because a man is that which heredity and environment make him, he will be nothing, for they will make him something. It does not follow that he will be bad, for they will make him good or bad, as they are good or bad.
"Then," exclaims the confused opponent, "the man himself counts for nothing: he is a mere machine."
No. He is not a "mere machine": he is a mere man; and he counts for just as much as his heredity and environment amount to, for his heredity and environment are he.
"But to tell a youth that he is a creature of heredity and environment would discourage him." Not if he understood what was meant. As we want to get this subject perfectly clear let us put a speech in two ways.
A youth tells his father that he would like to be a painter. The father's reply may be varied as follows. First, let us suppose the father says:
"You will be just as good a painter as your heredity and environment allow, or compel you to be.
"If you have any hereditary talent for the art, so much the better. But painting requires something more than talent: it requires knowledge, and practice. The more knowledge and practice you get the better you will paint. The less hereditary talent you possess, the more knowledge and practice you will need. Therefore, if you want to be a good painter, you must work hard."
The second speech would leave out the word hereditary before the word talent, and would begin, "You will be just as a good a painter as your talent and industry will make you." Otherwise the speeches would not differ.
But are we to suppose that the first speech would discourage a boy who wanted to be a painter? Not at all: if the boy understood what heredity and environment mean. It tells him that he can only be as good a painter as his talent and his industry will make him. But it does not tell him what are the limits of his industry and talent, for nobody knows what the limits are. That can only be settled by trying.
To know that he cannot get more out of a gold reef than there is in it, does not discourage a miner. What he wants is to get all there is in it, and until he wants no more, or believes there is no more, he will keep on digging.
It is so with any human effort. We all know that we cannot do more than we can, whether we believe in free will or no. But we do not know how much we can do, and nobody can tell us. The only way is to try. And we try just as hard as our nature and our desire impel us to try, and just as long as any desire or any hope remains.
Not only that, we commonly try when the limit of our attainment is in sight. For we try to get as near the limit as we can.
For instance. A young man adopts literature as his trade. He knows that before he dips a pen into a bottle that he will never reach the level of Shakespeare and Homer. But he tries to do as well as he can. A miner might be sure that his reef would not yield a million; but he would go on and get all he could.
So it is in the case of a desire for virtue. A man knows that he cannot be better than his nature and his knowledge allow him to be. He knows that he will never be as good as the best. But he wants to be good, and he tries to be as good as he can. The fact that a private soldier is not likely to get a commission does not prevent him from trying to get a sergeant-major's stripes. The knowledge that he is not likely to get twenty-one bull's-eyes in a match does not prevent a rifleman from getting all the bull's-eyes he can.
So with our young painter. All desire is hereditary. All knowledge is environment. The boy wants to be a painter, and he knows that industry and practice will help to make him a good painter. Therefore he tries. He tries just as hard as his desire (his heredity) and the encouragements of his master and his friends (environment) cause him to try.
We do not say that it is no use trying to be good, no use trying to be clever. On the contrary, we say that no man can be good or clever unless he does try; but that his desire to try, his power to try, and his knowledge of the value of trying are parts of his heredity and environment A boy says, "I cannot do this sum." His friend says, "Try again. I had to try six times; but I did it." That encouragement is environment.
A man says, "I cannot keep steady. I have tried." His friend says, "Yes, you can. Try again. Keep on trying. Try for your children's sake." That speech is environment. We advise a weakly lad to try a course of gymnastics, and encourage him to persevere. That is environment.
In another book of mine, "God and My Neighbour," I said something that was pounced upon as inconsistent with my belief. One paper asked what I would give to "cancel that fatal admission." Many critics said in their haste that I had "given my case away."
But I am so far from regretting that paragraph that I will repeat it here, and will prove that it is not inconsistent with my belief, and that it does not "give my case away." The passage is as follows:
I believe that I am what heredity and environment made me. But I know that I can make myself better or worse if I try. I know that because I have learnt it, and the learning has been part of my environment.
What is there in that paragraph that is inconsistent with my belief?
"I know"—how do I know anything? All knowledge is from environment. "I know" (through environment) that I can do something "if I try."
What causes me to try? If I try to write better, or to live better, it is evident that I wish to write better, or to live better. What makes me wish? Heredity and environment.
It may be inherited disposition to do the things called good. It may be love of approbation. Those are parts of my heredity.
It may be that I wish to do the things called good because I have been taught that I ought to do them. That teaching would be part of my environment Therefore the desire to be good, or better, and the knowledge that I can be good, or better, if I try, arise from and belong to heredity and environment.
