OF THE LIBERTY OF THOUGHT AND DISCUSSION

The time, it is to be hoped, is gone by, when any defence would be necessary of the "liberty of the press" as one of the securities against corrupt or tyrannical government. No argument, we may suppose, can now be needed, against permitting a legislature or an executive, not identified in interest with the people, to prescribe opinions to them, and determine what doctrines or what arguments they shall be allowed to hear. This aspect of the question, besides, has been so often and so triumphantly enforced by preceding writers, that it need not be specially insisted on in this place. Though the law of England, on the subject of the press, is as servile to this day as it was in the time of the Tudors, there is little danger of its being actually put in force against political discussion, except during some temporary panic, when fear of insurrection drives ministers and judges from their propriety;[^6] and, speaking generally, it is not, in constitutional countries, to be apprehended that the government, whether completely responsible to the people or not, will often attempt to control the expression of opinion, except when in doing so it makes itself the organ of the general intolerance of the public. Let us suppose, therefore, that the government is entirely at one with the people, and never thinks of exerting any power of coercion unless in agreement with what it conceives to be their voice. But I deny the right of the people to exercise such coercion, either by themselves or by their government. The power itself is illegitimate. The best government has no more title to it than the worst. It is as noxious, or more noxious, when exerted in accordance with public opinion, than when in or opposition to it. If all mankind minus one, were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind. Were an opinion a personal possession of no value except to the owner; if to be obstructed in the enjoyment of it were simply a private injury, it would make some difference whether the injury was inflicted only on a few persons or on many. But the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it. If the opinion is right, they are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, they lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error.

We can hope the time has passed when anyone needed to defend the "liberty of the press" as a protection against corrupt or tyrannical government. We can also assume no argument is needed now against allowing a legislature or executive that does not share the people's interests to prescribe opinions to them. Nor to decide which doctrines and arguments they may hear. This point has been made so often and so convincingly by earlier writers that I need not repeat it here. Although English law about the press remains as restrictive today as it was under the Tudors, it is unlikely to be enforced against political discussion except in moments of panic. In such panics, fear of insurrection can push ministers and judges to act improperly.[^6] Generally, in constitutional countries, we should not fear that government, whether fully accountable to the people or not, will often try to control expression. It usually only does so when it reflects the public's own intolerance. Suppose, then, the government is completely aligned with the people and only uses coercion when it believes this matches their wishes. I still deny the people the right to use such coercion, either directly or through their government. The power is illegitimate. The best government has no more claim to it than the worst. It is no less harmful, and often more so, when used with public approval than when used against public opinion. If everyone except one person held the same opinion, humanity would have no more right to silence that one person than that person would have, if in power, to silence everyone else. If an opinion were only a private possession, valuable only to its owner, and preventing someone from holding it were only a private injury, then it would matter whether the injury harmed a few or many. But the special harm in silencing an opinion is that it robs humanity. It steals from future generations as well as the present. It harms those who disagree with the opinion even more than those who hold it. If the opinion is right, people lose the chance to replace error with truth. If it is wrong, they lose nearly as valuable a benefit: the clearer understanding and stronger impression of truth that come from its clash with error.

It is necessary to consider separately these two hypotheses, each of which has a distinct branch of the argument corresponding to it. We can never be sure that the opinion we are endeavouring to stifle is a false opinion; and if we were sure, stifling it would be an evil still.

We must consider these two hypotheses separately. Each has its own branch of the argument. We can never be certain that the opinion we are trying to silence is false. Even if we were certain, silencing it would still be wrong.

First: the opinion which it is attempted to suppress by authority may possibly be true. Those who desire to suppress it, of course deny its truth; but they are not infallible. They have no authority to decide the question for all mankind, and exclude every other person from the means of judging. To refuse a hearing to an opinion, because they are sure that it is false, is to assume that _their_ certainty is the same thing as _absolute_ certainty. All silencing of discussion is an assumption of infallibility. Its condemnation may be allowed to rest on this common argument, not the worse for being common.

First, the opinion people try to suppress by authority might be true. Those who want to suppress it deny its truth, of course, but they are not infallible. They have no right to decide the issue for everyone and to cut others off from judging for themselves. Refusing to hear an opinion because you are sure it is false assumes that _their_ certainty equals _absolute_ certainty. Silencing discussion assumes infallibility. That alone is a good reason to condemn it, and the argument is not weaker for being common.

Unfortunately for the good sense of mankind, the fact of their fallibility is far from carrying the weight in their practical judgment, which is always allowed to it in theory; for while every one well knows himself to be fallible, few think it necessary to take any precautions against their own fallibility, or admit the supposition that any opinion, of which they feel very certain, may be one of the examples of the error to which they acknowledge themselves to be liable. Absolute princes, or others who are accustomed to unlimited deference, usually feel this complete confidence in their own opinions on nearly all subjects. People more happily situated, who sometimes hear their opinions disputed, and are not wholly unused to be set right when they are wrong, place the same unbounded reliance only on such of their opinions as are shared by all who surround them, or to whom they habitually defer: for in proportion to a man's want of confidence in his own solitary judgment, does he usually repose, with implicit trust, on the infallibility of "the world" in general. And the world, to each individual, means the part of it with which he comes in contact; his party, his sect, his church, his class of society: the man may be called, by comparison, almost liberal and large-minded to whom it means anything so comprehensive as his own country or his own age. Nor is his faith in this collective authority at all shaken by his being aware that other ages, countries, sects, churches, classes, and parties have thought, and even now think, the exact reverse. He devolves upon his own world the responsibility of being in the right against the dissentient worlds of other people; and it never troubles him that mere accident has decided which of these numerous worlds is the object of his reliance, and that the same causes which make him a Churchman in London, would have made him a Buddhist or a Confucian in Pekin. Yet it is as evident in itself as any amount of argument can make it, that ages are no more infallible than individuals; every age having held many opinions which subsequent ages have deemed not only false but absurd; and it is as certain that many opinions, now general, will be rejected by future ages, as it is that many, once general, are rejected by the present.

Sadly, although people accept in theory that they are fallible, that fact rarely affects their practical judgment. Most know they can be wrong. Few take precautions or admit that an opinion they feel certain about could be one of their errors. Absolute princes, or anyone used to unlimited deference, usually feel complete confidence in their opinions on nearly all subjects. People in better situations, who sometimes hear challenges and are sometimes corrected, do not trust their private judgments so much. They only trust views shared by those around them or by people they usually defer to. The less confidence a person has in their own solitary judgment, the more they trust, without question, in the supposed infallibility of "the world." And "the world," for each person, is the part they meet: their party, sect, church, or social class. Compared to that narrow circle, someone whose "world" means their country or their age looks almost liberal and broad-minded. Their faith in this collective authority is not shaken by the fact that other ages, countries, sects, churches, classes, and parties have thought, and still think, the exact opposite. They assign to their own world the responsibility of being right against the dissenting worlds of others. It never bothers them that chance decides which world they rely on. The same social causes that make someone a Churchman in London would have made them a Buddhist or a Confucian in Pekin. Yet it is as clear as any argument can make it that ages are no more infallible than individuals. Every age has held many opinions later ages called not just false but absurd. Just as many opinions once accepted are rejected now, many opinions accepted now will be rejected by future ages.

The objection likely to be made to this argument, would probably take some such form as the following. There is no greater assumption of infallibility in forbidding the propagation of error, than in any other thing which is done by public authority on its own judgment and responsibility. Judgment is given to men that they may use it. Because it may be used erroneously, are men to be told that they ought not to use it at all? To prohibit what they think pernicious, is not claiming exemption from error, but fulfilling the duty incumbent on them, although fallible, of acting on their conscientious conviction. If we were never to act on our opinions, because those opinions may be wrong, we should leave all our interests uncared for, and all our duties unperformed. An objection which applies to all conduct, can be no valid objection to any conduct in particular. It is the duty of governments, and of individuals, to form the truest opinions they can; to form them carefully, and never impose them upon others unless they are quite sure of being right. But when they are sure (such reasoners may say), it is not conscientiousness but cowardice to shrink from acting on their opinions, and allow doctrines which they honestly think dangerous to the welfare of mankind, either in this life or in another, to be scattered abroad without restraint, because other people, in less enlightened times, have persecuted opinions now believed to be true. Let us take care, it may be said, not to make the same mistake: but governments and nations have made mistakes in other things, which are not denied to be fit subjects for the exercise of authority: they have laid on bad taxes, made unjust wars. Ought we therefore to lay on no taxes, and, under whatever provocation, make no wars? Men, and governments, must act to the best of their ability. There is no such thing as absolute certainty, but there is assurance sufficient for the purposes of human life. We may, and must, assume our opinion to be true for the guidance of our own conduct: and it is assuming no more when we forbid bad men to pervert society by the propagation of opinions which we regard as false and pernicious.

A likely objection would go like this. Saying that we must forbid the spread of error sounds like claiming infallibility. But no more infallibility is assumed here than in any other act by public authority based on its own judgment. Judgment is given to people so they can use it. Because it can be used wrongly, should people be told never to use it at all? To stop what they think harmful is not a claim to be never wrong. It is the duty, though fallible, to act on honest conviction. If we never acted on our opinions because they might be wrong, we would leave our interests uncared for and our duties undone. An objection that applies to all action cannot be a valid objection to any specific action. Governments and individuals must form the truest opinions they can. They must form them carefully and not impose them on others unless they are quite sure. But when they are sure, it is not conscientiousness but cowardice to shrink from acting on their beliefs and to let doctrines they honestly think dangerous be spread unchecked, just because people in less enlightened times persecuted opinions now seen as true. We should try not to repeat past mistakes, they say. Yet governments have made mistakes in other matters that still require authority. They have imposed bad taxes and fought unjust wars. Should we therefore never tax or, no matter what happens, never go to war? Men and governments must act as best they can. Absolute certainty does not exist, but there is enough assurance for human life. We may and must assume our opinion true to guide our own conduct. It is no more to forbid harmful people from perverting society by spreading opinions we regard as false and dangerous.

I answer that it is assuming very much more. There is the greatest difference between presuming an opinion to be true, because, with every opportunity for contesting it, it has not been refuted, and assuming its truth for the purpose of not permitting its refutation. Complete liberty of contradicting and disproving our opinion, is the very condition which justifies us in assuming its truth for purposes of action; and on no other terms can a being with human faculties have any rational assurance of being right.

I answer that it assumes much more. There is a big difference between two things. One is presuming an opinion true because it has not been refuted. This is despite every chance to challenge it. The other is assuming it is true in order to stop any challenge to it. Complete freedom to contradict and disprove our opinion is the condition that justifies treating it as true for action. On no other terms can a human being have any rational assurance of being right.

When we consider either the history of opinion, or the ordinary conduct of human life, to what is it to be ascribed that the one and the other are no worse than they are? Not certainly to the inherent force of the human understanding; for, on any matter not self-evident, there are ninety-nine persons totally incapable of judging of it, for one who is capable; and the capacity of the hundredth person is only comparative; for the majority of the eminent men of every past generation held many opinions now known to be erroneous, and did or approved numerous things which no one will now justify. Why is it, then, that there is on the whole a preponderance among mankind of rational opinions and rational conduct? If there really is this preponderance—which there must be, unless human affairs are, and have always been, in an almost desperate state—it is owing to a quality of the human mind, the source of everything respectable in man either as an intellectual or as a moral being, namely, that his errors are corrigible. He is capable of rectifying his mistakes, by discussion and experience. Not by experience alone. There must be discussion, to show how experience is to be interpreted. Wrong opinions and practices gradually yield to fact and argument: but facts and arguments, to produce any effect on the mind, must be brought before it. Very few facts are able to tell their own story, without comments to bring out their meaning. The whole strength and value, then, of human judgment, depending on the one property, that it can be set right when it is wrong, reliance can be placed on it only when the means of setting it right are kept constantly at hand. In the case of any person whose judgment is really deserving of confidence, how has it become so? Because he has kept his mind open to criticism of his opinions and conduct. Because it has been his practice to listen to all that could be said against him; to profit by as much of it as was just, and expound to himself, and upon occasion to others, the fallacy of what was fallacious. Because he has felt, that the only way in which a human being can make some approach to knowing the whole of a subject, is by hearing what can be said about it by persons of every variety of opinion, and studying all modes in which it can be looked at by every character of mind. No wise man ever acquired his wisdom in any mode but this; nor is it in the nature of human intellect to become wise in any other manner. The steady habit of correcting and completing his own opinion by collating it with those of others, so far from causing doubt and hesitation in carrying it into practice, is the only stable foundation for a just reliance on it: for, being cognisant of all that can, at least obviously, be said against him, and having taken up his position against all gainsayers—knowing that he has sought for objections and difficulties, instead of avoiding them, and has shut out no light which can be thrown upon the subject from any quarter—he has a right to think his judgment better than that of any person, or any multitude, who have not gone through a similar process.

When we look at the history of ideas or at ordinary human behavior, why are they not worse than they are? Not to the natural power of human reason. On any matter that is not self-evident, ninety-nine people are totally unable to judge it for every one who can. The ability of that one person is only relative. Most eminent figures in every generation held many opinions now known to be wrong. They also did or approved things no one would now defend. So why is there overall a majority of rational opinions and reasonable behavior among people? If such a majority exists—and it must, unless human affairs have always been nearly hopeless—it comes from a quality of the human mind. This quality is the source of everything respectable in a person, intellectually and morally. That quality is that our errors can be corrected. We can correct mistakes through discussion and experience. Not by experience alone. Discussion is needed to interpret experience. Wrong opinions and practices slowly give way to facts and arguments. But facts and arguments must be presented to the mind to have any effect. Few facts can speak for themselves without explanation. So the whole strength and value of human judgment rests on the fact that it can be corrected. We can only trust it when we keep the means of correction available. How does someone earn reliable judgment? By keeping an open mind to criticism of their opinions and actions. By listening to everything said against them. By accepting what is valid. By explaining to themselves, and sometimes to others, the mistakes in what was wrong. They believe the only way to approach knowing a subject is to hear every kind of view. They study every way it can be seen by all kinds of thinkers. No wise person gained wisdom in any other way. Human intellect cannot become wise any other way. Regularly correcting and improving one’s opinion by comparing it with others does not make a person hesitant. It actually gives a firm basis for trusting that opinion. They know all obvious objections and have faced opponents. They look for objections and difficulties instead of avoiding them. They exclude no light on the subject. Because of this, they have a right to think their judgment better than that of anyone who has not gone through the same process.

