Natural theology has traditionally been contrasted with revealed theology; the former appealing to reason, the latter to God's revelation, especially as manifested in the sacred texts. Although the scope of the former is often taken to include wider concerns about our knowledge of God and His attributes, the following discussion centres on one specific, but recurrent, aspect of natural theology: the argument from design, which gave rise in Europe to a flourishing genre from the late seventeenth century to the mid-nineteenth and beyond. (Throughout this chapter the term will be used in this restricted sense, not the wider one as employed by Lord Gifford.1) With its popularity spanning two centuries, perhaps longer, the design argument constitutes a major topic in the field of ‘science and religion’. As indicated in the preceding chapter, natural theology was not monolithic but fulfilled many different functions; hence the historian should be sensitive to its various modalities. But the focus of the present chapter moves discussion in a rather different direction, for we shall examine the historical significance of the design argument by analysing it as a form of rhetoric. Many historians of science, literary historians and sociologists of science have recently found common cause in attempting to understand science from the standpoint of rhetoric. Studies of narrative style and rhetorical ford have been directed to such diverse productions as Darwin's Origin of Species, papers on chemistry in specialist journals, and astronomy lectures intended for public consumption.2 Presentations of the design argument are also amenable to such analysis.

To the modern reader many examples of the design argument appear naive, perhaps even absurd. Even Isaac Newton—the most sophisticated of theoreticians—made theological capital out of the undisputed fact that we have two arms, two legs, two eyes and two ears. Such symmetry, he proclaimed, was surely a sign of design!3 That we possess one heart which is located off-centre did not seem to trouble him, Although this and many other examples may seem unsophisticated, even worthless, we are in danger of trivialising the design argument if we fail to push our historical analysis further. We should surely try to appreciate the significance of the design argument in its heyday. Why were so many natural theology texts on the list of best-sellers? What were its social resonances? Our aim in this chapter is to show how the historian can use rhetorical analysis to expose some of the social functions of natural theology.

Appeals to design long predate the writings of Boyle and Newton and are to be found among the writings of the ancient Greeks and Romans. However, it is no coincidence that the design argument gained a new lease of life during the ‘Scientific Revolution’ of the seventeenth century. Many of the leading natural philosophers of that period conceived the universe as providentially designed and enthusiastically recognised nature, and especially the many recently-discovered laws and phenomena, as God's handiwork. As Kepler wrote, ‘order exists [in the universe], not chance; there is pure mind and pure Reason’.4 Towards the close of that innovative century the sub-title of John Ray's The Wisdom of God Manifested in the Works of Creation proclaimed that his survey encompassed ‘the heavenly BODIES, ELEMENTS, METEORS, Fossils, Vegetables. Animals, (Beasts, Birds, Fishes, and Insects)… the Body of the Earth, its Figure, Motion, and Constitution; and… the admirable Structure of the Bodies of Man and other Animals; as also in their Generation, &c’.5 In this magnificent and broadly-conceived survey of creation Ray identified numerous signs of God's wisdom and goodness writ large. His book, which passed through many editions, became the paradigmatic British treatise on natural theology.

The best-known work in the genre is doubtless Archdeacon Paley's Natural Theology (1802), which trumpeted a similar message. Other familiar examples are the Bridgewater Treatises of the early 1830s whose authors divided nature into eight extensive topics, devoting one widely-read publication to each.6 Although contributions to the genre continued apace for some decades after the Bridgewaters, we can with hindsight appreciate several indications of decline even before the publication of Darwin's Origin of Species in 1859.7 The great age of natural theology had long passed by the time Adam Lord Gifford penned his will in 1885, but remnants of the argument from design continue to lurk in the corners of science, such as in the Anthropic Principle discussed in John Barrow's 1988 Gifford Lecture. There are even claims for its revival, as in the writings of John Polkinghorne.8

Although the design argument now receives relatively little scholarly attention, we misconstrue its history if we accept Richard Dawkins' incisive but derogatory judgement that in the light of evolutionary theory Paley's argument ‘is wrong, gloriously and utterly wrong’.9 We also limit our understanding of natural theology if we follow Clarence Glacken who paid excessive attention to the great philosophers, like Hume and Kant, but downplayed the numerous lesser mortals who contributed so much to the genre.10 While many of the ‘greats’ have written on the design argument, often critically, it is important to recognise the genre's social significance since through sermons, lectures and numerous publications, it was addressed to the wider public and not just to a handful of philosophers. That many works in this genre passed through numerous editions confirms the popularity of natural theology among the book-buying public, however difficult it may be to ascertain whether and how these books were read. While it would be fascinating to know who, if anyone, was persuaded by the natural theologians' arguments, internal evidence provides us with some clues about how authors conceived their books would be read. Most importantly, these natural theologians deployed rhetorical devices to persuade the reader or listener of the existence of God and also of some of God's attributes.

