Freedom 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.

The objection likely to be made to this argument would probably take something like the following form. There is no greater assumption of infallibility in forbidding the spread of error than in anything else that public authority does on its own judgment and responsibility. Judgment is given to men so that they may use it. Because it may be used wrongly, should men be told that they ought not to use it at all? To prohibit what they think harmful is not claiming to be free from error. It is fulfilling the duty that falls on them, fallible as they are, of acting on their conscientious conviction. If we were never to act on our opinions because those opinions may be wrong, we would leave all our interests uncared for and all our duties undone. An objection that 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. They must form them carefully, and never impose them on 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. It is cowardice to let doctrines they honestly think dangerous to the welfare of mankind, either in this life or in another, be spread abroad without restraint, just because other people, in less enlightened times, 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 no one denies are fit subjects for the exercise of authority. They have imposed bad taxes and made unjust wars. Ought we therefore to impose no taxes, and, whatever the 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 enough for the purposes of human life. We may, and must, assume our opinion to be true for the guidance of our own conduct. And we assume no more than this when we forbid bad men to pervert society by spreading opinions we regard as false and harmful.

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.

Consider either the history of opinion or the ordinary conduct of human life. Why are they no worse than they are? Certainly not because of the inherent force of the human understanding. On any matter that is not self-evident, there are ninety-nine people totally incapable of judging it for every one who is capable. And the hundredth person's capacity is only comparative. For most of the eminent men of every past generation held many opinions now known to be wrong, and did or approved many things that no one will now defend. Why is it, then, that on the whole rational opinions and rational conduct prevail among mankind? If they really do prevail (and they must, unless human affairs are, and always have been, in an almost desperate state), it is owing to one quality of the human mind. That quality is the source of everything respectable in man, either as an intellectual or as a moral being. It is that his errors can be corrected. He is capable of correcting 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 give way to fact and argument. But facts and arguments must be brought before the mind to have any effect on it. Very few facts can tell their own story without comments to bring out their meaning. So the whole strength and value of human judgment depends on one property: it can be set right when it is wrong. Therefore we can rely on it only when the means of setting it right are kept constantly at hand. Take any person whose judgment really deserves confidence. How did 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. He has profited by as much of it as was just, and explained to himself, and on occasion to others, the error in what was mistaken. Because he has felt that the only way a human being can come at all near to knowing the whole of a subject is by hearing what people of every variety of opinion can say about it, and by studying every way it can be looked at by every kind of mind. No wise man ever gained his wisdom in any way but this. Nor is it in the nature of the human intellect to become wise in any other way. He has a steady habit of correcting and completing his own opinion by comparing it with those of others. Far from causing doubt and hesitation in putting it into practice, this habit is the only stable foundation for a just reliance on it. He knows all that can be said against him, at least all that is obvious. He has taken up his position against all opponents. He knows that he has looked for objections and difficulties instead of avoiding them, and has shut out no light that can be thrown on the subject from any side. So 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.

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.

The wisest people, who have the best right to trust their own judgment, find certain conditions necessary before they rely on it. It is not too much to ask that the public, that mixed collection of a few wise and many foolish people, should submit to the same conditions. The most intolerant of churches, the Roman Catholic Church, admits and patiently listens to a "devil's advocate," even when it makes someone a saint. The holiest of men, it appears, cannot be given honors after death until everything the devil could say against him is known and weighed. If even Newton's philosophy could not be questioned, people could not feel as sure of its truth as they now do. The beliefs we have the best grounds for have no safeguard except a standing invitation to the whole world to prove them unfounded. If no one takes up the challenge, or someone does and fails, we are still far enough from certainty. But we have done the best that human reason, in its present state, allows. We have neglected nothing that could give the truth a chance of reaching us. If the contest is kept open, we can hope that any better truth will be found once the human mind is able to receive it. Meanwhile, we can trust that we have come as close to the truth as is possible in our own day. This is as much certainty as a fallible being can reach, and this is the only way to reach 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, people feel sure not so much that their opinions are true as that they would not know what to do without them. This age has been described as "destitute of faith, but terrified at scepticism." In it, an opinion's claim to be protected from public attack rests 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 governments have as much duty to uphold them as to protect any other interest of society. In a case of such necessity, so directly in the line of their duty, something less than infallibility may, it is maintained, justify governments, and even oblige them, to act on their own opinion, confirmed by the general opinion of mankind. It is also often argued, and still more often thought, that only bad men would want to weaken these beneficial 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 way of thinking makes the justification for restraining discussion a question not of the truth of doctrines but of their usefulness. By this means it flatters itself that it escapes the responsibility of claiming to be an infallible judge of opinions. But those who satisfy themselves this way do not see that the assumption of infallibility has merely been moved from one point to another. The usefulness of an opinion is itself a matter of opinion. It is as disputable, as open to discussion, and as much in need of discussion as the opinion itself. Deciding that an opinion is harmful needs an infallible judge of opinions just as much as deciding that it is false does, unless the condemned opinion has full opportunity to defend itself. And it will not do to say that the heretic may be allowed to argue that his opinion is useful or harmless, though forbidden to argue that it is true. The truth of an opinion is part of its usefulness. If we want to know whether it is desirable that a proposition be believed, can we possibly leave out the question of whether it is true? In the opinion, not of bad men, but of the best men, no belief that is contrary to truth can be really useful. And can you prevent such men from making that plea, when they are charged with guilt for denying some doctrine that they are told is useful, but that they believe to be false? Those on the side of received opinions never fail to take every possible advantage of this plea. You do not find them treating the question of usefulness as if it could be completely separated from that of truth. On the contrary, it is above all because their doctrine is "the truth" that knowing or believing it is held to be so indispensable. There can be no fair discussion of usefulness when so vital an argument may be used on one side but not on the other. And in fact, when law or public feeling does not allow the truth of an opinion to be disputed, it is just as intolerant of a denial of its usefulness. The most it allows is some softening of the claim that the opinion is absolutely necessary, or that rejecting it is positively guilty.

