From the Anarchy Archive edition of William Godwin's
Thoughts on Man, His Nature, Productions and
Discoveries
Interspersed with some Particulars Respecting the Author
OF BELIEF
One of the prerogatives by which man is eminently distinguished from
all other living beings inhabiting this globe of earth, consists in the
gift of reason.
Beasts reason. They are instructed by experience; and, guided by
what they have already known of the series of events, they infer from
the sense of what has gone before, an assured expectation of what is to
follow. Hence, "beast walks with man, joint tenant of the shade;" and
their sagacity is in many instances more unerring than ours, because
they have no affectation to mislead them; they follow no false lights,
no glimmering intimation of something half-anticipating a result, but
trust to the plain, blunt and obvious dictates of their simple
apprehension. This however is but the first step in the scale of
reason, and is in strictness scarcely entitled to the name.
We set off from the same point from which they commence their career.
But the faculty of articulate speech comes in, enabling us to form the
crude elements of reason and inference into a code. We digest
explanations of things, assigning the particulars in which they resemble
other classes, and the particulars by which they are distinguished from
whatever other classes have fallen under our notice. We frame
propositions, and, detaching ourselves from the immediate impressions of
sense, proceed to generalities, which exist only, in a way confused,
and not distinctly adverted to, in the conceptions of the animal
creation.
It is thus that we arrive at science, and go forward to those
subtleties, and that perspicuity of explanation, which place man in a
distinct order of being, leaving all the other inhabitants of earth at
an immeasurable distance below him. It is thus that we communicate our
discoveries to each other, and hand down the knowledge we have acquired,
unimpaired and entire, through successive ages, and to generations yet
unborn.
But in certain respects we pay a very high price for this
distinction. It is to it that we must impute all the follies,
extravagances and hallucinations of human intellect. There is nothing
so absurd that some man has not affirmed, rendering himself the scorn
and laughing-stock of persons of sounder understanding. And, which is
worst, the more ridiculous and unintelligible is the proposition he has
embraced, the more pertinaciously does he cling to it; so that creeds
the most outrageous and contradictory have served as the occasion or
pretext for the most impassioned debates, bloody wars, inhuman
executions, and all that most deeply blots and dishonours the name of
man--while often, the more evanescent and frivolous are the
distinctions, the more furious and inexpiable have been the contentions
they have produced.
The result of the whole, in the vast combinations of men into tribes
and nations, is, that thousands and millions believe, or imagine they
believe, propositions and systems, the terms of which they do not fully
understand, and the evidence of which they have not considered. They
believe, because so their fathers believed before them. No phrase is
more commonly heard than, "I was born a Christian;" "I was born a
Catholic, or a Protestant."
The priest continues what the nurse began,
And thus the child imposes on the man.
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But this sort of belief forms no part of the subject of the present
Essay. My purpose is to confine myself to the consideration of those
persons, who in some degree, more or less, exercise the reasoning
faculty in the pursuit of truth, and, having attempted to examine the
evidence of an interesting and weighty proposition, satisfy themselves
that they have arrived at a sound conclusion.
It is however the rarest thing in the world, for any one to found his
opinion, simply upon the evidence that presents itself to him of the
truth of the proposition which comes before him to be examined. Where
is the man that breaks loose from all the shackles that in his youth had
been imposed upon hills, and says to Truth, "Go on; whithersoever thou
leadest, I am prepared to follow?" To weigh the evidence for and
against a proposition, in scales so balanced, that the "division of the
twentieth part of one poor scruple, the estimation of a hair," shall be
recognised and submitted to, is the privilege of a mind of no ordinary
fairness and firmness.
The Scriptures say "The heart of man is deceitful above all things."
The thinking principle within us is so subtle, has passed through so
many forms of instruction, and is under the influence and direction of
such a variety of causes, that no man can accurately pronounce by what
impulse he has been led to the conclusion in which he finally reposes.
Every ingenuous person, who is invited to embrace a certain profession,
that of the church for example, will desire, preparatorily to his final
determination, to examine the evidences and the merits of the religion
he embraces, that he may enter upon his profession under the influence
of a sincere conviction, and be inspired with that zeal, in singleness
of heart, which can alone prevent his vocation from being disgraceful to
him. Yet how many motives are there, constraining him to abide in an
affirmative conclusion? His friends expect this from him. Perhaps his
own inclination leads him to select this destination rather than any
other. Perhaps preferment and opulence wait upon his decision. If the
final result of his enquiries lead him to an opposite judgment, to how
much obloquy will he be exposed! Where is the man who can say that no
unconscious bias has influenced him in the progress of his
investigation? Who shall pronounce that, under very different
circumstances, his conclusions would not have been essentially other
than they are?