At the outset it will be helpful to introduce briefly one specific example. In 1718 a Dutch work by Bernard Nieuwentijt appeared in an English translation with the appropriate title, The Religious Philosopher: or, the Right Use of Contemplating the Works of the Creator. This substantial book, which surveyed in detail many aspects of the Creation, soon attracted attention, rapidly passing through several editions. Of the numerous evidences for design paraded by Nieuwentijt, we shall concentrate on his discussion of the structure and functions of the eye. Like other writers who found compelling evidences for design in the eye, Nieuwentijt dwelt on its refined optical characteristics, its ability to accommodate to differed distances, the wonderful design of the lens system which focused light on the retina, and much else. His chapter on the eye ended with the following meditation:

Now whosoever is a reasonable Person, and does plainly comprehend all that we have been saying about [the intricate structure and functions of] the Eye, ought he not to be astonish'd, that there was a Lucretius among the Ancients, so there are likewise in our Age Men that pretend to be Philosophers and Enquirers after Truth, and yet will not allow that the Maker of all these things, which contribute towards the forming of a good Sight, had any wise Purposes or Designs in forming the same?11

There are several features of this long and rather convoluted sentence that deserve attention. First, it is in the form of a rhetorical question addressed directly to the reader. Second, the reader is accepted as a reasonable person who will readily appreciate that the eye has been crafted by God. Third, Nieuwentijt elicits the reader's astonishment that anyone could possibly deny this manifestly true proposition. Finally, he portrays Lucretius and certain phoney modern philosophers as unreasonable men since they arrogantly deny such striking evidence of purpose and design.

A few further introductory comments are in order before we return to discuss these rhetorical aspects of natural theology. The notion of genre will be central to this chapter, but it is not easily defined and literary theorists are divided over its meaning. Some theorists, drawing on Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations, liken a genre to a game with its own rules. One advantage of this way of analysing genre is that it emphasises strategy, especially the strategic use of rhetoric to win over an audience—a point to be developed below. However, there is a danger that the game analogy positions genre above and apart from its constituent texts, as if even literary work naturally conforms to some pre-ordained genre. A more helpful way of envisaging genre is to accept that ‘works manifest genres rather than exist in a particular one’.12 Thus a specific text might exhibit more than one genre. Moreover, although literary theorists are divided over the question whether genre transcends history or is historically localised we shall adopt the latter position.

The strength of the notion of genre is that it groups together text that bear some generic similarity. In discussing natural theology as a genre we shall employ the term to refer to a collection of texts that engage recognisably similar subjects in a common manner. Most importantly, writers who adopted this genre perceived themselves building on a shared foundation and they self-consciously drew on a common (but ever-expanding) collection of canonical works. Thus later natural theologians saw themselves standing on the shoulders of John Ray, William Derham and William Paley, often quoting from them in extensively but not always agreeing with the details of their arguments. We must also recognise that genres develop and that this development is partly through internal criticism and partly from external stimuli, such as the engagement with critics or by the influence of social and political events. The design argument was remarkably malleable and was moulded in response to both the Industrial Revolution and the French Revolution. Not should we overlook the diversity within the genre: Natural theologians often disagreed among themselves. Among the many contentious problems were the following: Were physical laws—such as Newton's law of gravitation—particularly compelling proofs of design? Could God legitimately be compared to an artisan? Were (what we might now call) theoretical entities, such as atoms or the luminiferous ether, evidence of design? Did the structure of the human body offer more persuasive evidence than did celestial mechanics? While opposing views were expressed on all these issues, such differences represent disagreements within the genre. By contrast, natural theologians were united in confronting their commonly-agreed enemies, variously identified as the infidel, the deist and the atheist. Consensus over the opposition was important in helping to define and delimit the genre and also played a significant role in its historical development. Thus in the early nineteenth century many British natural theologians responded with hostility to Laplace's nebular hypothesis which they considered materialistic and a serious threat to Christianity.