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 illustrate more fully the harm of refusing a hearing to opinions because we, in our own judgment, have condemned them, it will help to tie the discussion down to a concrete case. I choose, by preference, the cases least favourable to me. These are the cases in which the argument against freedom of opinion is thought strongest, on grounds both of truth and of usefulness. Let the opinions attacked be 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 opponent. He will be sure to say (and many who have no wish to be unfair will say it inwardly): Are these the doctrines that you do not think certain enough to be taken under the protection of law? Is belief in a God one of the opinions that you say a person assumes infallibility by feeling sure of? But I must be allowed to point out that it is not feeling sure of a doctrine (whatever it may be) that I call an assumption of infallibility. It is undertaking to decide that question for others, without allowing them to hear what can be said on the other side. And I denounce and condemn this claim no less if it is put forward on the side of my most solemn convictions. Someone may be utterly convinced that an opinion is false. He may be convinced not only that it is false but that its consequences are harmful. He may be convinced not only of its harmful consequences but (to use expressions I altogether condemn) of its immorality and impiety. Yet if, following that private judgment, he prevents the opinion from being heard in its defence, he assumes infallibility. This is true even though his judgment is backed by the public judgment of his country or his contemporaries. And the assumption is not less objectionable or less dangerous because the opinion is called immoral or impious. Far from it, 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 that excite the astonishment and horror of later generations. Among them we find the memorable instances in history when the arm of the law has been used to root out the best men and the noblest doctrines. It succeeded, deplorably, as to the men. But some of the doctrines have survived, only to be invoked (as if in mockery) in defence of similar conduct toward those who dissent from them, or from their received 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.

Mankind can hardly be reminded too often that there was once a man named Socrates, who had a memorable collision with the legal authorities and public opinion of his time. He was born in an age and country rich in individual greatness. Those who best knew both him and the age have handed him down to us as the most virtuous man in it. And we know him as the head and model of all later teachers of virtue. He was the source both of the lofty inspiration of Plato and of the judicious utilitarianism of Aristotle, "i maëstri di color che sanno" (the masters of those who know), the two fountainheads of ethics as of all other philosophy. This acknowledged master of all the eminent thinkers who have lived since has a fame still growing after more than two thousand years. It almost outweighs all the other names that make his native city illustrious. Yet his countrymen put him to death, after a judicial conviction, for impiety and immorality. The impiety charge was that he denied the gods recognized by the State. Indeed, his accuser claimed (see the "Apologia") that he believed in no gods at all. The immorality charge was that, by his doctrines and teaching, he was a "corruptor of youth." There is every ground for believing that the court honestly found him guilty of these charges. So it condemned to death as a criminal the man who, of all then born, had probably deserved best of mankind.

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.

To move from this to the only other case of judicial injustice that would not be an anticlimax after the condemnation of Socrates: the event on Calvary a little more than eighteen hundred years ago. One man left such an impression of his moral greatness on those who witnessed his life and conversation that the eighteen centuries since have honored him as God himself. He was put to death in disgrace, as what? As a blasphemer. People did not merely mistake their benefactor. They mistook him for the exact opposite of what he was, and treated him as that monster of impiety which they themselves are now held to be, because of how they treated him. The feelings with which people now regard these sad events, especially the later of the two, make them extremely unjust in judging the unhappy people involved. By every appearance, these were not bad men. They were no worse than people usually are, but rather the opposite. They had a full measure, or somewhat more than a full measure, of the religious, moral, and patriotic feelings of their time and people. They were exactly the kind of people who, in every age including our own, have every chance of going through life blameless and respected. The high priest tore his clothes when the words were spoken that, by all the ideas of his country, amounted to the blackest guilt. He was in all probability just as sincere in his horror and outrage as most respectable and pious people now are in the religious and moral feelings they profess. Most of those who now shudder at his conduct would have acted exactly as he did, if they had lived in his time and been born Jews. Orthodox Christians who are tempted to think that those who stoned the first martyrs to death must have been worse 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 impressiveness of an error is measured by the wisdom and virtue of the person who falls into it. If anyone with power ever had grounds for thinking himself the best and most enlightened of his contemporaries, it was the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. He was absolute monarch of the whole civilized world. Yet all his life he kept not only the most unblemished justice but also, what was less to be expected from his Stoic upbringing, the tenderest heart. The few failings attributed to him were all on the side of leniency. His writings, the highest ethical product of the ancient mind, differ hardly perceptibly, if they differ at all, from the most characteristic teachings of Christ. This man was a better Christian, in all but the dogmatic sense of the word, than almost any of the professedly Christian sovereigns who have reigned since. And he persecuted Christianity. He stood at the summit of all humanity's earlier achievements. He had an open, unfettered intellect, and a character that led him on his own to embody the Christian ideal in his moral writings. Yet he failed to see that Christianity was to be a good and not an evil to the world, though he felt his duties to that world so deeply. He knew existing society to be in a deplorable state. But such as it was, he saw, or thought he saw, that belief in and reverence for the accepted gods held it together and kept it from being worse. As a ruler of mankind, he thought it his duty not to let society fall to pieces. And he did not see how, if its existing ties were removed, any others could be formed that could knit it together again. The new religion openly aimed at dissolving these ties. So unless it was his duty to adopt that religion, it seemed to be his duty to put it down. The theology of Christianity did not seem to him true or of divine origin. This strange history of a crucified God was not credible to him. The system claimed to rest entirely on a foundation he found wholly unbelievable. So he could not foresee that it would be the renewing force that, after all allowances, it has in fact proved to be. And so the gentlest and most amiable of philosophers and rulers, under a solemn sense of duty, authorized the persecution of Christianity. To my mind this is one of the most tragic facts in all history. It is a bitter thought how different the world's Christianity might have been, if the Christian faith had been adopted as the religion of the empire under Marcus Aurelius instead of under Constantine. But it would be equally unjust to him, and false to the truth, to deny one thing. Every plea that can be urged for punishing anti-Christian teaching was available to Marcus Aurelius for punishing, as he did, the spread of Christianity. No Christian more firmly believes that Atheism is false and tends to dissolve society than Marcus Aurelius believed those same things of Christianity. And of all men then living, he might have been thought the most capable of appreciating it. Anyone who approves of punishing the spread of opinions may flatter himself that he is a wiser and better man than Marcus Aurelius. He may think himself more deeply versed in the wisdom of his time, more raised in intellect above it, more earnest in his search for truth, or more single-minded in his devotion to it once found. Unless he does, let him refrain from assuming the joint infallibility of himself and the multitude. The great Antoninus made that assumption with so unfortunate a result.