It is not too much to require that what the wisest of mankind, those who are best entitled to trust their own judgment, find necessary to warrant their relying on it, should be submitted to by that miscellaneous collection of a few wise and many foolish individuals, called the public. The most intolerant of churches, the Roman Catholic Church, even at the canonisation of a saint, admits, and listens patiently to, a "devil's advocate." The holiest of men, it appears, cannot be admitted to posthumous honours, until all that the devil could say against him is known and weighed. If even the Newtonian philosophy were not permitted to be questioned, mankind could not feel as complete assurance of its truth as they now do. The beliefs which we have most warrant for, have no safeguard to rest on, but a standing invitation to the whole world to prove them unfounded. If the challenge is not accepted, or is accepted and the attempt fails, we are far enough from certainty still; but we have done the best that the existing state of human reason admits of; we have neglected nothing that could give the truth a chance of reaching us: if the lists are kept open, we may hope that if there be a better truth, it will be found when the human mind is capable of receiving it; and in the meantime we may rely on having attained such approach to truth, as is possible in our own day. This is the amount of certainty attainable by a fallible being, and this the sole way of attaining it.

It is not too much to ask that what the wisest people require before trusting their own judgment be presented to the public. The public is that mixed collection of a few wise and many foolish people. Even the most intolerant church, the Roman Catholic Church, allows a "devil's advocate" at a saint's canonization. The holiest person cannot receive posthumous honors until every argument the devil could raise has been heard and weighed. If Newtonian philosophy could not be questioned, people could not feel as sure of its truth as they do now. Our best-supported beliefs rest on no other safeguard than an open invitation to the whole world to try to prove them false. If no one takes up the challenge, or if they try and fail, we still lack complete certainty. But we have done the best the current state of human reason allows. We have left nothing undone that might let the truth reach us. By keeping the contest open, we can hope that if a better truth exists, it will be discovered when minds are ready. In the meantime we can rely on having come as close to the truth as our age allows. This is the certainty a fallible being can attain. It is the only way to attain it.

Strange it is, that men should admit the validity of the arguments for free discussion, but object to their being "pushed to an extreme;" not seeing that unless the reasons are good for an extreme case, they are not good for any case. Strange that they should imagine that they are not assuming infallibility, when they acknowledge that there should be free discussion on all subjects which can possibly be _doubtful_, but think that some particular principle or doctrine should be forbidden to be questioned because it is _so certain_, that is, because _they are certain_ that it is certain. To call any proposition certain, while there is any one who would deny its certainty if permitted, but who is not permitted, is to assume that we ourselves, and those who agree with us, are the judges of certainty, and judges without hearing the other side.

It's strange that people accept the arguments for free discussion but object when those arguments are "pushed to an extreme". They do not see that if those reasons do not hold in extreme cases, they do not hold at all. It's also strange that they imagine they are not assuming infallibility. They agree there should be free discussion on any subject that can possibly be _doubtful_. Yet they think some principle or doctrine should not be questioned because it is _so certain_. In other words, _they are certain_ it is certain. To call any proposition certain while anyone who would deny it, if allowed, is not allowed, is to assume that we and our supporters are the judges of certainty. It assumes we can judge without hearing the other side.

In the present age—which has been described as "destitute of faith, but terrified at scepticism"—in which people feel sure, not so much that their opinions are true, as that they should not know what to do without them—the claims of an opinion to be protected from public attack are rested not so much on its truth, as on its importance to society. There are, it is alleged, certain beliefs, so useful, not to say indispensable to well-being, that it is as much the duty of governments to uphold those beliefs, as to protect any other of the interests of society. In a case of such necessity, and so directly in the line of their duty, something less than infallibility may, it is maintained, warrant, and even bind, governments, to act on their own opinion, confirmed by the general opinion of mankind. It is also often argued, and still oftener thought, that none but bad men would desire to weaken these salutary beliefs; and there can be nothing wrong, it is thought, in restraining bad men, and prohibiting what only such men would wish to practise. This mode of thinking makes the justification of restraints on discussion not a question of the truth of doctrines, but of their usefulness; and flatters itself by that means to escape the responsibility of claiming to be an infallible judge of opinions. But those who thus satisfy themselves, do not perceive that the assumption of infallibility is merely shifted from one point to another. The usefulness of an opinion is itself matter of opinion: as disputable, as open to discussion, and requiring discussion as much, as the opinion itself. There is the same need of an infallible judge of opinions to decide an opinion to be noxious, as to decide it to be false, unless the opinion condemned has full opportunity of defending itself. And it will not do to say that the heretic may be allowed to maintain the utility or harmlessness of his opinion, though forbidden to maintain its truth. The truth of an opinion is part of its utility. If we would know whether or not it is desirable that a proposition should be believed, is it possible to exclude the consideration of whether or not it is true? In the opinion, not of bad men, but of the best men, no belief which is contrary to truth can be really useful: and can you prevent such men from urging that plea, when they are charged with culpability for denying some doctrine which they are told is useful, but which they believe to be false? Those who are on the side of received opinions, never fail to take all possible advantage of this plea; you do not find _them_ handling the question of utility as if it could be completely abstracted from that of truth: on the contrary, it is, above all, because their doctrine is "the truth," that the knowledge or the belief of it is held to be so indispensable. There can be no fair discussion of the question of usefulness, when an argument so vital may be employed on one side, but not on the other. And in point of fact, when law or public feeling do not permit the truth of an opinion to be disputed, they are just as little tolerant of a denial of its usefulness. The utmost they allow is an extenuation of its absolute necessity, or of the positive guilt of rejecting it.

In the present age, described as "destitute of faith, but terrified at scepticism," people are often less sure that their opinions are true than that they would not know what to do without them. Claims that an opinion should be protected from public attack rest less on its truth and more on its importance to society. People argue that some beliefs are so useful, even essential to well-being, that governments must uphold them just as they protect other social interests. In such cases, it is said, governments do not need to be infallible to act on their own judgment, especially when most people agree. People also often argue, and more often assume, that only bad people would want to weaken these beneficial beliefs. So they think it is fine to restrain bad people and forbid things only such people would want to do. This way of thinking justifies restricting discussion not by whether doctrines are true, but by whether they are useful. It flatters itself because this avoids claiming to be an infallible judge of opinions. But those who comfort themselves this way do not see that they have only moved the assumption of infallibility to a different point. The usefulness of an opinion is itself an opinion. It is just as debatable and needs as much discussion as the opinion itself. Unless the condemned opinion has a full chance to defend itself, deciding that an opinion is harmful requires the same kind of infallibility as deciding it is false. It will not do to allow a heretic to argue only that his opinion is useful or harmless while forbidding him to argue for its truth. The truth of an opinion is part of its utility. If we want to know whether a proposition should be believed, can we ignore whether it is true? According to the best men, not bad men, no belief that contradicts the truth can be truly useful. Can you stop such people from arguing that way when they are accused of wrongdoing for denying a doctrine they think false, even though others call it useful? Supporters of received opinions always use this argument. You will not find _them_ treating usefulness as separate from truth. On the contrary, they insist that because their doctrine is "the truth," knowing or believing it is indispensable. There can be no fair discussion of usefulness when one side may use such a crucial argument and the other may not. In fact, when law or public opinion forbids questioning an opinion's truth, they also refuse to tolerate denying its usefulness. At most, they allow arguing that it is less absolutely necessary, or that rejecting it is less blameworthy.

In order more fully to illustrate the mischief of denying a hearing to opinions because we, in our own judgment, have condemned them, it will be desirable to fix down the discussion to a concrete case; and I choose, by preference, the cases which are least favourable to me—in which the argument against freedom of opinion, both on the score of truth and on that of utility, is considered the strongest. Let the opinions impugned be the belief in a God and in a future state, or any of the commonly received doctrines of morality. To fight the battle on such ground, gives a great advantage to an unfair antagonist; since he will be sure to say (and many who have no desire to be unfair will say it internally), Are these the doctrines which you do not deem sufficiently certain to be taken under the protection of law? Is the belief in a God one of the opinions, to feel sure of which, you hold to be assuming infallibility? But I must be permitted to observe, that it is not the feeling sure of a doctrine (be it what it may) which I call an assumption of infallibility. It is the undertaking to decide that question _for others_, without allowing them to hear what can be said on the contrary side. And I denounce and reprobate this pretension not the less, if put forth on the side of my most solemn convictions. However positive any one's persuasion may be, not only of the falsity, but of the pernicious consequences—not only of the pernicious consequences, but (to adopt expressions which I altogether condemn) the immorality and impiety of an opinion; yet if, in pursuance of that private judgment, though backed by the public judgment of his country or his contemporaries, he prevents the opinion from being heard in its defence, he assumes infallibility. And so far from the assumption being less objectionable or less dangerous because the opinion is called immoral or impious, this is the case of all others in which it is most fatal. These are exactly the occasions on which the men of one generation commit those dreadful mistakes, which excite the astonishment and horror of posterity. It is among such that we find the instances memorable in history, when the arm of the law has been employed to root out the best men and the noblest doctrines; with deplorable success as to the men, though some of the doctrines have survived to be (as if in mockery) invoked, in defence of similar conduct towards those who dissent from _them_, or from their received interpretation.

To show more clearly the harm of refusing to hear opinions we have already judged, it helps to look at a concrete case. I will choose the cases least favorable to me, where the argument against free opinion seems strongest on both truth and usefulness. Suppose the criticized views are belief in God and an afterlife, or any widely accepted moral doctrines. Arguing on that ground gives an unfair opponent a big advantage. He will be sure to say, and many who do not want to be unfair will think it privately, “Are these the doctrines you do not consider certain enough to be protected by law?” He may add, “Is belief in God one of the views about which you claim to be infallible?” I must point out that being certain of a doctrine, whatever it is, is not what I mean by claiming infallibility. The real presumption is deciding that question _for others_, and not letting them hear what can be said on the other side. I condemn this claim even when it supports my deepest convictions. No matter how strongly someone believes a view is false, or harmful, or even immoral and impious, if he acts on that private judgment to stop the view from being heard, he assumes infallibility. This assumption does not become less wrong or less dangerous because the view is called immoral or impious. Indeed, it is most harmful exactly in those cases. These are the situations in which one generation makes the dreadful mistakes that later generations view with astonishment and horror. History gives many striking examples where the law was used to destroy the best people and the noblest doctrines. The results for people were deplorable. Some doctrines survived, only to be used later, almost mockingly, to justify similar treatment of those who dissent from _them_ or from their accepted interpretation.

Mankind can hardly be too often reminded that there was once a man named Socrates, between whom and the legal authorities and public opinion of his time, there took place a memorable collision. Born in an age and country abounding in individual greatness, this man has been handed down to us by those who best knew both him and the age, as the most virtuous man in it; while _we_ know him as the head and prototype of all subsequent teachers of virtue, the source equally of the lofty inspiration of Plato and the judicious utilitarianism of Aristotle, "_i maëstri di color che sanno_," the two headsprings of ethical as of all other philosophy. This acknowledged master of all the eminent thinkers who have since lived—whose fame, still growing after more than two thousand years, all but outweighs the whole remainder of the names which make his native city illustrious—was put to death by his countrymen, after a judicial conviction, for impiety and immorality. Impiety, in denying the gods recognised by the State; indeed his accuser asserted (see the "Apologia") that he believed in no gods at all. Immorality, in being, by his doctrines and instructions, a "corruptor of youth." Of these charges the tribunal, there is every ground for believing, honestly found him guilty, and condemned the man who probably of all then born had deserved best of mankind, to be put to death as a criminal.

People should be reminded often that there once lived a man named Socrates. He had a memorable clash with the legal authorities and public opinion of his time. He was born in a time and place full of remarkable people. Those who knew him and his age best handed him down to us as the most virtuous man of that era. _we_ know him as the founder and model of all later teachers of virtue. He inspired both Plato’s lofty vision and Aristotle’s measured utilitarianism. _i maëstri di color che sanno_, the two main springs of ethics and of all philosophy. This acknowledged master influenced almost every great thinker since. His fame has grown for more than two thousand years and nearly eclipses the other famous names from his city. Yet his countrymen put him to death after a legal conviction. They charged him with impiety and immorality. Impiety meant denying the gods recognized by the State. His accuser even claimed (see the "Apologia") that he believed in no gods at all. Immorality meant that, by his doctrines and teaching, he was a "corruptor of youth." There is every reason to believe the court honestly found him guilty of these charges. They condemned to death a man who, of all those then living, probably deserved most from humanity.

To pass from this to the only other instance of judicial iniquity, the mention of which, after the condemnation of Socrates, would not be an anticlimax: the event which took place on Calvary rather more than eighteen hundred years ago. The man who left on the memory of those who witnessed his life and conversation, such an impression of his moral grandeur, that eighteen subsequent centuries have done homage to him as the Almighty in person, was ignominiously put to death, as what? As a blasphemer. Men did not merely mistake their benefactor; they mistook him for the exact contrary of what he was, and treated him as that prodigy of impiety, which they themselves are now held to be, for their treatment of him. The feelings with which mankind now regard these lamentable transactions, especially the later of the two, render them extremely unjust in their judgment of the unhappy actors. These were, to all appearance, not bad men—not worse than men commonly are, but rather the contrary; men who possessed in a full, or somewhat more than a full measure, the religious, moral, and patriotic feelings of their time and people: the very kind of men who, in all times, our own included, have every chance of passing through life blameless and respected. The high-priest who rent his garments when the words were pronounced, which, according to all the ideas of his country, constituted the blackest guilt, was in all probability quite as sincere in his horror and indignation, as the generality of respectable and pious men now are in the religious and moral sentiments they profess; and most of those who now shudder at his conduct, if they had lived in his time, and been born Jews, would have acted precisely as he did. Orthodox Christians who are tempted to think that those who stoned to death the first martyrs must have been worse men than they themselves are, ought to remember that one of those persecutors was Saint Paul.

Moving from this to the only other case of judicial injustice that would not feel anticlimactic after the condemnation of Socrates, I mean the event on Calvary a little over eighteen hundred years ago. The man who left such an impression of moral greatness on those who saw his life and words that people in the following centuries have honored him as the Almighty in person was shamefully put to death. For what? For blasphemy. They did not merely mistake their benefactor. They mistook him for his exact opposite and treated him as a monstrous impious person. By doing so they became the kind of impious people they are now judged to be. The way people today feel about these tragic events, especially the later one, makes us very unfair in judging those involved. Those actors, to all appearances, were not bad men. They were not worse than most; if anything, they were the opposite. They had strong religious, moral, and patriotic feelings for their time and people. They had as much, or even more, of these feelings than most, and were the sort of people who, in any age including ours, have every chance of living blameless and respected lives. The high priest who tore his garments when certain words were spoken—words that, by his nation's beliefs, meant the worst guilt—was probably as sincere in his horror and anger as respectable, pious people today are in the religious and moral sentiments they profess. Most of those who now recoil at his conduct, if born Jews and living in his time, would likely have acted the same way. Orthodox Christians who think that those who stoned the first martyrs must have been worse men than themselves should remember that one of those persecutors was Saint Paul.