"But to try. Does not that show free will?" I have just proved that I try because I wish to succeed, and that environment has taught me that I cannot succeed without trying.
"But does not the free will come in when I decide whether to do good or bad things?" No. For that has already been decided for me by heredity and environment, which have made me wish to do good things.
So there is nothing wrong with that paragraph. The fault was in my critics, who had failed to understand the subject upon which they were trying to argue.
A man can only try if heredity or environment causes him to want to try, and he can only keep on trying as long as heredity and environment cause him to keep on.
One man is born with more talent than another. And one man is born with more industry, or with more ambition, or with more hope, patience, determination, than another.
And the man who is more ambitious, or more patient, or more hopeful, or more determined, will try harder, and will try longer than the man who is less ambitious, or hopeful, or determined.
Heredity settles that.
But the man who has less of the qualities that make one try, may be spurred on by a teacher, a friend, or a powerful motive, and so may try harder and longer than the stronger man.
As, for example, a man who has given up trying to succeed in some enterprise, may fall in love, and then the added desire to marry the woman he loves, may cause him to try harder than ever, and may lead him to succeed.
But these things belong to his environment.
Not only that, but they are a proof that environment can move a man when free will fails. For the man has a free will before he falls in love. But he loses heart, and does not succeed in his enterprise. But love, which is environment, supplies a new desire, and he does succeed.
Why does he succeed? Because he wants to marry, and he cannot marry until he succeeds. This desire to marry comes of environment, and it rules the will, and compels the will to will a further effort. Is it not so?
Although we say that man is the creature of heredity and environment, we do not say that he has no self-control. We only say that his self-control comes from heredity and environment, and is limited and controlled by heredity and environment.
He can only "do as he likes" when heredity and environment cause him "to like," and he can only "do as he likes," so far and so long as heredity and environment enable him to go on.
A man "can be good if he tries," but not unless heredity and environment cause him to wish to try.
But for heredity he could not lift a finger: he would not have a finger to lift. But for environment he could not learn to use a finger. He could never know good from bad.
We all know that we can train and curb ourselves, that we can weed out bad habits, and cultivate good habits. No one has any doubt about that. The question is what causes us to do the one or the other. The answer is—heredity and environment.
We can develop our muscles, our brains, our morals; and we can develop them enormously.
But before we can do these things we must want to do them, and we must know that we can do them, and how to do them; and all knowledge, and all desire comes from environment and heredity.
A youth wishes to be strong. Why? Say he has been reading Mr. Sandow's book. He is told there that by doing certain exercises every day he can very greatly increase his strength. This sets him to work at the dumb-bells. There may be many motives impelling him. One group form a general desire to be strong: that is heredity. But the spur that moves him is Sandow's book, and that spur, and the information as to how to proceed, are environment.
The youth begins, and for a few months he does the exercises every morning. But they begin to get irksome.
He is tired, he has a slight cold, he wants to read or write. He neglects the exercises. Then he remembers that he cannot get strong unless he perseveres and does the work regularly, and he goes on again. Or he neglects his training for awhile, until he meets another youth who has improved himself. Then he goes back to the dumb-bells.
Is not this, to our own knowledge, the kind of thing that happens to us all, in all kinds of self-training, whether it be muscular, mental, or moral?
What causes the fluctuations? Let the reader examine his own conduct, and he will find a continual shifting and conflict of motives. And he will never find a motive that cannot be traced to his temperament or training, to his heredity or environment.
A man wants to learn French, or shorthand. Let him ask himself why he wants to learn, and he will find the motive springs from temperament or training. He begins to learn. He finds the work difficult and irksome. He has to spur himself on by all kinds of expedients. Finally he learns, or he gives up trying to learn; and he will find that his action has been settled by a contest between his desire to be able to write shorthand, or to speak French, and his dislike to the drudgery of learning; or that his action has been settled by a conflict between his desire to know shorthand, or French, and his desire to do something else. He does the thing he most desires to do. And all desire comes from heredity or from environment.
Every member of his body, every faculty, every impulse is fixed for him by heredity; every kind of knowledge, every kind of encouragement or discouragement comes of environment.
I hope we have made that quite clear, and now we may ask to what it leads us.
And we shall find that it leads us to the conclusion that everything a man does is, at the instant when he does it, the only thing he can do: the only thing he can do, then.
"What! do you mean to say-?" Yes. It is startling. But let us keep our heads cool and our eyes wide open, and we shall find that it is quite true, and that it is not difficult to understand.