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.

But in truth, the saying that truth always triumphs over persecution is one of those pleasant falsehoods that men repeat after one another until they become commonplaces, though all experience refutes it. History is full of cases of truth put down by persecution. If it is not suppressed forever, 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 Luther's time, wherever persecution was kept up, it succeeded. In Spain, Italy, Flanders, and the Austrian empire, Protestantism was rooted out. Most likely it would have been rooted out in England too, had Queen Mary lived, or Queen Elizabeth died. Persecution has always succeeded, except where the heretics were too strong a party 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 the persecutions were only occasional. They lasted only a short time, and were separated by long periods of almost undisturbed preaching. It is idle sentimentality to think that truth, merely as truth, has some 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. A sufficient use of legal or even social penalties will generally succeed in stopping the spread of either. The real advantage truth has is this. When an opinion is true, it may be stamped out once, twice, or many times. But over the course of ages there will generally be people who rediscover it. At last one of its reappearances falls at a time when, thanks to favourable circumstances, it escapes persecution until it has grown strong enough to withstand all 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.

It will be said that we do not now put to death those who introduce new opinions. We are not like our fathers who killed the prophets. We even build tombs for them. It is true that we no longer put heretics to death. And the amount of punishment that modern feeling would probably tolerate, even against the most offensive opinions, is not enough to wipe them out. 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 expressing it, still exist in law. And even in these times their enforcement is not so unheard of that it is at all incredible 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 blameless conduct in every relation of life, was sentenced to twenty-one months' imprisonment. His offence was saying, and writing on a gate, some offensive words about Christianity. Within a month of the same time, at the Old Bailey, two people, on two separate occasions,⁸ were rejected as jurymen because they honestly declared that they had no theological belief. One of them was grossly insulted by the judge and by one of the lawyers. And a third, a foreigner,⁹ was denied justice against a thief for the same reason. This refusal of redress rested on the legal doctrine that no person may give evidence in a court of justice unless he professes belief in a God (any god will do) and in a future state. This amounts to declaring such people outlaws, shut out from the protection of the courts. Not only may they themselves be robbed or assaulted with impunity, if no one but themselves, or people of similar opinions, is present. Anyone else may also be robbed or assaulted with impunity, if proof of the fact depends on their evidence. The assumption behind this is that the oath of a person who does not believe in a future state is worthless. Those who accept this proposition show much ignorance of history. For it is historically true that a large proportion of unbelievers in all ages have been people of distinguished integrity and honour. And no one would maintain it who had the smallest idea how many of the people most highly regarded in the world, both for virtues and for achievements, are well known, at least to their close friends, to be unbelievers. The rule, besides, is suicidal, and cuts away its own foundation. On the pretence that atheists must be liars, it admits the testimony of all atheists who are willing to lie. It rejects only those who face the disgrace of publicly confessing a hated creed rather than state a falsehood. A rule that so convicts itself of absurdity, as regards its professed purpose, can be kept in force only as a badge of hatred, a relic of persecution. It is a persecution, too, with a peculiar feature: the qualification for suffering it is being clearly proved not to deserve it. The rule, and the theory it implies, are hardly less insulting to believers than to unbelievers. For if he who does not believe in a future state necessarily lies, it follows that those who do believe are kept from lying, if they are kept from it at all, only by the fear of hell. We will not do the authors and supporters of the rule the injury of supposing that their idea of Christian virtue is drawn 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, admittedly, are only the rags and remnants of persecution. They may seem less a sign of a wish to persecute than an example of a very common weakness of English minds. They take an absurd pleasure in asserting a bad principle when they are no longer bad enough to want to put it into practice. Unfortunately, though, nothing in the state of the public mind guarantees that the pause in worse forms of legal persecution, which has lasted about a generation, will continue. In this age, the quiet surface of routine is disturbed as often by attempts to revive old evils as by attempts to introduce new benefits. What is now boasted of as a revival of religion is always, in narrow and uncultivated minds, at least as much a revival of bigotry. A strong, lasting strain of intolerance runs at all times through the middle classes of this country. Where such a strain exists in a people's feelings, it takes very little to provoke them into actively persecuting those they have never stopped thinking deserve persecution.