Let us add one more example, the most striking of all, if the impressiveness of an error is measured by the wisdom and virtue of him who falls into it. If ever any one, possessed of power, had grounds for thinking himself the best and most enlightened among his cotemporaries, it was the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. Absolute monarch of the whole civilised world, he preserved through life not only the most unblemished justice, but what was less to be expected from his Stoical breeding, the tenderest heart. The few failings which are attributed to him, were all on the side of indulgence: while his writings, the highest ethical product of the ancient mind, differ scarcely perceptibly, if they differ at all, from the most characteristic teachings of Christ. This man, a better Christian in all but the dogmatic sense of the word, than almost any of the ostensibly Christian sovereigns who have since reigned, persecuted Christianity. Placed at the summit of all the previous attainments of humanity, with an open, unfettered intellect, and a character which led him of himself to embody in his moral writings the Christian ideal, he yet failed to see that Christianity was to be a good and not an evil to the world, with his duties to which he was so deeply penetrated. Existing society he knew to be in a deplorable state. But such as it was, he saw, or thought he saw, that it was held together, and prevented from being worse, by belief and reverence of the received divinities. As a ruler of mankind, he deemed it his duty not to suffer society to fall in pieces; and saw not how, if its existing ties were removed, any others could be formed which could again knit it together. The new religion openly aimed at dissolving these ties: unless, therefore, it was his duty to adopt that religion, it seemed to be his duty to put it down. Inasmuch then as the theology of Christianity did not appear to him true or of divine origin; inasmuch as this strange history of a crucified God was not credible to him, and a system which purported to rest entirely upon a foundation to him so wholly unbelievable, could not be foreseen by him to be that renovating agency which, after all abatements, it has in fact proved to be; the gentlest and most amiable of philosophers and rulers, under a solemn sense of duty, authorised the persecution of Christianity. To my mind this is one of the most tragical facts in all history. It is a bitter thought, how different a thing the Christianity of the world might have been, if the Christian faith had been adopted as the religion of the empire under the auspices of Marcus Aurelius instead of those of Constantine. But it would be equally unjust to him and false to truth, to deny, that no one plea which can be urged for punishing anti-Christian teaching, was wanting to Marcus Aurelius for punishing, as he did, the propagation of Christianity. No Christian more firmly believes that Atheism is false, and tends to the dissolution of society, than Marcus Aurelius believed the same things of Christianity; he who, of all men then living, might have been thought the most capable of appreciating it. Unless any one who approves of punishment for the promulgation of opinions, flatters himself that he is a wiser and better man than Marcus Aurelius—more deeply versed in the wisdom of his time, more elevated in his intellect above it—more earnest in his search for truth, or more single-minded in his devotion to it when found;—let him abstain from that assumption of the joint infallibility of himself and the multitude, which the great Antoninus made with so unfortunate a result.

Let us add one more example. It is the most striking of all if the force of an error is judged by the wisdom and virtue of the person who falls into it. If any ruler ever had reason to think himself the most enlightened of his time, it was the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. As absolute monarch of the civilized world, he kept an unblemished record for justice. Against expectation from his Stoic training, he also had a very tender heart. The few faults ascribed to him were faults of indulgence. His writings are among the highest ethical works of the ancient world. They barely differ, if they differ at all, from the main teachings of Christ. In every practical way he was a better Christian than many later sovereigns who called themselves Christian. Yet he persecuted Christianity. He stood at the summit of human achievement, with an open, unfettered mind. His character led him to embody the Christian ideal in his moral writings. Still, he failed to see that Christianity would do more good than harm to the world. He was deeply aware of his duties. He knew existing society was in a deplorable state. But he thought society was held together by belief in the traditional gods. As a ruler of people, he felt it his duty not to let society fall apart. He could not see how new bonds could be formed if the old ones were removed. The new religion openly aimed to dissolve those bonds. So unless it was his duty to adopt it, it seemed his duty to suppress it. Because Christianity’s theology did not seem true to him, and because the strange story of a crucified God seemed incredible, he could not foresee that this faith would become a renewing force. For these reasons, the gentlest and most amiable of philosophers and rulers, acting from a solemn sense of duty, authorized the persecution of Christians. To me, this is one of the most tragic facts in history. It is a bitter thought how different Christianity might have been if the faith had been adopted under Marcus Aurelius instead of Constantine. Yet it would be unjust to him and false to the truth to deny that Marcus Aurelius had every argument that could be used for punishing anti-Christian teaching. No Christian believes more firmly that Atheism is false and tends to dissolve society than Marcus Aurelius believed those things about Christianity. He was among the men best placed to judge it. If anyone today approves punishing the spread of opinions, and flatters himself that he is wiser and better than Marcus Aurelius—more learned in the wisdom of his time, of higher intellect, more earnest in seeking truth, or more single-minded in holding to it—let him refrain. He should not assume the joint infallibility of himself and the multitude, an assumption that Antoninus made with such unfortunate results.

Aware of the impossibility of defending the use of punishment for restraining irreligious opinions, by any argument which will not justify Marcus Antoninus, the enemies of religious freedom, when hard pressed, occasionally accept this consequence, and say, with Dr. Johnson, that the persecutors of Christianity were in the right; that persecution is an ordeal through which truth ought to pass, and always passes successfully, legal penalties being, in the end, powerless against truth, though sometimes beneficially effective against mischievous errors. This is a form of the argument for religious intolerance, sufficiently remarkable not to be passed without notice.

They know they cannot defend punishing irreligious opinions without also justifying Marcus Antoninus. When pressed, opponents of religious freedom sometimes accept this consequence. With Dr. Johnson, they claim the persecutors of Christianity were right. They say persecution is an ordeal truth ought to pass through, and that truth always survives it. They add that legal penalties are ultimately powerless against truth, though they may sometimes be useful against mischievous errors. This form of the argument for religious intolerance is notable and deserves notice.

A theory which maintains that truth may justifiably be persecuted because persecution cannot possibly do it any harm, cannot be charged with being intentionally hostile to the reception of new truths; but we cannot commend the generosity of its dealing with the persons to whom mankind are indebted for them. To discover to the world something which deeply concerns it, and of which it was previously ignorant; to prove to it that it had been mistaken on some vital point of temporal or spiritual interest, is as important a service as a human being can render to his fellow-creatures, and in certain cases, as in those of the early Christians and of the Reformers, those who think with Dr. Johnson believe it to have been the most precious gift which could be bestowed on mankind. That the authors of such splendid benefits should be requited by martyrdom; that their reward should be to be dealt with as the vilest of criminals, is not, upon this theory, a deplorable error and misfortune, for which humanity should mourn in sackcloth and ashes, but the normal and justifiable state of things. The propounder of a new truth, according to this doctrine, should stand, as stood, in the legislation of the Locrians, the proposer of a new law, with a halter round his neck, to be instantly tightened if the public assembly did not, on hearing his reasons, then and there adopt his proposition. People who defend this mode of treating benefactors, cannot be supposed to set much value on the benefit; and I believe this view of the subject is mostly confined to the sort of persons who think that new truths may have been desirable once, but that we have had enough of them now.

A theory that says truth can rightly be persecuted because persecution cannot possibly harm it cannot be accused of deliberately opposing new ideas. Still, we cannot praise how generously it treats the people to whom humanity owes those ideas. Telling the world something that deeply concerns it, and that it did not know before, is one of the greatest services a person can give. Proving that people were wrong about some vital temporal or spiritual matter is equally important. In some cases, as with the early Christians and the Reformers, those who agree with Dr. Johnson thought such discoveries were the most precious gift that could be given to mankind. According to this theory, the authors of those great benefits should be repaid by martyrdom. Their reward should be to be treated as the vilest criminals. This is not seen as a tragic mistake for which humanity should mourn in sackcloth and ashes. Instead it is regarded as the normal and just state of things. By this doctrine, the proposer of a new truth should stand, as in the legislation of the Locrians the proposer of a new law once stood, with a noose round his neck. The rope would be tightened at once if the public assembly did not, on hearing his reasons, adopt his proposal immediately. People who defend treating benefactors this way cannot be supposed to value the benefit much. I believe this view is mostly held by those who think new truths may once have been desirable, but that we have had enough of them now.

But, indeed, the dictum that truth always triumphs over persecution, is one of those pleasant falsehoods which men repeat after one another till they pass into commonplaces, but which all experience refutes. History teems with instances of truth put down by persecution. If not suppressed for ever, it may be thrown back for centuries. To speak only of religious opinions: the Reformation broke out at least twenty times before Luther, and was put down. Arnold of Brescia was put down. Fra Dolcino was put down. Savonarola was put down. The Albigeois were put down. The Vaudois were put down. The Lollards were put down. The Hussites were put down. Even after the era of Luther, wherever persecution was persisted in, it was successful. In Spain, Italy, Flanders, the Austrian empire, Protestantism was rooted out; and, most likely, would have been so in England, had Queen Mary lived, or Queen Elizabeth died. Persecution has always succeeded, save where the heretics were too strong a party to be effectually persecuted. No reasonable person can doubt that Christianity might have been extirpated in the Roman Empire. It spread, and became predominant, because the persecutions were only occasional, lasting but a short time, and separated by long intervals of almost undisturbed propagandism. It is a piece of idle sentimentality that truth, merely as truth, has any inherent power denied to error, of prevailing against the dungeon and the stake. Men are not more zealous for truth than they often are for error, and a sufficient application of legal or even of social penalties will generally succeed in stopping the propagation of either. The real advantage which truth has, consists in this, that when an opinion is true, it may be extinguished once, twice, or many times, but in the course of ages there will generally be found persons to rediscover it, until some one of its reappearances falls on a time when from favourable circumstances it escapes persecution until it has made such head as to withstand all subsequent attempts to suppress it.

The saying that truth always triumphs over persecution is a pleasant falsehood. People repeat it until it becomes a cliché, but experience contradicts it. History is full of cases where persecution crushed truth. If not crushed forever, truth can be pushed back for centuries. Take religious opinions. The Reformation broke out at least twenty times before Luther, and was put down. Arnold of Brescia was put down. Fra Dolcino was put down. Savonarola was put down. The Albigeois were put down. The Vaudois were put down. The Lollards were put down. The Hussites were put down. Even after Luther, where persecution continued it often succeeded. In Spain, Italy, Flanders, and the Austrian Empire, Protestantism was rooted out. It probably would have been so in England, if Queen Mary had lived or Queen Elizabeth had died. Persecution has usually won, except when the heretics were too strong to be effectively persecuted. No reasonable person can doubt that Christianity might have been wiped out in the Roman Empire. It spread and became dominant because persecutions were occasional and short. Long intervals followed when believers could preach almost undisturbed. It is sentimental and misleading to think truth, just because it is true, has some special power that error lacks against the dungeon and the stake. People are often as zealous for error as for truth. Enough legal or social punishment will usually stop the spread of either. The real advantage of truth lies elsewhere. A true idea may be extinguished once, twice, or many times. Over the centuries, people generally rediscover it. Eventually one reappearance may come at a favorable time. Then it can escape persecution long enough to grow strong and resist later attempts to suppress it.

It will be said, that we do not now put to death the introducers of new opinions: we are not like our fathers who slew the prophets, we even build sepulchres to them. It is true we no longer put heretics to death; and the amount of penal infliction which modern feeling would probably tolerate, even against the most obnoxious opinions, is not sufficient to extirpate them. But let us not flatter ourselves that we are yet free from the stain even of legal persecution. Penalties for opinion, or at least for its expression, still exist by law; and their enforcement is not, even in these times, so unexampled as to make it at all incredible that they may some day be revived in full force. In the year 1857, at the summer assizes of the county of Cornwall, an unfortunate man,[^7] said to be of unexceptionable conduct in all relations of life, was sentenced to twenty-one months' imprisonment, for uttering, and writing on a gate, some offensive words concerning Christianity. Within a month of the same time, at the Old Bailey, two persons, on two separate occasions,[^8] were rejected as jurymen, and one of them grossly insulted by the judge and by one of the counsel, because they honestly declared that they had no theological belief; and a third, a foreigner,[^9] for the same reason, was denied justice against a thief. This refusal of redress took place in virtue of the legal doctrine, that no person can be allowed to give evidence in a court of justice, who does not profess belief in a God (any god is sufficient) and in a future state; which is equivalent to declaring such persons to be outlaws, excluded from the protection of the tribunals; who may not only be robbed or assaulted with impunity, if no one but themselves, or persons of similar opinions, be present, but any one else may be robbed or assaulted with impunity, if the proof of the fact depends on their evidence. The assumption on which this is grounded, is that the oath is worthless, of a person who does not believe in a future state; a proposition which betokens much ignorance of history in those who assent to it (since it is historically true that a large proportion of infidels in all ages have been persons of distinguished integrity and honour); and would be maintained by no one who had the smallest conception how many of the persons in greatest repute with the world, both for virtues and for attainments, are well known, at least to their intimates, to be unbelievers. The rule, besides, is suicidal, and cuts away its own foundation. Under pretence that atheists must be liars, it admits the testimony of all atheists who are willing to lie, and rejects only those who brave the obloquy of publicly confessing a detested creed rather than affirm a falsehood. A rule thus self-convicted of absurdity so far as regards its professed purpose, can be kept in force only as a badge of hatred, a relic of persecution; a persecution, too, having the peculiarity, that the qualification for undergoing it, is the being clearly proved not to deserve it. The rule, and the theory it implies, are hardly less insulting to believers than to infidels. For if he who does not believe in a future state, necessarily lies, it follows that they who do believe are only prevented from lying, if prevented they are, by the fear of hell. We will not do the authors and abettors of the rule the injury of supposing, that the conception which they have formed of Christian virtue is drawn from their own consciousness.

People will say we no longer execute those who bring new ideas. We are not like our ancestors who killed prophets. We even build tombs for them. It is true we no longer put heretics to death. Modern opinion would not tolerate punishments strong enough to wipe out even the most offensive opinions. But do not flatter yourselves that we are free from legal persecution. Laws still punish opinions, or at least their expression. Those laws are still enforced now and then. It is not unbelievable that they might be used again in full force. In 1857, at the summer assizes of Cornwall, an unfortunate man[^7], said to have an unblemished life, was sentenced to twenty-one months in prison. He had spoken and written on a gate some offensive words about Christianity. Within a month, at the Old Bailey, two people were rejected as jurors on separate occasions[^8]. One was grossly insulted by the judge and by a lawyer because they honestly declared they had no theological belief. A third person, a foreigner[^9], was denied justice for the same reason in a case against a thief. This denial of redress rested on a legal rule. The rule says no one can testify in court unless they profess belief in God (any god) and a future life. That effectively makes such people outlaws, outside the protection of the courts. If only they, or people like them, witnessed a crime, the offender could escape punishment. Anyone else could be robbed or attacked with impunity if proving the crime depends on their evidence. The assumption behind the rule is that an oath from someone who does not believe in a future state is worthless. That idea shows great ignorance of history. In every age, many unbelievers have been people of distinguished integrity and honor. No one who understood how many respected people are known to be unbelievers, at least to their close friends, would maintain the opposite. The rule is self-defeating. By assuming atheists are liars, it admits testimony from any atheist willing to lie. It rejects only those who face public scorn rather than tell a falsehood. A rule proved absurd even by its own logic can survive only as a badge of hatred, a relic of persecution. Its peculiar cruelty is that it singles out for punishment those who are clearly shown not to deserve it. The rule and the theory behind it insult believers almost as much as unbelievers. If those who deny a future state must necessarily lie, then believers are honest only because they fear hell. We will not do the authors and supporters of the rule the injury of supposing they form their idea of Christian virtue from their own inner experience.