One final point of contention. There was much dispute over the legitimacy and proper deployment of the design argument since many Christians, particularly High churchmen and evangelicals, considered it inferior to Revelation as a means of access to the nature of God. Unlike the Bible, the argument from design had little or nothing to say about the Trinity or about God's covenants with humanity. As we considered in the preceding chapter, it might even prove dangerous since deists could exploit it to legitimate a minimalist and decidedly non-Christian notion of the deity. Thus, for many, the design argument was not an unsullied blessing. Having recognised its disputed status among Christians we now examine its rhetorical, suasory dimensions.

Natural Theology as Rhetoric

Put simply, using evidence gleaned from the physical, biological and (sometimes) mental worlds, natural theologians deployed the argument from design to persuade their audiences to accept the existence of God and also some of His attributes, especially His power, wisdom and goodness. The argument rested on empirical evidence—such as the readily-observed complex structure of a flower, the wonderful workmanship of the eye, or the size of the earth's orbit. Such evidence was manifested by nature and had therefore to be accepted as true and incorrigible. Thus one of the argument's major attractions lay in the visibility, incorrigibility and ubiquity nature. Irrespective of education or social background anyone could observe and appreciate the numerous instances of design displayed by the natural world—the intricate structure of the thistle or the rose (whether of the Lancashire or Yorkshire variety). The Book of Nature was open for all to read. As one natural theologian noted, ‘every person possessed of an ordinary share of understanding, and whose organs of sensation are in a sound state, is capable of acquiring all the leading truths of the most useful sciences’.13 The design argument was firmly based on an empirical bed-rock, which is why David Hume considered it so worthy of refutation.

In the light of the preceding chapter it is important to re-emphasise that natural theologians did not deploy such evidence to ‘prove’ (in the strong, deductive sense) the existence and attributes of God. As eighteenth-century philosophers appreciated, deduction possesses very limited applicability outside mathematics and mechanics. By contrast, the empirical sciences—such as physical optics, chemistry, electricity and natural history—were recognised as inductive sciences. Inductive forms of inference deal with arguments where a conclusion does not follow necessarily from the premises. Here we are concerned with matters of degree—of likelihood rather than certainty. For example, suppose that Rangers have beaten Celtic at football on the last seven occasions. From this impressive record we might argue that Rangers are likely to win again next year. However, the argument is not watertight and does not lead to the untenable conclusion that Rangers must definitely win. The conclusions of inductive arguments may carry weight, but not certainty.

The design argument was generally accepted as an inductive argument. As one evangelical noted, ‘the principles of Baconian philosophy’ can be applied extensively in natural theology since many of God's attributes are ‘demonstrable a posteriori’.14 The conclusion of the design argument was deemed a ‘moral’ truth—one that admits of degrees. As a contemporary writer on rhetoric claimed, ‘In moral reasoning we ascend from possibility, by an insensible gradation, to probability, and thence, in the same manner, to the summit of moral certainty.’15 One factor affecting the strength of an argument was the amount of evidential support; the more evidence offered and (perhaps) the greater its diversity, the stronger the inference. By piling on examples of design natural theologians considered that they had reached the ‘summit of moral certainty’.

Concern with indue live inferences and with the persuasiveness of arguments suggests a close similarity between natural theology and the proceedings in a courtroom. In then numerous sermons, lectures and texts natural theologians treated their audience like a jury. Just as a prosecuting advocate would use every available argument to convince the jury of the guilt of the defendant, so the theologian would deploy any argument and hone any rhetorical device that would help persuade the audience that examination of the empirical evidence leads inexorably to the Designer. Persuasion was therefore the name of the game. The major weapons in the theologians' armoury were a quiver of rhetorical devices. Most importantly, they appealed directly to the testimony of nature. Nature sat in the witness box and was encouraged to spin her own forceful narrative, speaking of creation and intelligent design. In the dock stood the atheist who cut a sorry figure since he had perversely refused to be swayed by this most persuasive natural evidence. While the analogy can doubtless be extended, the relation between the advocate and jury can be seen as the key feature of the courtroom; the advocate's role being to persuade the jury by the appropriate use of rhetoric.

Rhetoric is concerned with appeals to the imagination and the emotions as well as to the faculty of reason. Thus in his Discourse on Natural Theology (1835), Henry Brougham identified the pleasures and advantages to be gained from studying natural theology, which he considered to be much greater than those arising solely from the pursuit of science. He proceeded to characterise natural theology as ‘an exercise at once intellectual and moral, in which the highest faculties of the understanding and the warmest feelings of the heart alike partake, and which… without ceasing to be a [natural] philosopher the student feels as a man’.16 This quotation conveys the wide range of mental faculties that Brougham considered should be employed by the natural theologian. Writers in this genre also frequently appealed to the non-rational functions of the mind. For example, in his Bridgewater Treatise published two years earlier William Whewell rejected the nebular hypothesis because it provided no ‘resting place or satisfaction for the mind’.17 In the light of such concerns about the affective connotations of natural theology, it would be inappropriate to reduce this complex genre to the domain of logic and ignore its intended influence on the other mental faculties, especially the imagination.