¹⁰ For it is this that keeps this country from being a place of mental freedom: the opinions people hold, and the feelings they cherish, about those who reject the beliefs they consider important. For a long time now, the chief harm of the legal penalties has been that they strengthen the social stigma. It is that stigma which really works. It works so well that people in England declare opinions under society's ban much less often than people in many other countries declare opinions that risk legal punishment. For everyone except those whose wealth makes them independent of other people's good will, opinion on this subject is as effective as law. People might as well be imprisoned as shut out from the means of earning a living. Those whose living is already secure, and who want no favors from people in power, from organizations, or from the public, have nothing to fear from openly declaring any opinion. They risk only being thought and spoken badly of, and it should not take a very heroic character to bear that. There is no room for any appeal ad misericordiam on behalf of such people. But though we no longer inflict as much harm on those who think differently from us as we used to, we may do ourselves as much harm as ever by the way we treat them. Socrates was put to death, but Socratic philosophy rose like the sun in the sky and spread its light over the whole world of thought. Christians were thrown to the lions, but the Christian church grew into a tall, spreading tree. It rose above the older and weaker growths and smothered them in its shade. Our merely social intolerance kills no one and roots out no opinions. But it leads people to disguise their opinions, or to make no active effort to spread them. Here, heretical opinions do not noticeably gain or even lose ground from one decade or generation to the next. They never blaze out far and wide. They keep smoldering in the narrow circles of thinking and studious people where they began, never lighting up the general affairs of mankind with either a true or a false light. And so a state of things is maintained that satisfies some minds very well. Without the unpleasant business of fining or imprisoning anyone, it keeps all prevailing opinions outwardly undisturbed. Meanwhile it does not entirely forbid the use of reason by dissenters afflicted with the disease of thinking. A convenient plan for keeping peace in the intellectual world, and keeping everything there going on much as it already does! But the price paid for this kind of intellectual peace is the sacrifice of all the moral courage of the human mind. Under such conditions, a large share of the most active and inquiring minds find it wise to keep the real principles and grounds of their convictions to themselves. In what they say to the public, they try to fit as much as they can of their own conclusions to premises they have privately abandoned. Such a state of things cannot produce the open, fearless characters and the logical, consistent minds that once graced the world of thought. The kind of people we can expect under it are either mere conformers to the commonplace or time-servers for the truth, whose arguments on all great subjects are meant for their listeners and are not the ones that convinced themselves. Those who avoid this choice do so by narrowing their thoughts and interests to things that can be discussed without entering the realm of principles. These are small practical matters, which would set themselves right if only people's minds were strengthened and enlarged, and which will never be truly set right until then. Meanwhile, the very thing that would strengthen and enlarge people's minds, free and daring speculation on the highest subjects, is abandoned.

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.

Some see no evil in this silence on the part of heretics. They should consider, first, that because of it there is never any fair and thorough discussion of heretical opinions. And those heretical opinions that could not survive such a discussion may be prevented from spreading, but they do not disappear. But it is not the minds of heretics that are most damaged by the ban on all inquiry that does not end in orthodox conclusions. The greatest harm is done to those who are not heretics. Their whole mental development is cramped, and their reason cowed, by the fear of heresy. Who can calculate what the world loses in the many promising intellects joined to timid characters? They dare not follow out any bold, vigorous, independent train of thought, for fear it might land them in something that could be considered irreligious or immoral. Among them we may now and then see a man of deep conscientiousness and subtle, refined understanding. He spends a lifetime in sophistry, with an intellect he cannot silence. He exhausts all his ingenuity trying to reconcile the promptings of his conscience and reason with orthodoxy, and yet perhaps never succeeds, even at the end. No one can be a great thinker who does not recognize that, as a thinker, his first duty is to follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it may lead. Truth gains more even from the errors of one who thinks for himself, with due study and preparation, than from the true opinions of those who hold them only because they do not let themselves think. It is not solely, or chiefly, to form great thinkers that freedom of thought is needed. On the contrary, it is as much, and even more, indispensable to enable average human beings to reach the mental stature 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, and never will be, an intellectually active people in that atmosphere. Wherever any people has come near to such a character for a time, it was because the dread of unorthodox speculation was suspended for a time. Suppose there is an unspoken agreement that principles are not to be disputed. Suppose the discussion of the greatest questions that can occupy humanity is considered closed. Then we cannot hope to find the generally high level of mental activity that has made some periods of history so remarkable. Whenever controversy avoided the subjects large and important enough to kindle enthusiasm, the mind of a people was never stirred up from its foundations. Nor was the impulse given that raised even people of the most ordinary intellect to something of the dignity of thinking beings. We have had one example of such stirring in the condition of Europe in the times just after the Reformation. Another, though limited to the Continent and to a more cultivated class, was the speculative movement of the latter half of the eighteenth century. A third, still briefer, was the intellectual ferment of Germany during the period of Goethe and Fichte. These periods differed widely in the particular opinions they developed. But they were alike in this: 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 in these three periods has made Europe what it now is. Every single improvement that has taken place, either in the human mind or in institutions, can be traced distinctly to one or another of them. For some time, appearances have suggested that all three impulses are nearly spent. And we can expect no fresh start until we again assert 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.