But the enquiry of an active and a searching mind does not terminate
on a certain day. He will be for ever revising and reconsidering his
first determinations. It is one of the leading maxims of an honourable
mind, that we must be, at all times, and to the last hour of our
existence, accessible to conviction built upon new evidence, or upon
evidence presented in a light in which it had not before been viewed.
If then the probationer for the clerical profession was under some bias
in his first investigation, how must it be expected to be with him, when
he has already taken the vow, and received ordination? Can he with a
calm and unaltered spirit contemplate the possibility, that the ground
shall be cut away from under him, and that, by dint of irrefragable
argument, he shall be stripped of his occupation, and turned out naked
and friendless into the world?
But this is only one of the broadest and most glaring instances. In
every question of paramount importance there is ever a secret influence
urging me earnestly to desire to find one side of the question right and
the other wrong. Shall I be a whig or a tory, believe a republic or a
mixed monarchy most conducive to the improvement and happiness of
mankind, embrace the creed of free will or necessity? There is in all
cases a "strong temptation that waketh in the heart." Cowardice urges
me to become the adherent of that creed, which is espoused by my nearest
friends, or those who are most qualified to serve me. Enterprise and a
courageous spirit on the contrary bid me embrace the tenet, the
embracing of which shall most conduce to my reputation for extraordinary
perspicuity and acuteness, and gain me the character of an intrepid
adventurer, a man who dares commit himself to an unknown voyage.
In the question of religion, even when the consideration of the
profession of an ecclesiastic does not occur, yet we are taught to
believe that there is only one set of tenets that will lead us in the
way of salvation. Faith is represented as the first of all
qualifications. "If I had not come and spoken unto them, they had not
had sin." With what heart then does a man set himself to examine, and
scrupulously weigh the evidence on one side and the other, when some
undiscerned frailty, some secret bias that all his care cannot detect,
may lurk within, and insure for him the "greater condemnation?" I well
remember in early life, with what tingling sensation and unknown horror I
looked into the books of the infidels and the repositories of unlawful
tenets, lest I should be seduced. I held it my duty to "prove all
things;" but I knew not how far it might be my fate; to sustain the
penalty attendant even upon an honourable and virtuous curiousity.
It is one of the most received arguments of the present day against
religious persecution, that the judgments we form are not under the
authority of our will, and that, for what it is not in our power to
change, it is unjust we should be punished: and there is much truth in
this. But it is not true to the fullest extent. The sentiments we
shall entertain, are to a considerable degree at the disposal of
inticements on the one side, and of menaces and apprehension on the
other. That which we wish to believe, we are already greatly in
progress to embrace; and that which will bring upon us disgrace and
calamity, we are more than half prepared to reject. Persecution however
is of very equivocal power: we cannot embrace one faith and reject
another at the word of command.
It is a curious question to decide how far punishments and rewards
may be made effectual to determine the religion of nations and
generations of men. They are often unsuccessful. There is a feeling in
the human heart, that prompts us to reject with indignation this species
of tyranny. We become more obstinate in clinging to that which we are
commanded to discard. We place our honour and our pride in the firmness
of our resistance. "The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the
church." Yet there is often great efficacy in persecution. It was the
policy of the court of Versailles that brought almost to nothing the
Huguenots of France. And there is a degree of persecution, if the
persecuting party has the strength and the inexorableness to employ it,
that it is perhaps beyond the prowess of human nature to stand up
against.
The mind of the enquiring man is engaged in a course of perpetual
research; and ingenuousness prompts us never to be satisfied with the
efforts that we have made, but to press forward. But mind, as well as
body, has a certain vis inertiae, and moves only as it is acted upon by
impulses from without. With respect to the adopting new opinions, and
the discovery of new truths, we must be indebted in the last resort,
either to books, or the oral communications of our fellow-men, or to
ideas immediately suggested to us by the phenomena of man or nature.
The two former are the ordinary causes of a change of judgment to men:
they are for the most part minds of a superior class only, that are
susceptible of hints derived straight from the external world, without
the understandings of other men intervening, and serving as a conduit to
the new conceptions introduced. The two former serve, so to express
it, for the education of man, and enable us to master, in our own
persons, the points already secured, and the wisdom laid up in the great
magazine of human knowledge; the last imparts to us the power of adding
to the stock, and carrying forward by one step and another the
improvements of which our nature is susceptible.
It is much that books, the unchanging records of the thoughts of men
in former ages, are able to impart to us. For many of the happiest
moments of our lives, for many of the purest and most exalted feelings
of the human heart, we are indebted to them. Education is their
province; we derive from them civilization and refinement; and we may
affirm of literature, what Otway has said of woman, "We had been brutes
without you." It is thus that the acquisitions of the wise are handed
down from age to age, and that we are enabled to mount step after step
on the ladder of paradise, till we reach the skies.
