consciousness of freedom, that does not really prove anything, because if the will were not free we should none the less have precisely the same consciousness as we now have. Thus Bayle shows us that just as our consciousness of existence does not inform us whether we exist of ourselves, or whether we are indebted for our existence to another, so our consciousness of our acts of will cannot inform us whether we have produced them ourselves, or whether we receive them from the same cause which gave us our existence. He compares us to a conscious weathercock impressed at the same time with a movement to the east and also with an internal inclination to turn to the east. Evidently such a weather-cock would be under the delusion that it turned itself to the east in accordance with its own inclination to go that way.

M. The case is not fairly stated. Our consciousness of our existence tells us nothing of how we began to exist or where we came from, but our consciousness of willing does tell us when it began and whence it proceeded. It cannot be said with any truth, then, that we are only conscious of willing in the same way as we are conscious of existing. The true statement of what consciousness tells us when we will, is not that we are in a state of willing, but that we are in the act of willing. Indeed, our consciousness tells us that no other act we perform -whether of imagining, believing, thinking, or anything else is even nearly so much our own act as is our act of willing. But besides all this I think Bayle's weather-cock actually points against the truth of what he urges. He supposes it to be at the same

time both in the act of willing to turn to the cast, and also being actually blown in that direction. This seems to me to be parallel with the co-existence of a desire on my part to go to the meeting of the British Association at Sheffield, together with my being at the same time seized, carried to the railway station, and sent to Sheffield by force. In that case my volition and the direction of my journey would coincide, but, nevertheless, my common sense would tell me plainly enough that this coincidence was due to my having both desired to go to Sheffield, and to my having also been forcibly sent there. What would be true in my own case must-accepting Bayle's illustration-be true also of the weather-cock; and so it would know, clearly enough, that it both wished to turn to the east and was also carried there, 'willy nilly,' by the wind.

F. Still, we have as yet not considered the force of 'motives.' You will admit that the will cannot act without a motive, and you will also admit that if there were but a single motive, the will would necessarily act in the direction of that motive. If, then, there exist two or more conflicting motives, the will must necessarily act in the direction of the strongest of those motives.

M. Please recollect the distinction between inclinations, desires, wishes, likings, etc., on the one hand, and the act of determining or making a resolution to act in some definite way on the other. The distinction is plain, since I may at the same time be acted on by two contradictory inclinations with reference to one and the same act. But I cannot determine in two contradictory ways. I must either

determine or remain undecided; and if I determine I must determine in one way or in another. It is necessary to keep this distinction clearly in view, because people so often say that they desire' or ' wish' to do a thing when, in reality, they mean that they will it. On the other hand, people often say that they 'prefer' a thing a term which ought to denote the first act of will-when all they really mean is that they have a greater liking for it.

F. I recollect that Mill says, with respect to our consciousness of free will, I am told that whether I decide to do or to abstain I feel that I could have

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decided the other way. I ask my consciousness what I do feel, and I find indeed that I feel, or am convinced, that I could have chosen the other course if I had preferred it; but not that I could have chosen one course while I preferred the other.' Sir James Stephen, the judge, has also said: That any human creature ever under any conceivable circumstances acted otherwise than in obedience to that which for the time being was his strongest wish, is to me an assertion as incredible and unmeaning as that on a particular occasion two straight lines enclosed a space.'

M. These quotations you make afford good examples of the very ambiguity I refer to. If the judge by the word 'wish' or if Mill by the term ' preference' really meant 'will' or 'determination,' then these assertions are but the truism, 'no one can will what he does not will.' But if they mean something different, then both seem to me to be clearly wrong. They must then mean that we cannot determine in opposition to our strongest impulse, and,

as to that, everything depends on what we mean by the adjective strongest.'

F. You must admit that we always act according to our strongest motive.

M. I certainly am conscious, when under the influence of motives, that my ultimate choice is not forced on me; that, for example, when inclined to eat a cutlet or to give sixpence to a beggar, I can either do it or let it alone, though, of course, I may every now and then be overpowered by some violent desire or aversion. That there is this consciousness of freedom in determining is a fact for which I can cite no less a person than Mill himself as a witness. He says, 'We are certain that in the case of our volitions there is not this mysterious constraint. We know that we are not compelled to obey any particular motive.' As I have said, all depends on what is meant by the term 'strongest motive.' How do you judge of the strength of a motive?

F. As I judge of the strength of any other force -by its effects. I judge of it as we judge of the force of a bullet by its penetration into a target, or of the force of heat by our sensations and its action on a thermometer. We have thus effects of two very different orders: (1) effects on our sensitive being and (2) effects on mercury, made known to us, of course, through our senses. The latter order of effects, as less influenced by unknown causes, we take as our standard, and define that to be 'the greater heat' which 'most expands the mercury.' We may compare our sensations of heat with the thermometer, and say that they vary in intensity as it rises, but this will not always be really the case.

Let us compare this with our knowledge as to the strength of motives. We know their strength partly by their effects on our acts, as when one unopposed strong motive operates on us. We also know them by their effects on our feelings which, when of different kinds, it is often very difficult to compare and weigh. It is surely safer to rely upon the former test—which we may compare with the effect of heat on the mercury-than with the latter, which is purely subjective.

M. But some feelings of pleasure and pain we can compare together easily; as, for example, the comfortableness of two armchairs, or the sweetness of two kinds of champagne. In the same way, I am sure that I can easily compare the relative attractiveness of certain pleasures, and I am sure that I sometimes resolve in opposition to that which seems to promise me the fullest gratification. Therefore, if you ask me whether I always follow that motive which seems most to attract me, I unhesitatingly answer, 'No.'

F. That may be your persuasion, but you cannot know you are right. You cannot be sure you have accurately reviewed the varying play of many different motives on your will!

M. In the first place, let me remark that when you speak of estimating motives by their effects in producing action, you simply beg the question altogether. If you define 'strongest motive' as 'that which the will follows,' it is idle to profess to consider whether or not it always follows the strongest motive. It is asking whether the act of will always follows that which actually drags it along! But there is another