These, indeed, are but rags and remnants of persecution, and may be thought to be not so much an indication of the wish to persecute, as an example of that very frequent infirmity of English minds, which makes them take a preposterous pleasure in the assertion of a bad principle, when they are no longer bad enough to desire to carry it really into practice. But unhappily there is no security in the state of the public mind, that the suspension of worse forms of legal persecution, which has lasted for about the space of a generation, will continue. In this age the quiet surface of routine is as often ruffled by attempts to resuscitate past evils, as to introduce new benefits. What is boasted of at the present time as the revival of religion, is always, in narrow and uncultivated minds, at least as much the revival of bigotry; and where there is the strong permanent leaven of intolerance in the feelings of a people, which at all times abides in the middle classes of this country, it needs but little to provoke them into actively persecuting those whom they have never ceased to think proper objects of persecution.[^10] For it is this—it is the opinions men entertain, and the feelings they cherish, respecting those who disown the beliefs they deem important, which makes this country not a place of mental freedom. For a long time past, the chief mischief of the legal penalties is that they strengthen the social stigma. It is that stigma which is really effective, and so effective is it that the profession of opinions which are under the ban of society is much less common in England, than is, in many other countries, the avowal of those which incur risk of judicial punishment. In respect to all persons but those whose pecuniary circumstances make them independent of the good will of other people, opinion, on this subject, is as efficacious as law; men might as well be imprisoned, as excluded from the means of earning their bread. Those whose bread is already secured, and who desire no favours from men in power, or from bodies of men, or from the public, have nothing to fear from the open avowal of any opinions, but to be ill-thought of and ill-spoken of, and this it ought not to require a very heroic mould to enable them to bear. There is no room for any appeal _ad misericordiam_ in behalf of such persons. But though we do not now inflict so much evil on those who think differently from us, as it was formerly our custom to do, it may be that we do ourselves as much evil as ever by our treatment of them. Socrates was put to death, but the Socratic philosophy rose like the sun in heaven, and spread its illumination over the whole intellectual firmament. Christians were cast to the lions, but the Christian church grew up a stately and spreading tree, overtopping the older and less vigorous growths, and stifling them by its shade. Our merely social intolerance kills no one, roots out no opinions, but induces men to disguise them, or to abstain from any active effort for their diffusion. With us, heretical opinions do not perceptibly gain, or even lose, ground in each decade or generation; they never blaze out far and wide, but continue to smoulder in the narrow circles of thinking and studious persons among whom they originate, without ever lighting up the general affairs of mankind with either a true or a deceptive light. And thus is kept up a state of things very satisfactory to some minds, because, without the unpleasant process of fining or imprisoning anybody, it maintains all prevailing opinions outwardly undisturbed, while it does not absolutely interdict the exercise of reason by dissentients afflicted with the malady of thought. A convenient plan for having peace in the intellectual world, and keeping all things going on therein very much as they do already. But the price paid for this sort of intellectual pacification, is the sacrifice of the entire moral courage of the human mind. A state of things in which a large portion of the most active and inquiring intellects find it advisable to keep the genuine principles and grounds of their convictions within their own breasts, and attempt, in what they address to the public, to fit as much as they can of their own conclusions to premises which they have internally renounced, cannot send forth the open, fearless characters, and logical, consistent intellects who once adorned the thinking world. The sort of men who can be looked for under it, are either mere conformers to commonplace, or time-servers for truth, whose arguments on all great subjects are meant for their hearers, and are not those which have convinced themselves. Those who avoid this alternative, do so by narrowing their thoughts and interest to things which can be spoken of without venturing within the region of principles, that is, to small practical matters, which would come right of themselves, if but the minds of mankind were strengthened and enlarged, and which will never be made effectually right until then: while that which would strengthen and enlarge men's minds, free and daring speculation on the highest subjects, is abandoned.

These are only scraps and leftovers of persecution. They may seem less like a real wish to persecute. They may seem more like that common weakness in English minds. People enjoy stating a bad principle when they no longer want to act on it. But sadly, public opinion is not safe. The halt to harsher legal persecutions that has lasted about a generation may not continue. Our calm routines are as often disturbed by attempts to bring back old wrongs as by attempts to introduce new improvements. What some now call a revival of religion is, in narrow and uncultivated minds, often a revival of bigotry. Where intolerance is a long-standing part of the feelings of a people, and where it lives in the middle classes of this country, it takes little to push them into actively persecuting those they have always seen as proper targets of persecution.[^10] For it is this. The opinions people hold, and the feelings they have toward those who reject the beliefs they value, make this country far from a place of mental freedom. For a long time now, the main harm of legal penalties is that they strengthen social stigma. That stigma is what really works. It is so powerful that publicly stating opinions banned by society is rarer in England than admitting views that risk legal punishment in many other countries. Except for those whose money makes them independent of other people's goodwill, public opinion is as effective as law. Being cut off from the means of earning a living is as bad as being imprisoned. Those whose income is secure, and who need no favors from those in power or from the public, have little to fear from stating any opinion openly. They may be thought badly of and spoken ill of. That should not require heroic courage to endure. There is no room to plead _ad misericordiam_ for such people. Still, though we do not now do as much harm to dissenters as we used to, we may harm ourselves just as much by how we treat them. Socrates was put to death, yet Socratic philosophy rose like the sun and spread light across the intellectual sky. Christians were thrown to the lions, yet the Christian church grew into a tall, spreading tree that shaded and smothered older, weaker growths. Our merely social intolerance kills no one and uproots no opinions. But it forces people to hide their views or to avoid trying to spread them. Here heretical opinions neither clearly gain nor lose ground in each decade or generation. They never burst into the open. Instead they smolder in the small circles of thinking and studious people where they began. They never light up public life with either true or false insight. This suits some minds very well. Without fining or imprisoning anyone, it keeps prevailing opinions outwardly unchanged. At the same time, it does not entirely forbid dissenters from thinking. This kind of intellectual peace has a cost. It sacrifices the moral courage of the human mind. When many active and curious thinkers feel it wiser to keep the real reasons for their beliefs to themselves, and to present to the public conclusions they no longer accept internally, a culture of open, fearless, and consistent intellects cannot thrive. The people produced by such a culture are either simple conformists or time-servers for truth. Their arguments on great subjects are aimed at their listeners, not at what has convinced themselves. Those who avoid these options do so by narrowing their interests. They stick to topics that can be discussed without touching principles. They focus on small practical matters that would improve on their own if people's minds were stronger and broader. But these matters will not be fully solved until minds are strengthened. And that strengthening comes from free, bold speculation on the highest subjects, which we now abandon.

Those in whose eyes this reticence on the part of heretics is no evil, should consider in the first place, that in consequence of it there is never any fair and thorough discussion of heretical opinions; and that such of them as could not stand such a discussion, though they may be prevented from spreading, do not disappear. But it is not the minds of heretics that are deteriorated most, by the ban placed on all inquiry which does not end in the orthodox conclusions. The greatest harm done is to those who are not heretics, and whose whole mental development is cramped, and their reason cowed, by the fear of heresy. Who can compute what the world loses in the multitude of promising intellects combined with timid characters, who dare not follow out any bold, vigorous, independent train of thought, lest it should land them in something which would admit of being considered irreligious or immoral? Among them we may occasionally see some man of deep conscientiousness, and subtle and refined understanding, who spends a life in sophisticating with an intellect which he cannot silence, and exhausts the resources of ingenuity in attempting to reconcile the promptings of his conscience and reason with orthodoxy, which yet he does not, perhaps, to the end succeed in doing. No one can be a great thinker who does not recognise, that as a thinker it is his first duty to follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it may lead. Truth gains more even by the errors of one who, with due study and preparation, thinks for himself, than by the true opinions of those who only hold them because they do not suffer themselves to think. Not that it is solely, or chiefly, to form great thinkers, that freedom of thinking is required. On the contrary, it is as much, and even more indispensable, to enable average human beings to attain the mental stature which they are capable of. There have been, and may again be, great individual thinkers, in a general atmosphere of mental slavery. But there never has been, nor ever will be, in that atmosphere, an intellectually active people. Where any people has made a temporary approach to such a character, it has been because the dread of heterodox speculation was for a time suspended. Where there is a tacit convention that principles are not to be disputed; where the discussion of the greatest questions which can occupy humanity is considered to be closed, we cannot hope to find that generally high scale of mental activity which has made some periods of history so remarkable. Never when controversy avoided the subjects which are large and important enough to kindle enthusiasm, was the mind of a people stirred up from its foundations, and the impulse given which raised even persons of the most ordinary intellect to something of the dignity of thinking beings. Of such we have had an example in the condition of Europe during the times immediately following the Reformation; another, though limited to the Continent and to a more cultivated class, in the speculative movement of the latter half of the eighteenth century; and a third, of still briefer duration, in the intellectual fermentation of Germany during the Goethian and Fichtean period. These periods differed widely in the particular opinions which they developed; but were alike in this, that during all three the yoke of authority was broken. In each, an old mental despotism had been thrown off, and no new one had yet taken its place. The impulse given at these three periods has made Europe what it now is. Every single improvement which has taken place either in the human mind or in institutions, may be traced distinctly to one or other of them. Appearances have for some time indicated that all three impulses are well-nigh spent; and we can expect no fresh start, until we again assert our mental freedom.

Those who think it is harmless when heretics stay silent should first consider this. Because of that silence, heretical ideas never get a fair, full discussion. Opinions that could not survive such a discussion may be stopped from spreading, but they do not disappear. The worst harm is not to the heretics themselves. It is to people who are not heretics. Their mental growth is stunted and their reason is cowed by the fear of being labeled heretical. Think how much the world loses in talented but timid minds. Many promising people never follow a bold, independent line of thought. They fear it might seem irreligious or immoral. Sometimes we see someone deeply conscientious, with a subtle, refined understanding. He spends his life arguing with his own intellect. He uses all his cleverness trying to make his conscience and reason fit orthodox views. He may never fully succeed. No one can be a great thinker who does not accept this duty. A thinker must follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it leads. Truth gains more from the mistakes of someone who thinks for himself than from the correct beliefs of those who hold them without thinking. Freedom of thought is not only for creating great thinkers. It is at least as important for ordinary people. It helps them reach the intellectual level they are capable of. There have been great individual thinkers even where mental slavery was common. But there has never been an intellectually active people in such an atmosphere. When people stop arguing about the largest and most important questions, their general mental energy cannot be high. If there is an unspoken rule that certain principles are not to be questioned, the public mind will not be deeply stirred. Controversy over great issues is what rouses a people from its foundations. That impulse raises even ordinary people toward the dignity of thinking beings. We have examples of this. Europe after the Reformation shows it. The late eighteenth-century speculative movement on the Continent, though limited to a more cultured class, shows it too. Germany experienced it briefly during the Goethe and Fichte period. These periods produced very different ideas. But they all shared one thing. In each, the yoke of authority was broken. An old mental despotism was thrown off and no new one had yet taken its place. The changes set in motion by those periods made Europe what it is today. Every single improvement in thought or institutions traces back to one of them. Signs show that these three impulses are nearly spent. We cannot expect a real renewal until we again claim our mental freedom.

Let us now pass to the second division of the argument, and dismissing the supposition that any of the received opinions may be false, let us assume them to be true, and examine into the worth of the manner in which they are likely to be held, when their truth is not freely and openly canvassed. However unwillingly a person who has a strong opinion may admit the possibility that his opinion may be false, he ought to be moved by the consideration that however true it may be, if it is not fully, frequently, and fearlessly discussed, it will be held as a dead dogma, not a living truth.

Let's move to the second part of the argument. Put aside the idea that any accepted belief might be false and assume those beliefs are true. Then consider how they will be held when their truth is not openly and freely debated. A person with a strong opinion may be reluctant to admit it could be wrong. They should remember this. No matter how true an opinion is, it must be discussed fully, frequently, and fearlessly. Otherwise it will be a dead dogma, not a living truth.

There is a class of persons (happily not quite so numerous as formerly) who think it enough if a person assents undoubtingly to what they think true, though he has no knowledge whatever of the grounds of the opinion, and could not make a tenable defence of it against the most superficial objections. Such persons, if they can once get their creed taught from authority, naturally think that no good, and some harm, comes of its being allowed to be questioned. Where their influence prevails, they make it nearly impossible for the received opinion to be rejected wisely and considerately, though it may still be rejected rashly and ignorantly; for to shut out discussion entirely is seldom possible, and when it once gets in, beliefs not grounded on conviction are apt to give way before the slightest semblance of an argument. Waiving, however, this possibility—assuming that the true opinion abides in the mind, but abides as a prejudice, a belief independent of, and proof against, argument—this is not the way in which truth ought to be held by a rational being. This is not knowing the truth. Truth, thus held, is but one superstition the more, accidentally clinging to the words which enunciate a truth.

There is a group of people, fortunately smaller than before, who think it is enough for someone to accept their beliefs without question. They expect acceptance even when the person knows nothing about the reasons behind the belief and could not defend it against the simplest objections. If these people can have their creed taught by authority, they assume that questioning it brings no good and may do harm. Where their influence prevails, they make it nearly impossible for the accepted opinion to be rejected wisely and considerately. It can still be rejected rashly and ignorantly. Completely shutting out discussion is rarely possible. Once discussion begins, beliefs not grounded in conviction tend to give way before the slightest argument. Putting that possibility aside, suppose the true opinion stays in someone's mind only as a prejudice. It becomes a belief independent of, and immune to, argument. This is not how a rational being should hold truth. This is not knowing the truth. Truth held in that way is just another superstition. It only accidentally sticks to the words that express a truth.