This is illustrated in the experience of almost all ethical doctrines and religious creeds. They are all full of meaning and life to those who originate them, and to the direct disciples of those originators. Their meaning goes on being felt with undiminished strength, and is perhaps brought out into even fuller awareness, as long as the struggle lasts to give the doctrine or creed dominance over other creeds. At last it either prevails and becomes the general opinion, or its progress stops. In that case it keeps the ground it has gained but ceases to spread further. When either result has become clear, controversy on the subject flags and gradually dies away. The doctrine has taken its place, if not as a received opinion, then as one of the accepted sects or divisions of opinion. Those who hold it have generally inherited it, not adopted it. Conversion from one of these doctrines to another is now an exceptional event, so it takes up little room in the thoughts of their followers. At first they were constantly on the alert, either to defend themselves against the world or to win the world over. Now they have settled into acquiescence. They neither listen, when they can help it, to arguments against their creed, nor trouble dissenters (if there are any) with arguments for it. The decline in the living power of the doctrine can usually be dated from this time. We often hear the teachers of all creeds lamenting how hard it is to keep up, in the minds of believers, a lively grasp of the truth they nominally accept, so that it may reach the feelings and gain real mastery over conduct. No one complains of such difficulty while the creed is still fighting for its existence. Then even the weaker fighters know and feel what they are fighting for, and how it differs from other doctrines. And in that period of every creed's existence, quite a few people can be found who have realized its basic principles in every form of thought. They have weighed and considered them in all their important bearings. They have experienced the full effect on character that belief in that creed ought to produce in a mind thoroughly steeped in it. But then it becomes a hereditary creed, received passively, not actively. The mind is no longer forced, to the same degree as at first, to exercise its vital powers on the questions its belief puts before it. Then there is a growing tendency to forget everything in the belief except the formulas. Or people give it a dull and sluggish assent, as if accepting it on trust removed any need to realize it in consciousness or test it by personal experience. In the end it almost stops connecting at all with the inner life of the human being. Then we see the cases, so frequent in this age of the world as almost to form the majority, in which the creed stays outside the mind, as it were. It encrusts and petrifies the mind against all other influences addressed to the higher parts of our nature. It shows its power by not letting any fresh and living conviction get in. Yet it does nothing for the mind or heart itself, except stand guard over them to keep 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 may be naturally fitted to make the deepest impression on the mind, and yet stay there as dead beliefs, never realized in the imagination, the feelings, or the understanding. How far this can go is shown by the way most believers hold the doctrines of Christianity. By Christianity I here mean what all churches and sects count as such: the maxims and precepts contained in the New Testament. All professing Christians consider these sacred and accept them as laws. Yet it is hardly too much to say that not one Christian in a thousand guides or tests his own conduct by those laws. The standard he does use is the custom of his nation, his class, or his religious denomination. So on the one hand he has a collection of ethical maxims that he believes infallible wisdom has granted him as rules to govern himself. On the other hand he has a set of everyday judgments and practices. These go a certain way with some of those maxims, and not so far with others. They stand in direct opposition to some. On the whole, they are a compromise between the Christian creed and the interests and promptings of worldly life. To the first of these standards he gives his homage. To the other he gives his real allegiance. All Christians believe that the blessed are the poor and humble, and those who are ill-treated by the world. They believe 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. They believe they should judge not, lest they be judged, and that they should swear not at all. They believe they should love their neighbour as themselves, and that if someone takes their cloak, they should give him their coat also. They believe they should take no thought for tomorrow, and that if they would be perfect, they should sell all they have and give it to the poor. They are not insincere when they say they believe these things. They do believe them, as people believe what they have always heard praised and never discussed. But in the sense of the living belief that governs conduct, they believe these doctrines just up to the point where it is usual to act on them. The doctrines, in their full form, are useful for pelting opponents with. And it is understood that they are to be put forward (when possible) as the reasons for whatever people do that they think praiseworthy. But anyone who reminded them that the maxims require endless things they never even think of doing would gain nothing. He would only be classed among those very unpopular characters who pretend to be better than other people. The doctrines have no hold on ordinary believers. They are not a power in their minds. Believers have a habitual respect for the sound of them. But they have no feeling that spreads from the words to the things the words mean, and forces the mind to take them in and make them conform to the formula. Whenever conduct is concerned, they look around 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.

Now we may be quite sure that it was not so with the early Christians, but far otherwise. Had it been so, Christianity would never have grown from an obscure sect of the despised Hebrews into the religion of the Roman empire. Their enemies said, "See how these Christians love one another" (a remark nobody is likely to make now). At that time the Christians certainly had a much livelier feeling of the meaning of their creed than they have ever had since. And this is probably the chief reason why Christianity now makes so little progress in extending its domain, and after eighteen centuries is still nearly confined to Europeans and their descendants. Even with the strictly religious, who are very much in earnest about their doctrines and attach more meaning to many of them than people in general, the same thing commonly happens. The part that is comparatively active in their minds is the part that was made by Calvin, or Knox, or some such person much nearer to themselves in character. The sayings of Christ exist passively in their minds alongside it. They produce hardly any effect beyond what comes from merely listening to words so kind and gentle. There are doubtless many reasons why the doctrines that are the badge of a sect keep more of their life than those common to all recognized sects, and why teachers take more pains to keep their meaning alive. But one reason certainly is that the distinctive doctrines are questioned more, and have to be defended more often against open opponents. Both teachers and learners go to sleep at their post as soon as there is no enemy in the field.