If the natural theologian's immediate aim was to persuade his listeners or readers, his objective was to induce waverers to alter their ways by acknowledging God in their lives and by thus encompassing a fuller Christian perspective. In the last chapter we cited the Cambridge philosopher and physicist William Whewell who considered that natural theology should nudge men ‘towards richer perceptions of their life; not rationally propelled’. Likewise, in one of his sermons Whewell appealed to the feelings that natural theology should evoke: ‘We ought to feel that all the Laws of the Universe are so woven together that we cannot separate or disentangle them, and [we] are necessarily by any thread drawn to the highest point: the Judge and Purifier of all.’18 Like Whewell, many other writers emphasised the usefulness of natural theology since it not only evinced the power, wisdom and goodness of God, but also fulfilled moral, as well as intellectual, purposes. For John Ray natural theology served to ‘stir up and increase in us the Affections and Habits of Admiration, Humility, and Gratitude’. In similar vein Paley argued that natural theology not only paves the way for receiving the truths of Revelation but carries the reader far beyond the mere intellectual acceptance of its propositions. He wrote: ‘It is one thing to assent to a proposition of this sort; another, and a very different thing, to have properly imbibed its influence.’ By imbibing the lull significance of the conclusions of natural theology the soul comes to appreciate God's presence in everything and is therein encouraged to lead a more fulfilling religious life.19

The status of rhetoric in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries requires a little more by way of introduction. Although based on the writers of antiquity, especially Cicero, Aristotle and Quintilian, the so-called ‘New Rhetoric’ moved the subject beyond its classical roots. Such books as George Campbell's The Philosophy of Rhetoric (1776), Hugh Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Letters (1783) and Richard Whately's Elements of Rhetoric (1828) sought to base the theory and practice of rhetoric on the philosophical assumptions of British empiricism, broadly defined.20 For example Campbell, who was Professor of Divinity at Marischal College. Aberdeen, drew on Thomas Reid's philosophy of common sense. In the universities—especially the Scottish universities—rhetoric was widely taught. Hence university-educated clergymen would have received a grounding in the subject. The importance of presenting religious arguments in the most persuasive manner was urged by Campbell, among others, who noted that religion ‘gives scope for the exertion of all the highest powers of rhetoric’.21 According to Campbell, the verbal or written communication should not only appeal to the reasoning faculty; it should also ‘please the imagination,… move the passions, or… influence the will’, which were, he claimed, ‘the handmaidens of reason’.22 Although rhetoric played no role in deductive arguments, Campbell considered that in all other forms of discourse rhetoric was required in order to product conviction in an audience. Since the preacher's job was to delight, to move and to teach his congregation in would have little impact on his listeners if he appealed only to their intellects. Instead, insisted Campbell, a preacher would gain their attention by exciting their imagination through the use of analogies and metaphors. Likewise, the congregation's passions must be appropriately aroused, particularly if a preacher is seeking to change their lives; the ‘primary intention of preaching’ being ‘the reformation of mankind’.23

Stimulating the Imagination

As Campbell noted in his Philosophy of Rhetoric, the role of the imagination was crucial in constructing any suasory discourse. He proceeded to specify ‘vivacity, beauty, sublimity, and novelty’ as the four main qualities that ‘gratify the fancy’.24 We shall illustrate these in turn, before examining three familiar tropes—analogy, metaphor and antithesis.

1) VIVACITY: In part the ‘vivacity’ of natural theological narratives arises from their direct appeal to the reader who is, as it were, taken on a Cook's tour of the physical universe, introduced to its various parts, exhorted to appreciate the design manifest throughout and then led to the conclusion that a beneficent designer is responsible. To increase the argument's vigour, it was often addressed ad hominem. For example, in Paley's celebrated work the interlocutor—‘I’—is present in many sections of the text and Paley thus invites the direct participation of the reader. His often-cited opening sentence begins: ‘In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be there; I might possibly answer…’. The encounter with a stone, then a watch, trades on the shared experience of stones and watches and also encourages the reader to join Paley on his literary journey. But the reader, as much as the interlocutor, is led to answer the questions posed by Paley: How did the stone come to be there? ‘Can anything be more decisive [evidence] of contrivance’ than the human eye? Encouraged by Paley the reader is directed to the only feasible answer.25 Again, to take an earlier example, when Derham dilated on the necessity and uses of the atmosphere he exclaimed, ‘Who can but own this to be the Contrivance, the Work of the great Creator?’26 The serious reader cannot but concur.