If the intellect and judgment of mankind ought to be cultivated, a thing which Protestants at least do not deny, on what can these faculties be more appropriately exercised by any one, than on the things which concern him so much that it is considered necessary for him to hold opinions on them? If the cultivation of the understanding consists in one thing more than in another, it is surely in learning the grounds of one's own opinions. Whatever people believe, on subjects on which it is of the first importance to believe rightly, they ought to be able to defend against at least the common objections. But, some one may say, "Let them be _taught_ the grounds of their opinions. It does not follow that opinions must be merely parroted because they are never heard controverted. Persons who learn geometry do not simply commit the theorems to memory, but understand and learn likewise the demonstrations; and it would be absurd to say that they remain ignorant of the grounds of geometrical truths, because they never hear any one deny, and attempt to disprove them." Undoubtedly: and such teaching suffices on a subject like mathematics, where there is nothing at all to be said on the wrong side of the question. The peculiarity of the evidence of mathematical truths is, that all the argument is on one side. There are no objections, and no answers to objections. But on every subject on which difference of opinion is possible, the truth depends on a balance to be struck between two sets of conflicting reasons. Even in natural philosophy, there is always some other explanation possible of the same facts; some geocentric theory instead of heliocentric, some phlogiston instead of oxygen; and it has to be shown why that other theory cannot be the true one: and until this is shown, and until we know how it is shown, we do not understand the grounds of our opinion. But when we turn to subjects infinitely more complicated, to morals, religion, politics, social relations, and the business of life, three-fourths of the arguments for every disputed opinion consist in dispelling the appearances which favour some opinion different from it. The greatest orator, save one, of antiquity, has left it on record that he always studied his adversary's case with as great, if not with still greater, intensity than even his own. What Cicero practised as the means of forensic success, requires to be imitated by all who study any subject in order to arrive at the truth. He who knows only his own side of the case, knows little of that. His reasons may be good, and no one may have been able to refute them. But if he is equally unable to refute the reasons on the opposite side; if he does not so much as know what they are, he has no ground for preferring either opinion. The rational position for him would be suspension of judgment, and unless he contents himself with that, he is either led by authority, or adopts, like the generality of the world, the side to which he feels most inclination. Nor is it enough that he should hear the arguments of adversaries from his own teachers, presented as they state them, and accompanied by what they offer as refutations. That is not the way to do justice to the arguments, or bring them into real contact with his own mind. He must be able to hear them from persons who actually believe them; who defend them in earnest, and do their very utmost for them. He must know them in their most plausible and persuasive form; he must feel the whole force of the difficulty which the true view of the subject has to encounter and dispose of; else he will never really possess himself of the portion of truth which meets and removes that difficulty. Ninety-nine in a hundred of what are called educated men are in this condition; even of those who can argue fluently for their opinions. Their conclusion may be true, but it might be false for anything they know: they have never thrown themselves into the mental position of those who think differently from them, and considered what such persons may have to say; and consequently they do not, in any proper sense of the word, know the doctrine which they themselves profess. They do not know those parts of it which explain and justify the remainder; the considerations which show that a fact which seemingly conflicts with another is reconcilable with it, or that, of two apparently strong reasons, one and not the other ought to be preferred. All that part of the truth which turns the scale, and decides the judgment of a completely informed mind, they are strangers to; nor is it ever really known, but to those who have attended equally and impartially to both sides, and endeavoured to see the reasons of both in the strongest light. So essential is this discipline to a real understanding of moral and human subjects, that if opponents of all important truths do not exist, it is indispensable to imagine them, and supply them with the strongest arguments which the most skilful devil's advocate can conjure up.

If human intellect and judgment should be developed, as at least Protestants do not deny, what better subjects are there to exercise those faculties than the things that matter most to a person, the things he must form opinions about? If training the mind consists mainly in one thing more than another, it is surely learning the reasons for one's own beliefs. On topics where it is crucial to believe correctly, people ought to be able to defend their views against common objections. But someone might say, "Let them be _taught_ the grounds of their opinions. It does not follow that opinions must be merely _parroted_ because they are never heard controverted. People who learn geometry do not just memorize theorems. They also learn the proofs. It would be absurd to say they are ignorant of the basis of geometrical truths because no one denies or tries to disprove them." Undoubtedly. Such teaching is enough for a subject like mathematics, where there is nothing to be said for the wrong side. The special evidence for mathematical truths lies in the fact that all the argument is on one side. There are no objections and no answers to objections. On every subject where disagreement is possible, however, the truth depends on weighing two sets of opposing reasons. Even in natural philosophy there is always some alternative explanation of the same facts: a geocentric theory instead of heliocentric, phlogiston instead of oxygen. You must show why the alternative cannot be true. Until that is shown, and until you understand how it is shown, you do not know the grounds of your opinion. When we move to far more complex subjects—morals, religion, politics, social relations, and everyday affairs—three-quarters of the arguments for every disputed view aim to dispel appearances that favor a different view. One of the greatest ancient orators recorded that he always studied his opponent's case with at least as much intensity as his own. What Cicero practiced as a path to success in court should be imitated by anyone who studies a subject to reach the truth. A person who knows only his own side of the case knows little of that side. His reasons may be good, and no one may have refuted them. But if he cannot refute the reasons on the opposite side, or does not even know what they are, he has no solid basis for preferring either opinion. The rational stance for him would be to suspend judgment. If he does not do that, he is guided by authority, or he takes the side he feels most inclined to, like most people. It is not enough that he hears his teachers present adversaries' arguments and then offer refutations. That does not do justice to the opposing views or bring them into real contact with his own mind. He must be able to hear them from people who truly believe them and defend them earnestly. He must know them in their most persuasive and plausible form. He must feel the full force of the difficulty that the true view must meet and resolve. Otherwise he will never fully grasp the part of the truth that overcomes that difficulty. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of those called educated are in this state, even among fluent defenders of their opinions. Their conclusion may be true, but it might be false for all they know. They have never put themselves in the mental position of those who think differently, and considered what such people may say. Consequently they do not, in any proper sense, know the doctrine they profess. They do not know those parts that explain and justify the rest, or the considerations that show how a fact that seems to conflict with another is actually compatible with it. They miss the reasons that make one of two apparently strong arguments the one to prefer. All that part of the truth which finally tips the balance is known only to those who have given equal and impartial attention to both sides and tried to view both arguments in their strongest light. This discipline is so essential to understanding moral and human subjects that, if real opponents to important truths do not exist, we must imagine them and supply the strongest arguments the most skillful devil's advocate can produce.

To abate the force of these considerations, an enemy of free discussion may be supposed to say, that there is no necessity for mankind in general to know and understand all that can be said against or for their opinions by philosophers and theologians. That it is not needful for common men to be able to expose all the misstatements or fallacies of an ingenious opponent. That it is enough if there is always somebody capable of answering them, so that nothing likely to mislead uninstructed persons remains unrefuted. That simple minds, having been taught the obvious grounds of the truths inculcated on them, may trust to authority for the rest, and being aware that they have neither knowledge nor talent to resolve every difficulty which can be raised, may repose in the assurance that all those which have been raised have been or can be answered, by those who are specially trained to the task.

A critic of free discussion might say that most people do not need to learn every argument for or against their beliefs from philosophers and theologians. Ordinary people do not have to expose every mistake or clever fallacy an opponent may use. It is enough that someone exists who can answer those points. That way, nothing likely to mislead uninstructed people remains unrefuted. Less educated people, once taught the basic reasons for the truths given to them, can trust authority for the rest. Knowing they lack the knowledge or skill to resolve every possible difficulty, they can rest assured that experts have answered or can answer those difficulties.

Conceding to this view of the subject the utmost that can be claimed for it by those most easily satisfied with the amount of understanding of truth which ought to accompany the belief of it; even so, the argument for free discussion is no way weakened. For even this doctrine acknowledges that mankind ought to have a rational assurance that all objections have been satisfactorily answered; and how are they to be answered if that which requires to be answered is not spoken? or how can the answer be known to be satisfactory, if the objectors have no opportunity of showing that it is unsatisfactory? If not the public, at least the philosophers and theologians who are to resolve the difficulties, must make themselves familiar with those difficulties in their most puzzling form; and this cannot be accomplished unless they are freely stated, and placed in the most advantageous light which they admit of. The Catholic Church has its own way of dealing with this embarrassing problem. It makes a broad separation between those who can be permitted to receive its doctrines on conviction, and those who must accept them on trust. Neither, indeed, are allowed any choice as to what they will accept; but the clergy, such at least as can be fully confided in, may admissibly and meritoriously make themselves acquainted with the arguments of opponents, in order to answer them, and may, therefore, read heretical books; the laity, not unless by special permission, hard to be obtained. This discipline recognises a knowledge of the enemy's case as beneficial to the teachers, but finds means, consistent with this, of denying it to the rest of the world: thus giving to the _élite_ more mental culture, though not more mental freedom, than it allows to the mass. By this device it succeeds in obtaining the kind of mental superiority which its purposes require; for though culture without freedom never made a large and liberal mind, it can make a clever _nisi prius_ advocate of a cause. But in countries professing Protestantism, this resource is denied; since Protestants hold, at least in theory, that the responsibility for the choice of a religion must be borne by each for himself, and cannot be thrown off upon teachers. Besides, in the present state of the world, it is practically impossible that writings which are read by the instructed can be kept from the uninstructed. If the teachers of mankind are to be cognisant of all that they ought to know, everything must be free to be written and published without restraint.

Even if we grant the strongest version of this view, the case for free discussion is not weakened. This view still admits that people deserve reasonable assurance that every objection has been answered. But how can objections be answered if they are never voiced? How can an answer be shown to be satisfactory if critics have no chance to show its flaws? If not the general public, then at least the philosophers and theologians who must solve these problems need to know the difficulties in their strongest form. They cannot do that unless objections are freely stated and placed in the best light they will bear. The Catholic Church handles this awkward problem in its own way. It draws a clear line between those allowed to accept its doctrines on personal conviction and those who must accept them on trust. Neither group really chooses what to believe. The clergy, at least those fully trusted, may learn their opponents’ arguments so they can answer them, and so may read heretical books. The laity may not, except rarely and by difficult permission. This policy accepts that knowing the enemy’s case helps teachers, but denies that knowledge to everyone else. It gives the _élite_ more intellectual training, though not more intellectual freedom, than the masses. The result is the kind of mental superiority suited to its purposes. Culture without freedom never makes a broad and liberal mind. It can, however, make a clever _nisi prius_ advocate for a cause. In Protestant countries this option is not available. Protestants, at least in theory, hold that each person must bear the responsibility for choosing a religion. That responsibility cannot be shifted onto teachers. Also, in today’s world it is practically impossible to keep works read by the educated from the uneducated. If the teachers of humanity are to know what they ought to know, everything must be free to write and publish without restraint.

If, however, the mischievous operation of the absence of free discussion, when the received opinions are true, were confined to leaving men ignorant of the grounds of those opinions, it might be thought that this, if an intellectual, is no moral evil, and does not affect the worth of the opinions, regarded in their influence on the character. The fact, however, is, that not only the grounds of the opinion are forgotten in the absence of discussion, but too often the meaning of the opinion itself. The words which convey it, cease to suggest ideas, or suggest only a small portion of those they were originally employed to communicate. Instead of a vivid conception and a living belief, there remain only a few phrases retained by rote; or, if any part, the shell and husk only of the meaning is retained, the finer essence being lost. The great chapter in human history which this fact occupies and fills, cannot be too earnestly studied and meditated on.

Suppose stopping free discussion only made people forget the reasons for true opinions. Some would then call that merely an intellectual loss. They might say it is not a moral evil and does not weaken those opinions' influence on character. In fact, when discussion is blocked, people not only lose the reasons. They often lose the opinion's meaning too. The words that express it stop calling up ideas, or they suggest only a small part of their original meaning. Instead of a vivid understanding and a living belief, only a few phrases remain, learned by rote. At best we keep only the shell of the meaning while the finer essence is gone. This large chapter in human history needs careful study and reflection.

It is illustrated in the experience of almost all ethical doctrines and religious creeds. They are all full of meaning and vitality to those who originate them, and to the direct disciples of the originators. Their meaning continues to be felt in undiminished strength, and is perhaps brought out into even fuller consciousness, so long as the struggle lasts to give the doctrine or creed an ascendency over other creeds. At last it either prevails, and becomes the general opinion, or its progress stops; it keeps possession of the ground it has gained, but ceases to spread further. When either of these results has become apparent, controversy on the subject flags, and gradually dies away. The doctrine has taken its place, if not as a received opinion, as one of the admitted sects or divisions of opinion: those who hold it have generally inherited, not adopted it; and conversion from one of these doctrines to another, being now an exceptional fact, occupies little place in the thoughts of their professors. Instead of being, as at first, constantly on the alert either to defend themselves against the world, or to bring the world over to them, they have subsided into acquiescence, and neither listen, when they can help it, to arguments against their creed, nor trouble dissentients (if there be such) with arguments in its favour. From this time may usually be dated the decline in the living power of the doctrine. We often hear the teachers of all creeds lamenting the difficulty of keeping up in the minds of believers a lively apprehension of the truth which they nominally recognise, so that it may penetrate the feelings, and acquire a real mastery over the conduct. No such difficulty is complained of while the creed is still fighting for its existence: even the weaker combatants then know and feel what they are fighting for, and the difference between it and other doctrines; and in that period of every creed's existence, not a few persons may be found, who have realised its fundamental principles in all the forms of thought, have weighed and considered them in all their important bearings, and have experienced the full effect on the character, which belief in that creed ought to produce in a mind thoroughly imbued with it. But when it has come to be a hereditary creed, and to be received passively, not actively—when the mind is no longer compelled, in the same degree as at first, to exercise its vital powers on the questions which its belief presents to it, there is a progressive tendency to forget all of the belief except the formularies, or to give it a dull and torpid assent, as if accepting it on trust dispensed with the necessity of realising it in consciousness, or testing it by personal experience; until it almost ceases to connect itself at all with the inner life of the human being. Then are seen the cases, so frequent in this age of the world as almost to form the majority, in which the creed remains as it were outside the mind, encrusting and petrifying it against all other influences addressed to the higher parts of our nature; manifesting its power by not suffering any fresh and living conviction to get in, but itself doing nothing for the mind or heart, except standing sentinel over them to keep them vacant.

It appears in almost every moral teaching and religious creed. These beliefs are full of meaning for their founders and first followers. Their force stays strong while they fight to win acceptance over rival views. Eventually one of two things happens. Either the belief succeeds and becomes common opinion, or its spread stops. When progress stops, it keeps the ground it gained but no longer grows. Once either result is clear, debate loses energy and gradually dies away. The doctrine then takes its place as accepted opinion or as one recognized sect. Most who hold it have inherited it rather than chosen it. Conversion from one doctrine to another becomes rare and unimportant to believers. Instead of staying on guard to defend themselves or to convert others, they settle into passive agreement. They avoid hearing arguments against their creed when they can. They also do not trouble dissenters with arguments for it. This is usually when the living power of the doctrine begins to decline. Teachers often complain they cannot keep believers aware of the truth they nominally accept. They say it no longer reaches the feelings or guides conduct. No such difficulty exists while a creed is still fighting for its existence. Even weaker fighters then know what they are fighting for and how it differs from other views. In that active phase many people fully grasp the creed’s basic principles. They have thought them through and seen how belief should shape character. But when a creed becomes hereditary and is received passively, the mind stops exercising its vital powers on the questions the belief raises. People progressively forget everything except the formulas. They give dull, mechanical assent, as if accepting on trust removed the need to bring it alive in consciousness or test it by personal experience. The creed almost ceases to connect with the inner life. We then see many cases, now common, where the creed sits outside the mind. It encrusts and petrifies the mind against other influences aimed at the higher parts of our nature. Its power shows only by keeping fresh, living convictions out. It does nothing for the mind or heart. It simply stands guard and leaves them empty.