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 seeking methods for this purpose, they have lost those they once had. The Socratic dialectic, so magnificently displayed in the dialogues of Plato, was a method of this kind. It was essentially a negative discussion of the great questions of philosophy and life. It was directed with consummate skill at convincing anyone who had merely adopted the commonplaces of received opinion that he did not understand the subject. It showed him that he as yet attached no definite meaning to the doctrines he professed. The aim was that, once aware of his ignorance, he might be set on the way to a stable belief, resting on a clear grasp both of the meaning of doctrines and of their evidence. The school disputations of the Middle Ages had a somewhat similar object. They were meant to make sure that the pupil understood his own opinion and (by necessary connection) the opinion opposed to it. He had to be able to argue the grounds of the one and refute those of the other. These contests did indeed have an incurable defect: the premises they appealed to were taken from authority, not from reason. And as a discipline for the mind, they were in every respect inferior to the powerful dialectic that formed the intellects of the "Socratici viri" (the followers of Socrates). But the modern mind owes far more to both than it is generally willing to admit. And present methods of education contain nothing that in the smallest degree takes the place of either. A person who gets all his instruction from teachers or books is under no compulsion to hear both sides, even if he escapes the constant temptation to be content with cramming. So it is far from common, 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 opponents. It is the fashion today to disparage negative logic, the kind that points out weaknesses in theory or errors in practice without establishing positive truths. Such negative criticism would indeed be poor enough as a final result. But as a means of reaching any positive knowledge or conviction worthy of the name, it cannot be valued too highly. And until people are again systematically trained in it, there will be few great thinkers, and a low general average of intellect, in every field of thought except mathematics and the physical sciences. On any other subject, no one's opinions deserve the name of knowledge except so far as he has gone through the same mental process that an active controversy with opponents would have required of him. Either others have forced it on him, or he has gone through it by himself. This process is so indispensable, yet so hard to create, when it is absent. So how worse than absurd it is to give it up when it offers itself of its own accord! If there are any people who dispute a received opinion, or who will do so if law or opinion lets them, let us thank them for it. Let us open our minds to listen to them. And let us rejoice that someone is doing for us what we ought otherwise to do for ourselves, with much greater labour, if we have any regard for either the certainty or the life of our convictions.

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.

It still remains to speak of one of the main reasons why diversity of opinion is beneficial. It will go on being so until mankind has entered a stage of intellectual progress that at present seems an incalculable distance away. So far we have considered only two possibilities. One is that the received opinion may be false, and some other opinion therefore true. The other is that the received opinion is true, and a conflict with the opposite error is essential to a clear grasp and deep feeling of its truth. But there is a more common case than either of these. Here the conflicting doctrines, instead of one being true and the other false, share the truth between them. Then the nonconforming opinion is needed to supply the rest of the truth, of which the received doctrine contains only a part. Popular opinions, on subjects not evident to the senses, are often true, but seldom or never the whole truth. They are a part of the truth, sometimes a greater part and sometimes a smaller one. But they are exaggerated, distorted, and cut off from the truths that ought to go with them and limit them. Heretical opinions, on the other hand, are generally some of these suppressed and neglected truths, bursting the bonds that held them down. They either seek reconciliation with the truth contained in the common opinion, or face it as enemies and set themselves up, just as exclusively, as the whole truth. The second case has so far been the most frequent. For in the human mind, one-sidedness has always been the rule, and many-sidedness the exception. So even in revolutions of opinion, one part of the truth usually sets while another rises. Even progress, which ought to add truth to truth, for the most part only substitutes one partial and incomplete truth for another. Improvement consists chiefly in this: the new fragment of truth is more needed, and better suited to the needs of the time, than the one it replaces. Since prevailing opinions are this partial, even when they rest on a true foundation, every opinion that contains some of the truth the common opinion leaves out ought to be considered precious. This holds however much error and confusion that truth may be mixed with. No sober judge of human affairs will feel bound to be indignant because those who force on our notice truths we would otherwise have overlooked overlook some of the truths we see. Rather, he will think that as long as popular truth is one-sided, it is more desirable than not that unpopular truth should have one-sided champions too. These are usually the most energetic, and the most likely to force reluctant attention to the fragment 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.

Take the eighteenth century. Nearly all the educated, and all the uneducated who followed their lead, were lost in admiration of what is called civilization, and of the marvels of modern science, literature, and philosophy. They greatly overrated how unlike the men of modern times were to those of ancient times, and indulged the belief that the whole of the difference was in their own favour. With what a healthy shock the paradoxes of Rousseau exploded like bombshells in their midst! They broke up the compact mass of one-sided opinion and forced its elements to recombine in a better form and with new ingredients. This is not to say that the current opinions were on the whole farther from the truth than Rousseau's. On the contrary, they were nearer to it. They contained more positive truth and very much less error. Nevertheless, Rousseau's doctrine contained a considerable amount of exactly those truths that popular opinion lacked, and these have floated down the stream of opinion along with it. They are the deposit left behind when the flood went down. The superior worth of a simple life, and the weakening and demoralizing effect of the restraints and hypocrisies of artificial society, are ideas that have never been entirely absent from cultivated minds since Rousseau wrote. In time they will produce their proper effect. But at present they need to be asserted as much as ever, and to be asserted by deeds, for words on this subject have nearly exhausted their 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, 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 political life. This holds until one or the other has so widened 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 ways of thinking gets its usefulness from the shortcomings of the other. But it is in great measure the opposition of the other that keeps each within the limits of reason and sanity. Consider all the standing oppositions of practical life: 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. Unless these are expressed with equal freedom, and pressed and defended with equal talent and energy, there is no chance of both elements getting 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 matter of reconciling and combining opposites that very few people have minds broad and impartial enough to make the adjustment anywhere near correctly. So it has to be made by the rough process of a struggle between fighters under hostile banners. On any of the great open questions just listed, one of the two opinions may have a better claim than the other, not merely to be tolerated but to be encouraged and supported. If so, it is the one that happens, at the particular time and place, to be in a minority. That is the opinion that, for the time being, represents the neglected interests, the side of human well-being in danger of getting less than its share. I am aware that in this country there is no intolerance of differences of opinion on most of these topics. I cite them to show, by many accepted examples, how universal this fact is: in the present state of the human intellect, only through diversity of opinion is there a chance of fair play to all sides of the truth. When we find people who form an exception to the apparent agreement of the world on any subject, even if the world is right, it is always probable that the dissenters have something worth hearing to say for themselves, and that truth would lose something by their silence.