Many other strategies were employed to enliven natural theological discourse, such as rhetorical questions, exclamations and the use of italics and capital letters.27 Some natural theology texts were profusely illustrated, none more so than William Buckland's Bridgewater Treatise with its 69 plates, the first of which was a massive double fold-out in several colours, measuring 120cm in length, which showed a section through the earth in order to display the different geological strata and their fossils. Although critical assessments of this Treatise varied, it was widely hailed as a major contribution to geology, the reviewer in The Times declaring it ‘the most valuable and eloquent discourse that has appeared upon the science of geology since the time of the learned Burnett’.28

2) BEAUTY: As will be emphasised in the next chapter, it is important to recognise the aesthetic grounding of the design argument Many natural theologians directed their readers to appreciate the beauty observable in all parts of God's creation. Whatever its intrinsic attraction, the mere apprehension of beauty provided but a weak argument against the atheist, whose sense of beauty was generally thought to be stunted. The appeal to beauty was therefore connected with other, less superficial qualities revealed by the contemplation of nature. Derham beheld the ‘Harmony of this lower World’, and ‘an Œconomy worthy of the Creator’. Turning to the generation and conservation of species ‘we find every Thing in compleat Order; the Balance of Genera, Species and Individuals always proportionate and even; the Balance of the Sexes the same’.29 Likewise Buckland perceived the ‘exquisite symmetry, beauty, and minute delicacy of structure’ of ammonites, while William Kirby, the author of another Bridgewater Treatise, argued that the ‘great object of the Creator is the maintenance of the whole system of creation in order and beauty’.30 As these examples show, the notion of beauty was intimately connected with the ideas of design, order, coherence, harmony, unity and symmetry—that were thought to please the imagination and soothe the mind. In such examples the aesthetics of natural theology was directed more to the mind's eye than to the eye itself.

Natural theologians invariably accepted that nature was a divinely-ordained economy manifesting unity and coherence. The various component parts fit together to form an harmonious whole, and means are appropriate to ends. Buckland dilated on the compound eye of the trilobite, which contains nearly four hundred microscopic lenses, all suitably adjusted. ‘It appears impossible to resist the conclusions as to Unity of Design in a common Author, which are thus attested by such cumulative evidences of Creative Intelligence and Power… transcend[ing] the most perfect productions of human art’.31 The harmony, order and coherence identified by natural theologians assured readers that they are not alone but that a mindful protector has established order in the universe. Even the most threatening forces in nature could be tamed and rendered safe. Thunder and lightning, Whewell affirmed, are ‘parts of a great scheme, of which every discovered purpose is marked with beneficence as well as wisdom’.32 Likewise Derham dilated on the moral implications to be drawn from the existence of ‘fierce, poisonous, and noxious Creatures’. These, he insisted, were created for a purpose—they ‘serve as Rods and Scourges to chastise us’ and can also provide valuable food and medicines.33 For William Prout, the existence of poisonous metals did not furnish an argument against God's design but rather manifested His power.34 Properly deployed within the language of natural theology all of nature—even its least congenial elements—could be interpreted as indispensable parts of the providential plan. The scientist was therefore in a privileged position, being better able than the layperson to appreciate God's providence.

Natural theologians generally painted nature in optimistic colours. Even if humankind was sometimes unable to perceive God's providence and benevolence, they assured their readers that all aspects of the physical world are ordered and designed by God. These optimistic natural theologians found that the amount of pleasure far outweighed the amount of pain, and argued that even the relatively little pain that exists was introduced by God for specific—and ultimately beneficial—purposes. Thus Buckland argued that when rightly understood, apparent cases of evil—such as carnivores eating the weaker members of other species—were examples of universal good. He also conceived that under divine providence joy and happiness were maximised; thus the oceans were filled with teeming fish enjoying themselves.35 Paley likewise argued that in the vast majority of instances design is beneficial and he even portrayed society as a smooth-running system and not in need of change. Not surprisingly, evangelicals complained that he was far too complacent about human nature while radicals saw his natural theology as providing uncritical legitimation of the status quo.36

3) SUBLIMITY: Many eighteenth and early-nineteenth-century writers on ‘psychology’ and aesthetics drew a sharp distinction between beauty and the sublime. Indeed, Edmund Burke, among others, not only contrasted the feelings of the sublime and the beautiful but also attributed them to different causes. For Burke the perception of beauty occurs when the mind is soothed, whereas the sublime is founded on terror and sets the mind in a modified state of tension.37 Natural theologians made extensive use of the sublime by evoking those aspects of the natural world which most inspire wonder, awe and reverence.