To what an extent doctrines intrinsically fitted to make the deepest impression upon the mind may remain in it as dead beliefs, without being ever realised in the imagination, the feelings, or the understanding, is exemplified by the manner in which the majority of believers hold the doctrines of Christianity. By Christianity I here mean what is accounted such by all churches and sects—the maxims and precepts contained in the New Testament. These are considered sacred, and accepted as laws, by all professing Christians. Yet it is scarcely too much to say that not one Christian in a thousand guides or tests his individual conduct by reference to those laws. The standard to which he does refer it, is the custom of his nation, his class, or his religious profession. He has thus, on the one hand, a collection of ethical maxims, which he believes to have been vouchsafed to him by infallible wisdom as rules for his government; and on the other, a set of every-day judgments and practices, which go a certain length with some of those maxims, not so great a length with others, stand in direct opposition to some, and are, on the whole, a compromise between the Christian creed and the interests and suggestions of worldly life. To the first of these standards he gives his homage; to the other his real allegiance. All Christians believe that the blessed are the poor and humble, and those who are ill-used by the world; that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven; that they should judge not, lest they be judged; that they should swear not at all; that they should love their neighbour as themselves; that if one take their cloak, they should give him their coat also; that they should take no thought for the morrow; that if they would be perfect, they should sell all that they have and give it to the poor. They are not insincere when they say that they believe these things. They do believe them, as people believe what they have always heard lauded and never discussed. But in the sense of that living belief which regulates conduct, they believe these doctrines just up to the point to which it is usual to act upon them. The doctrines in their integrity are serviceable to pelt adversaries with; and it is understood that they are to be put forward (when possible) as the reasons for whatever people do that they think laudable. But any one who reminded them that the maxims require an infinity of things which they never even think of doing, would gain nothing but to be classed among those very unpopular characters who affect to be better than other people. The doctrines have no hold on ordinary believers—are not a power in their minds. They have a habitual respect for the sound of them, but no feeling which spreads from the words to the things signified, and forces the mind to take _them_ in, and make them conform to the formula. Whenever conduct is concerned, they look round for Mr. A and B to direct them how far to go in obeying Christ.

Doctrines that could deeply move the mind can remain only dead beliefs. The way most people hold Christian teachings shows this clearly. By Christianity I here mean what all churches and sects count as such—the maxims and precepts in the New Testament. These are treated as sacred and accepted as laws by all who call themselves Christians. Yet it is fair to say that not one Christian in a thousand actually guides or tests their personal conduct by those laws. Instead, people judge by the customs of their nation, their class, or their religious group. On one hand they have a set of ethical maxims they believe came from infallible wisdom. On the other hand they have everyday judgments and habits that sometimes match these maxims, sometimes fall short, sometimes oppose them, and overall form a compromise between the Christian creed and worldly interests. They pay lip service to the first, and give their real allegiance to the second. All Christians say the blessed are the poor and humble and those mistreated by the world. They say it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter heaven. They say they should not judge, they should not swear, they should love their neighbor as themselves, they should give their coat if someone takes their cloak, they should not worry about tomorrow, and if they want to be perfect they should sell all they have and give to the poor. They are not insincere when they say they believe these things. They believe them like people believe what they have always heard praised and never discussed. But as a living belief that guides action, they accept these doctrines only up to the point people commonly act on them. The full doctrines are useful weapons to hurl at opponents. They are put forward, when convenient, as reasons for whatever actions people consider praiseworthy. Anyone who points out that the maxims demand countless things people never think of doing gains nothing. They will be dismissed as one of those unpopular characters who pretend to be better than others. The doctrines have no hold on ordinary believers. They are not a power in their minds. People habitually respect the words, but feel nothing that links the words to the things they mean, and nothing forces the mind to take _them_ in and make life conform to the formulas. When it comes to conduct, they look round for Mr. A and B to tell them how far to go in obeying Christ.

Now we may be well assured that the case was not thus, but far otherwise, with the early Christians. Had it been thus, Christianity never would have expanded from an obscure sect of the despised Hebrews into the religion of the Roman empire. When their enemies said, "See how these Christians love one another" (a remark not likely to be made by anybody now), they assuredly had a much livelier feeling of the meaning of their creed than they have ever had since. And to this cause, probably, it is chiefly owing that Christianity now makes so little progress in extending its domain, and after eighteen centuries, is still nearly confined to Europeans and the descendants of Europeans. Even with the strictly religious, who are much in earnest about their doctrines, and attach a greater amount of meaning to many of them than people in general, it commonly happens that the part which is thus comparatively active in their minds is that which was made by Calvin, or Knox, or some such person much nearer in character to themselves. The sayings of Christ coexist passively in their minds, producing hardly any effect beyond what is caused by mere listening to words so amiable and bland. There are many reasons, doubtless, why doctrines which are the badge of a sect retain more of their vitality than those common to all recognised sects, and why more pains are taken by teachers to keep their meaning alive; but one reason certainly is, that the peculiar doctrines are more questioned, and have to be oftener defended against open gainsayers. Both teachers and learners go to sleep at their post, as soon as there is no enemy in the field.

We can be sure the situation with the early Christians was the opposite. If it had been otherwise, Christianity would never have grown from an obscure sect of despised Hebrews into the religion of the Roman Empire. When their enemies said, "See how these Christians love one another," they meant it. That remark is unlikely to be heard now. The early Christians had a much stronger sense of their creed than believers have had since. This probably explains why Christianity now spreads so little. After eighteen centuries it remains mostly limited to Europeans and their descendants. Even among the deeply religious, who care greatly about doctrine, a different pattern appears. They often find the living part of their faith in teachings shaped by Calvin or Knox. Those teachings feel closer to their own character than Christ’s original sayings. The sayings of Christ sit passively in their minds. They do little more than what happens when people listen to pleasant, gentle words. There are many reasons why a sect’s distinctive doctrines stay more alive than doctrines shared by all churches. Teachers also work harder to keep those doctrines alive. One clear reason is that the distinctive doctrines are questioned more. They must be defended more often against open opponents. When there is no enemy in the field, teachers and learners alike fall asleep at their posts.

The same thing holds true, generally speaking, of all traditional doctrines—those of prudence and knowledge of life, as well as of morals or religion. All languages and literatures are full of general observations on life, both as to what it is, and how to conduct oneself in it; observations which everybody knows, which everybody repeats, or hears with acquiescence, which are received as truisms, yet of which most people first truly learn the meaning, when experience, generally of a painful kind, has made it a reality to them. How often, when smarting under some unforeseen misfortune or disappointment, does a person call to mind some proverb or common saying, familiar to him all his life, the meaning of which, if he had ever before felt it as he does now, would have saved him from the calamity. There are indeed reasons for this, other than the absence of discussion: there are many truths of which the full meaning _cannot_ be realised, until personal experience has brought it home. But much more of the meaning even of these would have been understood, and what was understood would have been far more deeply impressed on the mind, if the man had been accustomed to hear it argued _pro_ and _con_ by people who did understand it. The fatal tendency of mankind to leave off thinking about a thing when it is no longer doubtful, is the cause of half their errors. A contemporary author has well spoken of "the deep slumber of a decided opinion."

The same is generally true of all traditional doctrines, whether about prudence and understanding life or about morals and religion. Every language and literature is full of general observations about life. They describe what life is and how to conduct yourself in it. Everyone knows them, repeats them, or accepts them without argument. They are treated as truisms. Yet most people only truly learn their meaning when experience, often painful, makes them real. How often, smarting from an unexpected misfortune or disappointment, does someone remember a proverb or common saying they have known all their life? If they had felt its meaning before as they do now, it might have saved them from the trouble. There are reasons besides a lack of discussion. Some truths _cannot_ be fully understood until personal experience brings them home. Still, even these truths would be better understood if people heard them argued _pro_ and _con_ by those who did understand them. What was understood would stick much more deeply in the mind if a person were used to hearing those arguments. The fatal tendency of people to stop thinking about something once it no longer seems doubtful causes half their mistakes. A contemporary author well called this "the deep slumber of a decided opinion."

But what! (it may be asked) Is the absence of unanimity an indispensable condition of true knowledge? Is it necessary that some part of mankind should persist in error, to enable any to realise the truth? Does a belief cease to be real and vital as soon as it is generally received—and is a proposition never thoroughly understood and felt unless some doubt of it remains? As soon as mankind have unanimously accepted a truth, does the truth perish within them? The highest aim and best result of improved intelligence, it has hitherto been thought, is to unite mankind more and more in the acknowledgment of all important truths: and does the intelligence only last as long as it has not achieved its object? Do the fruits of conquest perish by the very completeness of the victory?

But what? Someone may ask. Is the lack of complete agreement a necessary condition for true knowledge? Must some people remain wrong so others can discover the truth? Does a belief stop being real and alive once everyone accepts it? Is a proposition never fully understood and felt unless some doubt about it remains? Once everyone accepts a truth, does the truth die within them? Until now, people have believed that growing intelligence should increasingly unite people. It should lead to a shared recognition of important truths. Does intelligence only last as long as it has not achieved that goal? Do the rewards of victory disappear because the victory is complete?

I affirm no such thing. As mankind improve, the number of doctrines which are no longer disputed or doubted will be constantly on the increase: and the well-being of mankind may almost be measured by the number and gravity of the truths which have reached the point of being uncontested. The cessation, on one question after another, of serious controversy, is one of the necessary incidents of the consolidation of opinion; a consolidation as salutary in the case of true opinions, as it is dangerous and noxious when the opinions are erroneous. But though this gradual narrowing of the bounds of diversity of opinion is necessary in both senses of the term, being at once inevitable and indispensable, we are not therefore obliged to conclude that all its consequences must be beneficial. The loss of so important an aid to the intelligent and living apprehension of a truth, as is afforded by the necessity of explaining it to, or defending it against, opponents, though not sufficient to outweigh, is no trifling drawback from, the benefit of its universal recognition. Where this advantage can no longer be had, I confess I should like to see the teachers of mankind endeavouring to provide a substitute for it; some contrivance for making the difficulties of the question as present to the learner's consciousness, as if they were pressed upon him by a dissentient champion, eager for his conversion.

I do not claim that. As people improve, the number of doctrines no longer disputed will keep growing. The well‑being of humanity can almost be measured by how many and how important the truths are that become uncontested. The ending of serious controversy, question after question, is a necessary result of opinions becoming consolidated. That consolidation is helpful when the opinions are true, and dangerous and harmful when they are false. Even though this gradual narrowing of the range of opinion is both inevitable and necessary, we should not assume all its consequences are good. Losing the important aid to a lively, thoughtful grasp of a truth that comes from having to explain it to, or defend it against, opponents is a real drawback of universal acceptance, though it does not fully outweigh the benefit. Where that advantage can no longer be had, I would like to see the teachers of humanity try to provide a substitute. They should devise a way to make the difficulties of a question as present to the learner’s mind as if a dissenting champion were pressing them, eager to convert him.

But instead of seeking contrivances for this purpose, they have lost those they formerly had. The Socratic dialectics, so magnificently exemplified in the dialogues of Plato, were a contrivance of this description. They were essentially a negative discussion of the great questions of philosophy and life, directed with consummate skill to the purpose of convincing any one who had merely adopted the commonplaces of received opinion, that he did not understand the subject—that he as yet attached no definite meaning to the doctrines he professed; in order that, becoming aware of his ignorance, he might be put in the way to attain a stable belief, resting on a clear apprehension both of the meaning of doctrines and of their evidence. The school disputations of the middle ages had a somewhat similar object. They were intended to make sure that the pupil understood his own opinion, and (by necessary correlation) the opinion opposed to it, and could enforce the grounds of the one and confute those of the other. These last-mentioned contests had indeed the incurable defect, that the premises appealed to were taken from authority, not from reason; and, as a discipline to the mind, they were in every respect inferior to the powerful dialectics which formed the intellects of the "Socratici viri": but the modern mind owes far more to both than it is generally willing to admit, and the present modes of education contain nothing which in the smallest degree supplies the place either of the one or of the other. A person who derives all his instruction from teachers or books, even if he escape the besetting temptation of contenting himself with cram, is under no compulsion to hear both sides; accordingly it is far from a frequent accomplishment, even among thinkers, to know both sides; and the weakest part of what everybody says in defence of his opinion, is what he intends as a reply to antagonists. It is the fashion of the present time to disparage negative logic—that which points out weaknesses in theory or errors in practice, without establishing positive truths. Such negative criticism would indeed be poor enough as an ultimate result; but as a means to attaining any positive knowledge or conviction worthy the name, it cannot be valued too highly; and until people are again systematically trained to it, there will be few great thinkers, and a low general average of intellect, in any but the mathematical and physical departments of speculation. On any other subject no one's opinions deserve the name of knowledge, except so far as he has either had forced upon him by others, or gone through of himself, the same mental process which would have been required of him in carrying on an active controversy with opponents. That, therefore, which when absent, it is so indispensable, but so difficult, to create, how worse than absurd is it to forego, when spontaneously offering itself! If there are any persons who contest a received opinion, or who will do so if law or opinion will let them, let us thank them for it, open our minds to listen to them, and rejoice that there is some one to do for us what we otherwise ought, if we have any regard for either the certainty or the vitality of our convictions, to do with much greater labour for ourselves.

But instead of finding methods for this purpose, people have lost the ones they once had. The Socratic dialectic, as shown in Plato's dialogues, was one such method. It was basically a negative style of discussion about the big questions of life and philosophy. Its skilled aim was to show anyone who had merely adopted common opinions that they did not really understand the subject. It showed they had no clear meaning attached to the doctrines they professed. By making them aware of this ignorance, they could be guided toward a firm belief based on a clear understanding of the doctrines and their evidence. Medieval school disputations had a similar goal. They aimed to ensure the student understood his own view and, by necessary contrast, the opposing view. Students learned to defend one side and refute the other. Those contests did have a fatal flaw. They appealed to authority rather than to reason. As a mental discipline they were inferior to the powerful dialectic that formed the minds of the "Socratici viri." Yet modern thought owes more to both methods than it usually admits. Today's education offers nothing that even begins to replace either one. Someone who learns only from teachers or books, even if they avoid the temptation of rote memorization, is not forced to hear both sides. So it is uncommon, even among thinkers, to know both sides. The weakest part of most people's defense of their opinions is what they plan as a reply to opponents. Today people often dismiss negative logic, the kind that points out flaws in theory or mistakes in practice without claiming positive truths. Negative criticism would be poor as a final result. But as a way to reach any genuine positive knowledge or conviction, it is invaluable. Until people are trained in it again, there will be few great thinkers and the general level of intellect will be low outside mathematics and the physical sciences. On most subjects, a person's opinions only deserve the name of knowledge if they have undergone, or been forced to undergo, the same mental process required in active debate with opponents. So something that is so indispensable when missing, and so hard to create, is all the more foolish to reject when it comes to us naturally. If there are people who challenge a received opinion, or would do so if law or public opinion allowed, we should thank them. We should listen and be glad someone does for us what we should, if we care about the certainty or vitality of our beliefs, try to do for ourselves with much greater effort.