But, inestimable as is the benefit we derive from books, there is
something more searching and soul-stirring in the impulse of oral
communication. We cannot shut our ears, as we shut our books; we cannot
escape from the appeal of the man who addresses us with earnest speech
and living conviction. It is thus, we are told, that, when Cicero
pleaded before Caesar for the life of Ligarius, the conqueror of the
world was troubled, and changed colour again and again, till at length
the scroll prepared for the condemnation of the patriot fell from his
hand. Sudden and irresistible conviction is chiefly the offspring of
living speech. We may arm ourselves against the arguments of an author;
but the strength of reasoning in him who addresses us, takes us at
unawares. It is in the reciprocation of answer and rejoinder that the
power of conversion specially lies. A book is an abstraction. It is
but imperfectly that we feel, that a real man addresses us in it, and
that what he delivers is the entire and deep-wrought sentiment of a
being of flesh and blood like ourselves, a being who claims our
attention, and is entitled to our deference. The living human voice,
with a countenance and manner corresponding, constrains us to weigh what
is said, shoots through us like a stroke of electricity, will not away
from our memory, and haunts our very dreams. It is by means of this
peculiarity in the nature of mind, that it has been often observed that
there is from time to time an Augustan age in the intellect of nations,
that men of superior powers shock with each other, and that light is
struck from the collision, which most probably no one of these men would
have given birth to, if they had not been thrown into mutual society
and communion. And even so, upon a narrower scale, he that would aspire
to do the most of which his faculties are susceptible, should seek the
intercourse of his fellows, that his powers may be strengthened, and he
may be kept free from that torpor and indolence of soul, which, without
external excitement, are ever apt to take possession of us.
The man, who lives in solitude, and seldom communicates with minds of
the same class as his own, works out his opinions with patient
scrutiny, returns to the investigation again and again, imagines that he
had examined the question on all sides, and at length arrives at what
is to him a satisfactory conclusion. He resumes the view of this
conclusion day after day; he finds in it an unalterable validity; he
says in his heart, "Thus much I have gained; this is a real advance in
the search after truth; I have added in a defined and palpable degree to
what I knew before." And yet it has sometimes happened, that this
person, after having been shut up for weeks, or for a longer period, in
his sanctuary, living, so far as related to an exchange of oral
disquisitions with his fellow-men, like Robinson Crusoe in the desolate
island, shall come into the presence of one, equally clear-sighted,
curious and indefatigable with himself, and shall hear from him an
obvious and palpable statement, which in a moment shivers his sightly
and glittering fabric into atoms. The statement was palpable and near
at hand; it was a thin, an almost imperceptible partition that hid it
from him; he wonders in his heart that it never occurred to his
meditations. And yet so it is: it was hid from him for weeks, or
perhaps for a longer period: it might have been hid from him for twenty
years, if it had not been for the accident that supplied it. And he no
sooner sees it, than he instantly perceives that the discovery upon
which he plumed himself, was an absurdity, of which even a schoolboy
might be ashamed.
A circumstance not less curious, among the phenomena which belong to
this subject of belief, is the repugnance incident to the most ingenuous
minds, which we harbour against the suddenly discarding an opinion we
have previously entertained, and the adopting one which comes
recommended to us with almost the force of demonstration. Nothing can
be better founded than this repugnance. The mind of man is of a
peculiar nature. It has been disputed whether we can entertain more
than one idea at a time. But certain it is, that the views of the mind
at any one time are considerably narrowed. The mind is like the slate
of a schoolboy, which can contain only a certain number of characters of
a given size, or like a moveable panorama, which places a given scene
or landscape before me, and the space assigned, and which comes within
the limits marked out to my perception, is full. Many things are
therefore almost inevitably shut out, which, had it not been so, might
have essentially changed the view of the case, and have taught me that
it was a very different conclusion at which I ought to have arrived.
At first sight nothing can appear more unreasonable, than that I
should hesitate to admit the seemingly irresistible force of the
argument presented to me. An ingenuous disposition would appear to
require that, the moment the truth, or what seems to be the truth, is
set before me, I should pay to it the allegiance to which truth is
entitled. If I do otherwise, it would appear to argue a pusillanimous
disposition, a mind not prompt and disengaged to receive the impression
of evidence, a temper that loves something else better than the lustre
which all men are bound to recognise, and that has a reserve in favour
of ancient prejudice, and of an opinion no longer supported by reason.