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 case of all in practice, so none can be better suited to test the general rule. But before declaring what Christian morality is or is not, it would be well to decide what is meant by Christian morality. If it means the morality of the New Testament, I wonder that anyone who gets his knowledge of it from the book itself can suppose it was announced, or intended, as a complete doctrine of morals. The Gospel always refers to a morality that already existed. It confines its precepts to the particular points where that morality was to be corrected, or replaced by a wider and higher one. Moreover, it expresses itself in the most general terms, often impossible to interpret literally. It has the impressiveness of poetry or eloquence rather than the precision of legislation. It has never been possible to extract a body of ethical doctrine from it without supplementing it from the Old Testament. That is, from a system that is elaborate indeed, but in many respects barbarous, and intended only for a barbarous people. St. Paul was a declared enemy of this Jewish way of interpreting his Master's doctrine and filling out his scheme. Yet he equally assumes a pre-existing morality, namely that of the Greeks and Romans. His advice to Christians is in great measure a system of accommodation to that morality, even to the point of giving an apparent sanction to slavery. What is called Christian morality, but should rather be called theological morality, was not the work of Christ or the Apostles. It is of much later origin. The Catholic church of the first five centuries built it up gradually. Moderns and Protestants have not adopted it without question, but they have modified it much less than might have been expected. For the most part, indeed, they have been content to cut off the additions made to it in the Middle Ages. Each sect has filled the gap with fresh additions suited to its own character and tendencies. I would be the last person to deny that mankind owe a great debt to this morality and to its early teachers. But I do not hesitate to say that it is, in many important points, incomplete and one-sided. Unless ideas and feelings it does not sanction had helped to form European life and character, human affairs would be in a worse condition than they now are. Christian morality (so called) has all the marks of a reaction. It is, in great part, a protest against Paganism. Its ideal is negative rather than positive, passive rather than active. It is 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 gradually been compromised away into an idol of legality. It holds out the hope of heaven and the threat of hell as the appointed and proper motives for a virtuous life. In this it falls far below the best of the ancients. And it does all it can to give human morality an essentially selfish character. It does this by disconnecting each man's feelings of duty from the interests of his fellow creatures, except so far as he is offered a self-interested motive for considering them. It is essentially a doctrine of passive obedience. It teaches submission to all established authorities. They are indeed not to be actively obeyed when they command what religion forbids. But they are not to be resisted, much less rebelled against, for any amount of wrong done to ourselves. 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. But in purely Christian ethics, that great 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 gets in modern morality comes from Greek and Roman sources, not Christian ones. Likewise, even in the morality of private life, whatever exists of magnanimity, high-mindedness, personal dignity, even the sense of honour, comes from the purely human part of our education, not the religious part. It could never have grown out of a standard of ethics in which the only worth openly recognized is that of obedience.