It still remains to speak of one of the principal causes which make diversity of opinion advantageous, and will continue to do so until mankind shall have entered a stage of intellectual advancement which at present seems at an incalculable distance. We have hitherto considered only two possibilities: that the received opinion may be false, and some other opinion, consequently, true; or that, the received opinion being true, a conflict with the opposite error is essential to a clear apprehension and deep feeling of its truth. But there is a commoner case than either of these; when the conflicting doctrines, instead of being one true and the other false, share the truth between them; and the nonconforming opinion is needed to supply the remainder of the truth, of which the received doctrine embodies only a part. Popular opinions, on subjects not palpable to sense, are often true, but seldom or never the whole truth. They are a part of the truth; sometimes a greater, sometimes a smaller part, but exaggerated, distorted, and disjoined from the truths by which they ought to be accompanied and limited. Heretical opinions, on the other hand, are generally some of these suppressed and neglected truths, bursting the bonds which kept them down, and either seeking reconciliation with the truth contained in the common opinion, or fronting it as enemies, and setting themselves up, with similar exclusiveness, as the whole truth. The latter case is hitherto the most frequent, as, in the human mind, one-sidedness has always been the rule, and many-sidedness the exception. Hence, even in revolutions of opinion, one part of the truth usually sets while another rises. Even progress, which ought to superadd, for the most part only substitutes one partial and incomplete truth for another; improvement consisting chiefly in this, that the new fragment of truth is more wanted, more adapted to the needs of the time, than that which it displaces. Such being the partial character of prevailing opinions, even when resting on a true foundation; every opinion which embodies somewhat of the portion of truth which the common opinion omits, ought to be considered precious, with whatever amount of error and confusion that truth may be blended. No sober judge of human affairs will feel bound to be indignant because those who force on our notice truths which we should otherwise have overlooked, overlook some of those which we see. Rather, he will think that so long as popular truth is one-sided, it is more desirable than otherwise that unpopular truth should have one-sided asserters too; such being usually the most energetic, and the most likely to compel reluctant attention to the fragment of wisdom which they proclaim as if it were the whole.

I still need to mention one main reason why diversity of opinion is useful. This reason will hold until humanity reaches a level of intellectual development that now seems very far away. So far we have considered only two possibilities. One is that the common opinion might be false and some other opinion true. The other is that the common opinion is true, and facing the opposite error is needed to clearly understand and feel that truth. There is, however, a more common case. Conflicting doctrines often each contain part of the truth. The unpopular opinion supplies what the common view leaves out. Popular opinions about matters not obvious to the senses are often partly true, but rarely the whole truth. They include some truth. Sometimes they contain more of it, sometimes less. Yet they are often exaggerated, distorted, and separated from the other truths that should balance them. Heretical opinions are usually some of those suppressed or neglected truths breaking free. They either try to reconcile with what is true in the common view, or attack it and, with equal exclusiveness, claim to be the whole truth. The latter happens more often. The human mind tends to be one-sided. Being many-sided is the exception. So in shifts of opinion, one part of the truth often declines while another rises. Even progress, which should add to previous truth, usually replaces one partial truth with another. Improvement mainly means the new fragment of truth fits the needs of the time better than the old one. Because prevailing opinions are partial, any opinion that includes what the common view ignores should be valued. This is true no matter how much error or confusion surrounds that neglected truth. A reasonable observer will not be angry because people who force our attention to truths we missed also overlook some truths we already see. Rather, he will prefer that, while popular truth is one-sided, unpopular truth should also have one-sided champions. Those champions are often the most energetic, and most likely to force reluctant attention to the piece of wisdom they proclaim as if it were the whole.

Thus, in the eighteenth century, when nearly all the instructed, and all those of the uninstructed who were led by them, were lost in admiration of what is called civilisation, and of the marvels of modern science, literature, and philosophy, and while greatly overrating the amount of unlikeness between the men of modern and those of ancient times, indulged the belief that the whole of the difference was in their own favour; with what a salutary shock did the paradoxes of Rousseau explode like bombshells in the midst, dislocating the compact mass of one-sided opinion, and forcing its elements to recombine in a better form and with additional ingredients. Not that the current opinions were on the whole farther from the truth than Rousseau's were; on the contrary, they were nearer to it; they contained more of positive truth, and very much less of error. Nevertheless there lay in Rousseau's doctrine, and has floated down the stream of opinion along with it, a considerable amount of exactly those truths which the popular opinion wanted; and these are the deposit which was left behind when the flood subsided. The superior worth of simplicity of life, the enervating and demoralising effect of the trammels and hypocrisies of artificial society, are ideas which have never been entirely absent from cultivated minds since Rousseau wrote; and they will in time produce their due effect, though at present needing to be asserted as much as ever, and to be asserted by deeds, for words, on this subject, have nearly exhausted their power.

In the eighteenth century many educated people, and those they influenced, were swept up in admiration for what they called "civilization." They praised the marvels of modern science, literature, and philosophy. They also exaggerated how different modern people were from ancient ones and assumed that the difference was entirely in their favor. Then Rousseau's paradoxes hit like bombshells. They shook that narrow, confident opinion apart and forced people to rethink and rebuild their views in a better, broader way. This is not to say the common views were overall farther from the truth than Rousseau's. In fact, they were closer. They contained more solid truth and much less error. Still, Rousseau's ideas carried some exact truths that public opinion had been missing. Those truths stuck. They are the deposit left after the flood. The superior worth of a simple life, and the weakening, corrupting effect of the restraints and hypocrisies of artificial society, are ideas that have not left educated minds since Rousseau wrote. In time they will have their full effect. For now they still need to be asserted, often through actions rather than words, because words on this subject have almost run out of power.

In politics, again, it is almost a commonplace, that a party of order or stability, and a party of progress or reform, are both necessary elements of a healthy state of political life; until the one or the other shall have so enlarged its mental grasp as to be a party equally of order and of progress, knowing and distinguishing what is fit to be preserved from what ought to be swept away. Each of these modes of thinking derives its utility from the deficiencies of the other; but it is in a great measure the opposition of the other that keeps each within the limits of reason and sanity. Unless opinions favourable to democracy and to aristocracy, to property and to equality, to co-operation and to competition, to luxury and to abstinence, to sociality and individuality, to liberty and discipline, and all the other standing antagonisms of practical life, are expressed with equal freedom, and enforced and defended with equal talent and energy, there is no chance of both elements obtaining their due; one scale is sure to go up and the other down. Truth, in the great practical concerns of life, is so much a question of the reconciling and combining of opposites, that very few have minds sufficiently capacious and impartial to make the adjustment with an approach to correctness, and it has to be made by the rough process of a struggle between combatants fighting under hostile banners. On any of the great open questions just enumerated, if either of the two opinions has a better claim than the other, not merely to be tolerated, but to be encouraged and countenanced, it is the one which happens at the particular time and place to be in a minority. That is the opinion which, for the time being, represents the neglected interests, the side of human well-being which is in danger of obtaining less than its share. I am aware that there is not, in this country, any intolerance of differences of opinion on most of these topics. They are adduced to show, by admitted and multiplied examples, the universality of the fact, that only through diversity of opinion is there, in the existing state of human intellect, a chance of fair-play to all sides of the truth. When there are persons to be found, who form an exception to the apparent unanimity of the world on any subject, even if the world is in the right, it is always probable that dissentients have something worth hearing to say for themselves, and that truth would lose something by their silence.

In politics, it is a common observation that a party of order or stability and a party of progress or reform are both necessary for a healthy political life. That remains true until one or the other learns to be both orderly and progressive, and to tell what should be preserved from what should be swept away. Each way of thinking benefits from the other's weaknesses. Largely, it is their opposition that keeps each within the bounds of reason and sound judgment. Unless opinions favorable to democracy and to aristocracy, to property and to equality, to cooperation and to competition, to luxury and to abstinence, to sociality and individuality, to liberty and discipline, and all the other persistent oppositions of practical life, are expressed with equal freedom and defended with equal skill and energy, both elements cannot get their due. One side will rise and the other will fall. In major practical matters, truth often comes from reconciling opposites. Very few people have minds broad and impartial enough to make that adjustment correctly. So the balance must be reached by the rough process of struggle between opponents fighting under hostile banners. On any of the big questions just listed, if one of the two opinions deserves more than mere tolerance, it is usually the one that happens, at that time and place, to be in the minority. That minority view often stands for neglected interests, the side of human well-being likely to get less than its share. I am aware that in this country there is generally little intolerance of differing opinions on most of these topics. I cite these examples to show a universal fact: given our current human condition, only diversity of opinion gives a real chance of fair play to all sides of the truth. When people dissent from what seems to be the world's unanimous view on any subject, even if the majority is right, those dissenters probably have something worth hearing. Truth would lose something if they stayed silent.

It may be objected, "But _some_ received principles, especially on the highest and most vital subjects, are more than half-truths. The Christian morality, for instance, is the whole truth on that subject, and if any one teaches a morality which varies from it, he is wholly in error." As this is of all cases the most important in practice, none can be fitter to test the general maxim. But before pronouncing what Christian morality is or is not, it would be desirable to decide what is meant by Christian morality. If it means the morality of the New Testament, I wonder that any one who derives his knowledge of this from the book itself, can suppose that it was announced, or intended, as a complete doctrine of morals. The Gospel always refers to a pre-existing morality, and confines its precepts to the particulars in which that morality was to be corrected, or superseded by a wider and higher; expressing itself, moreover, in terms most general, often impossible to be interpreted literally, and possessing rather the impressiveness of poetry or eloquence than the precision of legislation. To extract from it a body of ethical doctrine, has ever been possible without eking it out from the Old Testament, that is, from a system elaborate indeed, but in many respects barbarous, and intended only for a barbarous people. St. Paul, a declared enemy to this Judaical mode of interpreting the doctrine and filling up the scheme of his Master, equally assumes a pre-existing morality, namely, that of the Greeks and Romans; and his advice to Christians is in a great measure a system of accommodation to that; even to the extent of giving an apparent sanction to slavery. What is called Christian, but should rather be termed theological, morality, was not the work of Christ or the Apostles, but is of much later origin, having been gradually built up by the Catholic church of the first five centuries, and though not implicitly adopted by moderns and Protestants, has been much less modified by them than might have been expected. For the most part, indeed, they have contented themselves with cutting off the additions which had been made to it in the middle ages, each sect supplying the place by fresh additions, adapted to its own character and tendencies. That mankind owe a great debt to this morality, and to its early teachers, I should be the last person to deny; but I do not scruple to say of it, that it is, in many important points, incomplete and one-sided, and that unless ideas and feelings, not sanctioned by it, had contributed to the formation of European life and character, human affairs would have been in a worse condition than they now are. Christian morality (so called) has all the characters of a reaction; it is, in great part, a protest against Paganism. Its ideal is negative rather than positive; passive rather than active; Innocence rather than Nobleness; Abstinence from Evil, rather than energetic Pursuit of Good: in its precepts (as has been well said) "thou shalt not" predominates unduly over "thou shalt." In its horror of sensuality, it made an idol of asceticism, which has been gradually compromised away into one of legality. It holds out the hope of heaven and the threat of hell, as the appointed and appropriate motives to a virtuous life: in this falling far below the best of the ancients, and doing what lies in it to give to human morality an essentially selfish character, by disconnecting each man's feelings of duty from the interests of his fellow-creatures, except so far as a self-interested inducement is offered to him for consulting them. It is essentially a doctrine of passive obedience; it inculcates submission to all authorities found established; who indeed are not to be actively obeyed when they command what religion forbids, but who are not to be resisted, far less rebelled against, for any amount of wrong to ourselves. And while, in the morality of the best Pagan nations, duty to the State holds even a disproportionate place, infringing on the just liberty of the individual; in purely Christian ethics, that grand department of duty is scarcely noticed or acknowledged. It is in the Koran, not the New Testament, that we read the maxim—"A ruler who appoints any man to an office, when there is in his dominions another man better qualified for it, sins against God and against the State." What little recognition the idea of obligation to the public obtains in modern morality, is derived from Greek and Roman sources, not from Christian; as, even in the morality of private life, whatever exists of magnanimity, high-mindedness, personal dignity, even the sense of honour, is derived from the purely human, not the religious part of our education, and never could have grown out of a standard of ethics in which the only worth, professedly recognised, is that of obedience.

It may be objected, "But _some_ received principles, especially on the highest and most vital subjects, are more than half-truths. The Christian morality, for instance, is the whole truth on that subject, and if any one teaches a morality which varies from it, he is wholly in error." This is the most important practical example, so it tests the general rule well. But before deciding what Christian morality is, we should agree on what the phrase means. If it means the morality of the New Testament, I am surprised anyone who studies that book would think it was announced or intended as a complete ethical system. The Gospel assumes an earlier morality. It limits its rules to points where that earlier morality needed correction or replacement by something higher. The Gospel often speaks in very general terms. Many passages cannot be taken literally. They read more like poetry or rhetoric than precise laws. To build a full ethical code from it requires filling gaps from the Old Testament. That older law is detailed, but in many ways harsh and meant for a harsh people. St. Paul opposed that Jewish method of completing his Master's teaching. Yet he also assumed a pre-existing morality, namely that of the Greeks and Romans. Much of his advice to Christians adjusts to that tradition. He even seems to give an apparent sanction to slavery. What is usually called Christian morality, but might be better called theological morality, was not created by Christ or the Apostles. It developed later. The Catholic Church of the first five centuries gradually built it up. Moderns and Protestants did not fully adopt it. They changed it less than one might expect. Mostly, they cut away medieval additions. Then each group added new rules that fit its character and tendencies. I would be the last to deny that people owe a great debt to this morality and to its early teachers. Still, I say plainly that it is incomplete and one-sided in many important respects. If ideas and feelings outside it had not helped shape European life and character, things would be worse than they are. Christian morality, as usually understood, has the force of a reaction. In large part it protests against Paganism. Its ideal is more negative than positive. It is more passive than active. It favors innocence over greatness. It values avoiding evil more than energetically pursuing good. As one critic said, "thou shalt not" often outweighs "thou shalt." Its horror of sensuality turned asceticism into an idol. Over time that ideal softened into a focus on legal rules. It offers heaven's rewards and hell's punishments as motives for virtue. This falls short of the best ancient ethics. It also makes morality essentially selfish by separating duty from concern for others, unless self-interest links the two. It teaches passive obedience. It demands submission to established authority. Those rulers are not to be actively obeyed when they command what religion forbids. But they are not to be resisted, and certainly not rebelled against, even for severe wrongs done to us. In the best Pagan moral systems, duty to the State occupied an even excessive place, sometimes infringing individual liberty. In pure Christian ethics, that great area of duty is barely noticed. It is in the Koran, not the New Testament, that we find the rule, "A ruler who appoints any man to an office, when there is in his dominions another man better qualified for it, sins against God and against the State." The small place public obligation has in modern morality comes from Greek and Roman sources, not from Christian ones. Even in private life, our magnanimity, high-mindedness, personal dignity, and sense of honour come from the human, not the religious, side of our education. These traits could not have grown from an ethical standard that openly values obedience above all.