In fact however I shall act most wisely, and in the way most
honourable to my character, if I resolve to adjourn the debate. No
matter how complete the view may seem which is now presented to my
consideration, or how irresistible the arguments: truth is too majestic
a divinity, and it is of too much importance that I should not follow a
delusive semblance that may shew like truth, not to make it in the
highest degree proper that I should examine again and again, before I
come to the conclusion to which I mean to affix my seal, and annex my
sanction, "This is the truth." The ancient Goths of Germany, we are
told, had a custom of debating every thing of importance to their state
twice, once in the high animation of a convivial meeting, and once in
the serene stillness of a morning consultation. Philip of Macedon
having decided a cause precipitately, the party condemned by him
immediately declared his resolution to appeal from the sentence. And to
whom, said the king, wilt thou appeal? To Philip, was the answer, in
the entire possession of his understanding.
Such is the nature of the human mind--at least, such I find to he the
nature of my own--that many trains of thinking, many chains of
evidence, the result of accumulated facts, will often not present
themselves, at the time when their presence would be of the highest
importance. The view which now comes before me is of a substance so
close and well-woven, and of colours so brilliant and dazzling, that
other matters in a certain degree remote, though of no less intrinsic
importance, and equally entitled to influence my judgment in the
question in hand, shall be entirely shut out, shall be killed, and fail
to offer themselves to my perceptions.
It is a curious circumstance which Pope, a man of eminent logical
power and acuteness, relates, that, having at his command in his youth a
collection of all the tracts that had been written on both sides in the
reign of James the Second, he applied himself with great assiduity to
their perusal, and the consequence was, that he was a Papist and
Protestant by turns, according to the last book he read1.
This circumstance in the structure of the human understanding is well
known, and is the foundation of many provisions that occur in the
constitution of political society. How each man shall form his creed,
and arrange those opinions by which his conduct shall be regulated, is
of course a matter exclusively subjected to his own discretion. But,
when he is called upon to act in the name of a community, and to decide
upon a question in which the public is interested, he of necessity feels
himself called upon to proceed with the utmost caution. A judge on the
bench, a chancellor, is not contented with that sudden ray of mental
illumination to which an ingenuous individual is often disposed to yield
in an affair of abstract speculation. He feels that he is obliged to
wait for evidence, the nature of which he does not yet anticipate, and
to adjourn his decision. A deliberative council or assembly is aware of
the necessity of examining a question again and again. It is upon this
principle that the two houses of the English parliament are required to
give a first, a second and a third reading, together with various other
forms and technicalities, to the provision that is brought before them,
previously to its passing into a law. And there is many a fundamental
dogma and corner-stone of the sentiments that I shall emphatically call
my own, that is of more genuine importance to the individual, than to a
nation is a number of those regulations, which by courtesy we call acts
of parliament.
Nothing can have a more glaring tendency to subvert the authority of
my opinion among my fellow-men, than instability. "What went ye out
into the wilderness to see" said Jesus Christ: "a reed shaken with the
wind?" We ought at all times to be open to conviction. We ought to be
ever ready to listen to evidence. But, conscious of our human frailty,
it is seldom that we ought immediately to subscribe to the propositions,
however specious, that are now for the first time presented to us. It
is our duty to lay up in our memory the suggestions offered upon any
momentous question, and not to suffer them to lose their inherent weight
and impressiveness; but it is only through the medium of consideration
and reconsideration, that they can become entitled to our full and
unreserved assent.
The nature of belief, or opinion, has been well illustrated by Lord Shaftesbury2.
There are many notions or judgments floating in the mind of every man,
which are mutually destructive of each other. In this sense men's
opinions are governed by high and low spirits, by the state of the
solids and fluids of the human body, and by the state of the weather.
But in a paramount sense that only can be said to be a man's opinion
which he entertains in his clearest moments, and from which, when he is
most himself, he is least subject to vary. In this emphatical sense, I
should say, a man does not always know what is his real opinion. We
cannot strictly be said to believe any thing, in cases where we
afterwards change our opinion without the introduction of some evidence
that was unknown to us before. But how many are the instances in which
we can be affirmed to be in the adequate recollection of all the
evidences and reasonings which have at some time occurred to us, and of
the opinions, together with the grounds on which they rested, which we
conceived we had justly and rationally entertained?
The considerations here stated however should by no means be allowed
to inspire us with indifference in matters of opinion. It is the glory
and lustre of our nature, that we are capable of receiving evidence, and
weighing the reasons for and against any important proposition in the
balance of an impartial and enlightened understanding. The only effect
that should be produced in us, by the reflection that we can at last by
no means be secure that we have attained to a perfect result, should be
to teach us a wholsome diffidence and humility, and induce us to confess
that, when we have done all, we are ignorant, dim-sighted and fallible,
that our best reasonings may betray, and our wisest conclusions deceive
us.

1 Correspondence with Atterbury, Letter IV.
2 Enquiry concerning
Virtue, Book 1, Part 1, Section ii.