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 as far as anyone from claiming that these defects are necessarily built into Christian ethics in every way it can be understood. Nor do I claim that the many requirements of a complete moral doctrine that it lacks cannot be reconciled with it. Still less would I suggest this about the teachings and commands of Christ himself. I believe that the sayings of Christ are everything I can see any evidence they were meant to be. I believe they conflict with nothing a comprehensive morality requires. Everything excellent in ethics can be fitted within them, with no more strain on their words than everyone has applied who has tried to draw any practical system of conduct from them. But it is quite consistent with this to believe that they contain, and were meant to contain, only part of the truth. Many essential elements of the highest morality are among the things not provided for, and not meant to be provided for, in the recorded words of the Founder of Christianity. And the Christian Church, in the system of ethics it built on those words, has thrown these elements aside entirely. This being so, I think it a great mistake to keep trying to find in Christian doctrine that complete rule for our guidance which its author meant to sanction and enforce, but only partly to provide. I believe, too, that this narrow theory is becoming a serious practical evil. It greatly reduces the value of the moral training and teaching that so many well-meaning people are at last working to promote. I very much fear the result of trying to form the mind and feelings on an exclusively religious model. That approach discards the secular standards (as they may be called, for want of a better name) that until now existed alongside Christian ethics and supplemented it, taking in some of its spirit and passing some of their own into it. From this there will come, and is already coming, a low, abject, servile type of character. However much it submits to what it considers the Supreme Will, such a character cannot rise to, or feel any sympathy with, the idea of Supreme Goodness. I believe that ethics other than any that can be drawn from exclusively Christian sources must exist side by side with Christian ethics to bring about the moral renewal of mankind. The Christian system is no exception to the rule that, while the human mind is imperfect, the interests of truth require a diversity of opinions. In ceasing to ignore the moral truths that Christianity does not contain, people need not ignore any of those it does contain. Such prejudice or oversight, when it happens, is entirely an evil. But it is one we cannot hope to be always free of, and it must be seen as the price paid for a priceless good. When a part of the truth claims to be the whole, that claim must and ought to be protested against. If a reaction should make the protesters unfair in their turn, this one-sidedness, like the other, may be regretted, but it must be tolerated. If Christians want to teach unbelievers to be fair to Christianity, they should themselves be fair to unbelief. It does the truth no service to shut our eyes to a fact known to anyone with the most ordinary knowledge of literary history. A large share of the noblest and most valuable moral teaching has been the work not only of people who did not know the Christian faith, but of people 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 even the most unlimited use of the freedom to state all possible opinions would put an end to the evils of religious or philosophical sectarianism. Any truth that men of narrow capacity are in earnest about is sure to be asserted, taught, and in many ways even acted on, as if no other truth existed in the world, or at any rate none that could limit or qualify the first. I admit that the freest discussion does not cure the tendency of all opinions to become sectarian. It often heightens and worsens it. The truth that ought to have been seen, but was not, is rejected all the more violently because it is proclaimed by people regarded as opponents. But it is not on the impassioned partisan that this collision of opinions has its healthy effect. It is on the calmer and more disinterested bystander. The formidable evil is not the violent conflict between parts of the truth, but the quiet suppression of half of it. There is always hope when people are forced to listen to both sides. It is when they attend to only one that errors harden into prejudices, and truth itself stops having the effect of truth, by being exaggerated into falsehood. Few mental qualities are rarer than the judicial faculty that can sit in intelligent judgment between two sides of a question when only one side has an advocate before it. So truth has a chance only in proportion as every side of it, every opinion that contains any fraction of the truth, not only finds advocates but is advocated in a way that gets it a hearing.

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 an error, it may contain a portion of truth, and very commonly does. The general or prevailing opinion on any subject is rarely or never the whole truth. So it is only through the clash of opposing opinions that the rest of the truth has any chance of being supplied.

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 subject of freedom of opinion, we should take some notice of those who say that the free expression of all opinions should be allowed, on condition that the manner is moderate and stays within the bounds of fair discussion. Much could be said about the impossibility of fixing where these supposed bounds lie. If the test is offense to those whose opinion is attacked, experience shows, I think, that offense is given whenever the attack is telling and powerful. Every opponent who presses them hard, and whom they find hard to answer, seems to them an intemperate opponent if he shows any strong feeling on the subject. But this point, though important in practice, gives way to a more fundamental objection. No doubt the manner of asserting an opinion, even a true one, may be very objectionable and may rightly earn severe criticism. But the main offenses of this kind can mostly not be proven, except when someone accidentally gives himself away. The worst of them are to argue deceptively, to hold back facts or arguments, to misstate the facts of the case, or to misrepresent the opposing opinion. But all this, even to the most extreme degree, is done so constantly and in perfect good faith, by people who are not considered ignorant or incompetent, and in many other respects may not deserve to be, that it is rarely possible, on adequate grounds and in good conscience, to brand the misrepresentation as morally blameworthy. Still less could the law presume to interfere with this kind of misconduct in debate. Then there is what people usually mean by intemperate discussion: invective, sarcasm, personal attacks, and the like. Condemning these weapons would deserve more sympathy if anyone ever proposed to forbid them equally to both sides. But people only want to restrain their use against the prevailing opinion. Against the minority opinion, they may not only be used without general disapproval, but are likely to win the person who uses them praise for honest zeal and righteous anger. Yet whatever harm comes from their use is greatest when they are aimed at those who are relatively defenseless. And whatever unfair advantage any opinion can gain from this way of asserting it goes almost entirely to accepted opinions. The worst offense of this kind a debater can commit is to brand those who hold the opposite opinion as bad and immoral people. Those who hold any unpopular opinion are especially exposed to this kind of slander. They are generally few and without influence, and no one but themselves cares much about seeing justice done to them. But by the nature of the case, this weapon is denied to those who attack a prevailing opinion. They cannot use it safely, and even if they could, it would only rebound on their own cause. In general, opinions contrary to the accepted ones can only get a hearing through carefully moderate language and the most cautious avoidance of needless offense. They hardly ever depart from this even slightly without losing ground. Meanwhile, unrestrained abuse used on the side of the prevailing opinion really does deter people from declaring contrary opinions, and from listening to those who declare them. For the sake of truth and justice, then, it is far more important to restrain this use of abusive language than the other kind. For example, if we had to choose, there would be much more need to discourage offensive attacks on unbelief than on religion. It is obvious, however, that law and authority have no business restraining either. Opinion, meanwhile, should reach its verdict in every case by the circumstances of the individual case. It should condemn everyone, whichever side of the argument they take, whose way of arguing shows a lack of candor, or malice, bigotry, or intolerance of feeling. But it should not infer these vices from the side a person takes, even if it is the opposite side from our own. And it should give due honor to everyone, whatever opinion they hold, who has the calmness to see and the honesty to state what their opponents and their opinions really are, exaggerating nothing to their discredit and holding back nothing that tells, or can be supposed to tell, in their favor. This is the real morality of public discussion. Though it is often violated, I am happy to think that many debaters observe it to a great extent, and that a still greater number conscientiously strive toward it.