I am as far as any one from pretending that these defects are necessarily inherent in the Christian ethics, in every manner in which it can be conceived, or that the many requisites of a complete moral doctrine which it does not contain, do not admit of being reconciled with it. Far less would I insinuate this of the doctrines and precepts of Christ himself. I believe that the sayings of Christ are all, that I can see any evidence of their having been intended to be; that they are irreconcilable with nothing which a comprehensive morality requires; that everything which is excellent in ethics may be brought within them, with no greater violence to their language than has been done to it by all who have attempted to deduce from them any practical system of conduct whatever. But it is quite consistent with this, to believe that they contain, and were meant to contain, only a part of the truth; that many essential elements of the highest morality are among the things which are not provided for, nor intended to be provided for, in the recorded deliverances of the Founder of Christianity, and which have been entirely thrown aside in the system of ethics erected on the basis of those deliverances by the Christian Church. And this being so, I think it a great error to persist in attempting to find in the Christian doctrine that complete rule for our guidance, which its author intended it to sanction and enforce, but only partially to provide. I believe, too, that this narrow theory is becoming a grave practical evil, detracting greatly from the value of the moral training and instruction, which so many well-meaning persons are now at length exerting themselves to promote. I much fear that by attempting to form the mind and feelings on an exclusively religious type, and discarding those secular standards (as for want of a better name they may be called) which heretofore co-existed with and supplemented the Christian ethics, receiving some of its spirit, and infusing into it some of theirs, there will result, and is even now resulting, a low, abject, servile type of character, which, submit itself as it may to what it deems the Supreme Will, is incapable of rising to or sympathising in the conception of Supreme Goodness. I believe that other ethics than any which can be evolved from exclusively Christian sources, must exist side by side with Christian ethics to produce the moral regeneration of mankind; and that the Christian system is no exception to the rule, that in an imperfect state of the human mind, the interests of truth require a diversity of opinions. It is not necessary that in ceasing to ignore the moral truths not contained in Christianity, men should ignore any of those which it does contain. Such prejudice, or oversight, when it occurs, is altogether an evil; but it is one from which we cannot hope to be always exempt, and must be regarded as the price paid for an inestimable good. The exclusive pretension made by a part of the truth to be the whole, must and ought to be protested against, and if a reactionary impulse should make the protestors unjust in their turn, this one-sidedness, like the other, may be lamented, but must be tolerated. If Christians would teach infidels to be just to Christianity, they should themselves be just to infidelity. It can do truth no service to blink the fact, known to all who have the most ordinary acquaintance with literary history, that a large portion of the noblest and most valuable moral teaching has been the work, not only of men who did not know, but of men who knew and rejected, the Christian faith.

I am far from claiming these faults are necessarily built into Christian ethics in every form it can take. I would never suggest this about Christ’s own teachings. As far as I can see, his sayings are not incompatible with anything a full moral system requires. Everything excellent in ethics can be put within them without twisting his words more than others have already done. At the same time, I think his teachings were meant to contain only part of the truth. Many key elements of the highest morality are not provided, nor intended to be provided, in the recorded words of Christianity’s founder. The Christian Church’s ethical system has also entirely left those elements out. Given this, it is a mistake to keep looking to Christian doctrine alone for a complete guide to life. Its author meant to sanction and enforce only part of that guide, not to supply it all. I also believe this narrow view is becoming a serious practical harm. It greatly reduces the value of the moral education many well-meaning people are now trying to promote. I fear that shaping minds and feelings purely by a religious model, and discarding the secular standards that used to coexist with and support Christian ethics, will produce a low, servile character. Such a person may submit to what they call the Supreme Will, but cannot rise to or feel the idea of Supreme Goodness. Other ethical systems, beyond what can come from purely Christian sources, must exist alongside Christian ethics to bring about moral renewal. Christianity is not an exception to the rule that, while the human mind is imperfect, truth benefits from a diversity of opinions. Recognizing moral truths outside Christianity does not require rejecting the truths it contains. Ignoring those truths is wrong. But such prejudice will sometimes occur. We cannot expect to avoid it entirely, and must accept it as the price of an immense good. When one part of the truth claims to be the whole, we must protest. If that protest becomes unfair in the other direction, that one-sidedness is regrettable but must be tolerated. If Christians want nonbelievers to be fair to Christianity, they should be fair to nonbelief. It helps no one to ignore the clear fact, familiar to anyone with ordinary literary knowledge, that much of the noblest and most valuable moral teaching came from people who either did not know Christianity or who knew it and rejected it.

I do not pretend that the most unlimited use of the freedom of enunciating all possible opinions would put an end to the evils of religious or philosophical sectarianism. Every truth which men of narrow capacity are in earnest about, is sure to be asserted, inculcated, and in many ways even acted on, as if no other truth existed in the world, or at all events none that could limit or qualify the first. I acknowledge that the tendency of all opinions to become sectarian is not cured by the freest discussion, but is often heightened and exacerbated thereby; the truth which ought to have been, but was not, seen, being rejected all the more violently because proclaimed by persons regarded as opponents. But it is not on the impassioned partisan, it is on the calmer and more disinterested bystander, that this collision of opinions works its salutary effect. Not the violent conflict between parts of the truth, but the quiet suppression of half of it, is the formidable evil: there is always hope when people are forced to listen to both sides; it is when they attend only to one that errors harden into prejudices, and truth itself ceases to have the effect of truth, by being exaggerated into falsehood. And since there are few mental attributes more rare than that judicial faculty which can sit in intelligent judgment between two sides of a question, of which only one is represented by an advocate before it, truth has no chance but in proportion as every side of it, every opinion which embodies any fraction of the truth, not only finds advocates, but is so advocated as to be listened to.

I do not claim that unlimited freedom to express every opinion would end religious or philosophical sectarianism. People of narrow minds will insist on whatever truth they earnestly believe. They teach it, press it, and often act as if no other truth exists, or at least as if nothing can limit or qualify theirs. I admit free discussion does not cure the tendency of opinions to grow sectarian. It often makes that tendency worse. A truth that should have been seen is sometimes rejected more fiercely because opponents proclaimed it. The beneficial effect falls not on the passionate partisan. It falls on calmer, more impartial bystanders. The real danger is not blunt clashes between parts of the truth. The real danger is quietly suppressing half of it. There is hope when people are made to hear both sides. When they listen to only one side, errors harden into prejudice. Truth then loses its force and can be exaggerated into falsehood. Few mental qualities are rarer than the ability to judge fairly between two sides when only one side has an advocate. Truth has no real chance unless every side, every opinion that contains any part of the truth, not only finds advocates, but is argued in a way that people will listen to.

We have now recognised the necessity to the mental well-being of mankind (on which all their other well-being depends) of freedom of opinion, and freedom of the expression of opinion, on four distinct grounds; which we will now briefly recapitulate.

We now recognize that freedom of opinion and freedom to express it are necessary for people's mental well-being. All other kinds of well-being depend on this. There are four distinct reasons for it, which we will now briefly summarize.

First, if any opinion is compelled to silence, that opinion may, for aught we can certainly know, be true. To deny this is to assume our own infallibility.

First, if any opinion is silenced, it might, for all we know, be true. Denying this assumes we are infallible.

Secondly, though the silenced opinion be an error, it may, and very commonly does, contain a portion of truth; and since the general or prevailing opinion on any subject is rarely or never the whole truth, it is only by the collision of adverse opinions, that the remainder of the truth has any chance of being supplied.

Secondly, even if the silenced opinion is wrong, it often contains some truth. The general or prevailing opinion on any subject is rarely the whole truth. Only when opposing opinions clash does the rest of the truth stand a chance of being revealed.

Thirdly, even if the received opinion be not only true, but the whole truth; unless it is suffered to be, and actually is, vigorously and earnestly contested, it will, by most of those who receive it, be held in the manner of a prejudice, with little comprehension or feeling of its rational grounds. And not only this, but, fourthly, the meaning of the doctrine itself will be in danger of being lost, or enfeebled, and deprived of its vital effect on the character and conduct: the dogma becoming a mere formal profession, inefficacious for good, but cumbering the ground, and preventing the growth of any real and heartfelt conviction, from reason or personal experience.

Third, even if a widely accepted opinion is not only true but the whole truth, it still needs to be openly and seriously challenged. If it is not, most people will accept it as a prejudice. They will have little real understanding or feeling for its rational grounds. Fourth, the doctrine’s meaning can be lost or weakened. It will lose its vital influence on character and behavior. The dogma becomes a mere formal profession, ineffective for good. It then chokes off the development of any real, heartfelt conviction based on reason or personal experience.

Before quitting the subject of freedom of opinion, it is fit to take some notice of those who say, that the free expression of all opinions should be permitted, on condition that the manner be temperate, and do not pass the bounds of fair discussion. Much might be said on the impossibility of fixing where these supposed bounds are to be placed; for if the test be offence to those whose opinion is attacked, I think experience testifies that this offence is given whenever the attack is telling and powerful, and that every opponent who pushes them hard, and whom they find it difficult to answer, appears to them, if he shows any strong feeling on the subject, an intemperate opponent. But this, though an important consideration in a practical point of view, merges in a more fundamental objection. Undoubtedly the manner of asserting an opinion, even though it be a true one, may be very objectionable, and may justly incur severe censure. But the principal offences of the kind are such as it is mostly impossible, unless by accidental self-betrayal, to bring home to conviction. The gravest of them is, to argue sophistically, to suppress facts or arguments, to misstate the elements of the case, or misrepresent the opposite opinion. But all this, even to the most aggravated degree, is so continually done in perfect good faith, by persons who are not considered, and in many other respects may not deserve to be considered, ignorant or incompetent, that it is rarely possible on adequate grounds conscientiously to stamp the misrepresentation as morally culpable; and still less could law presume to interfere with this kind of controversial misconduct. With regard to what is commonly meant by intemperate discussion, namely invective, sarcasm, personality, and the like, the denunciation of these weapons would deserve more sympathy if it were ever proposed to interdict them equally to both sides; but it is only desired to restrain the employment of them against the prevailing opinion: against the unprevailing they may not only be used without general disapproval, but will be likely to obtain for him who uses them the praise of honest zeal and righteous indignation. Yet whatever mischief arises from their use, is greatest when they are employed against the comparatively defenceless; and whatever unfair advantage can be derived by any opinion from this mode of asserting it, accrues almost exclusively to received opinions. The worst offence of this kind which can be committed by a polemic, is to stigmatise those who hold the contrary opinion as bad and immoral men. To calumny of this sort, those who hold any unpopular opinion are peculiarly exposed, because they are in general few and uninfluential, and nobody but themselves feel much interest in seeing justice done them; but this weapon is, from the nature of the case, denied to those who attack a prevailing opinion: they can neither use it with safety to themselves, nor, if they could, would it do anything but recoil on their own cause. In general, opinions contrary to those commonly received can only obtain a hearing by studied moderation of language, and the most cautious avoidance of unnecessary offence, from which they hardly ever deviate even in a slight degree without losing ground: while unmeasured vituperation employed on the side of the prevailing opinion, really does deter people from professing contrary opinions, and from listening to those who profess them. For the interest, therefore, of truth and justice, it is far more important to restrain this employment of vituperative language than the other; and, for example, if it were necessary to choose, there would be much more need to discourage offensive attacks on infidelity, than on religion. It is, however, obvious that law and authority have no business with restraining either, while opinion ought, in every instance, to determine its verdict by the circumstances of the individual case; condemning every one, on whichever side of the argument he places himself, in whose mode of advocacy either want of candour, or malignity, bigotry, or intolerance of feeling manifest themselves; but not inferring these vices from the side which a person takes, though it be the contrary side of the question to our own: and giving merited honour to every one, whatever opinion he may hold, who has calmness to see and honesty to state what his opponents and their opinions really are, exaggerating nothing to their discredit, keeping nothing back which tells, or can be supposed to tell, in their favour. This is the real morality of public discussion; and if often violated, I am happy to think that there are many controversialists who to a great extent observe it, and a still greater number who conscientiously strive towards it.

Before leaving the topic of freedom of opinion, it is worth addressing those who say all opinions should be freely expressed, provided the tone is moderate and stays within fair discussion. Much could be said about how impossible it is to fix such limits. If the rule is offence to those attacked, experience shows that people feel offended whenever an attack is effective. Any opponent who presses them hard and is hard to answer will seem intemperate if he shows strong feeling. This practical point matters, but a deeper objection is more important. Clearly the way someone states a true opinion can be objectionable and deserves blame. Yet the worst faults are usually impossible to prove on purpose, except by accidental slip. The gravest faults are arguing sophistically, leaving out facts or arguments, misstating the case, or misrepresenting the other side. Even when these are extreme, they are often done in good faith by people who are ignorant or incompetent. Because of that, it is rarely possible, on solid grounds, to call such misrepresentation morally blameworthy. Law could not rightly step in to stop this kind of bad arguing. As for what people mean by intemperate discussion—abuse, sarcasm, personal attacks—the complaint would be fairer if it applied equally to both sides. But calls for restraint usually aim only to silence attacks on the majority view. Against minority views, these tactics are often allowed and even praised as zeal and righteous anger. Still, their harm is greatest when used against the relatively defenseless. Any unfair advantage from this tone almost always goes to established opinions. The worst thing a debater can do is to brand those who disagree as bad or immoral people. Those with unpopular opinions are especially vulnerable to this slander. They are few, have little influence, and only they care much about being treated fairly. The people who attack a prevailing opinion cannot safely use this weapon. If they tried, it would backfire on them. Generally, unpopular opinions gain a hearing only through careful, moderate language and the avoidance of needless offence. If speakers deviate from that even slightly, they usually lose ground. By contrast, unchecked abuse by defenders of the prevailing view discourages people from expressing or listening to contrary opinions. For truth and justice, it matters far more to restrain this abusive language than to restrain attacks against the minority. If a choice were necessary, we should discourage offensive attacks on infidelity more than attacks on religion. Clearly, law and authority should not try to forbid either kind of attack. Public opinion, however, should judge each case on its facts. We should condemn anyone, on either side, whose way of arguing shows lack of honesty, malice, bigotry, or intolerance. We should not assume these vices from which side a person takes, even if it opposes our own view. We should honor anyone, no matter their opinion, who calmly understands and honestly states what their opponents really believe. They should not exaggerate to discredit them, and they should not hide anything that supports them. This is the true morality of public debate. It is often broken, but I am glad many controversialists largely follow it. Even more people sincerely try to reach it.