Astronomy was an unrivalled source for imagery of the sublime Viewing the heavens Alexander Crombie declared: ‘How magnificent, how sublime a spectacle… the imagination is confounded’. Likewise, in his popular book on Celestial Scenery Thomas Dick surveyed the solar system and asserted that contemplation of the heavens ‘impress[es] on our minds… an overpowering sense of the grandeur and Omnipotence of the Deity’.38 As these examples indicate, the sublime in nature was readily serviceable to natural-theological narratives.

4) NOVELTY: In his Natural Theology (1829) Crombie complained that familiarity with the natural objects around us tends to deaden their impact on the mind. Moreover, this mental lethargy leaves us prey to atheism. We must therefore repeatedly be made to recognise that the natural world overflows with wonders. Only by appreciating these wonders do we become convinced that the Creation manifests God's wisdom.39 Crombie's emphasis on the importance of novelty in stimulating the imagination was echoed in the writings of other natural theologians who portrayed the whole world as overflowing with exciting novelties. The reader was therefore deluged with vast amounts of titillating information.

One specific strategy was to draw attention to extraordinary facts about the physical world, such as the size of the solar system or the intricate structure of the smallest of insects. That ice is less dense than water enables aquatic creatures to survive in winter beneath a protective barrier of ice. The protective scales of the armadillo, the aggressive fangs of the viper and the bulk of the earth (being 260,000,000,000 cubic miles) are among the many novel facts aimed at enlivening the imagination.40 But perhaps no instances of novelty can match the tribes of exotic but extinct creatures described in Buckland's Bridgewater Treatise. Even among these marvels one stood head and shoulders above the rest, the ungainly form of the megatherium which Buckland portrayed as ‘nearly allied to the Sloth, and, like the Sloth, presenting an apparent monstrosity of external form, accompanied by many strange peculiarities of internal structure’. Described in detail over 25 pages and depicted on three pages of plates, this monstrous ‘Leviathan of the Pampas’ captured the public imagination.41

A second strategy was to argue that the novel fact possessed profound significance, for had the world been only slightly different from its present state, then destruction would have occurred. This extended sense of novelty is apparent in many discussions of the distance of the earth from the sun. Natural theologians argued that if the distance were less than its present value, then we would all fry, but had it been greater, then the world would have been too cold and therefore unsuitable for all forms of life. From this stand-point the radius of the earth's orbit takes on a new significance that illuminates the theme of design, for although an arbitrary magnitude, the observed size of the orbit was chosen by the Designer in preference to other possible values.42 Although God is a free agent, able to cast the earth into any orbit, He chose just the right one.43 Some works in this genre made excessive, even bizarre, use of this strategy. Thus in his Religious Philosopher Nieuwentijt dilated on the senses and why they would have been inadequate had they been made either more or less sensitive; why every plant and animal would have died without water; why the earth is not ‘render'd Loathsome by Filth and Nastiness’; and the ‘Inconveniences that would befal us, if there weal no such thing as Fire in the World’—to mention but a few possible scenarios.44 The scope for conjuring up conceptually possible but emotionally repulsive worlds was immense, but they served to show the reader how each facet of the creation had been selected for a recondite purpose.

Thirdly, a refined level of novelty was achieved by showing that, when considered together, the facts and laws of nature—as exciting as they may be by themselves—displayed a coherence and even more profound meaning. The fang of the viper was no sport of nature but a perfectly designed piece of machinery for wounding its enemy.45 William Derham likewise considered the atmosphere suited ‘to many Uses of our Globe, and its great Convenience to the whole: and, in a Word, that it answereth all the Ends and Purposes that there can be for such an Appendage’.46 Appeals to the adaptation of means to ends, the conformity between structure and function, and the coherence of the parts, all contributed to the perception of novel relationships within the universe. Even the hulking megatherium was shown by Buckland not to be the misfit it might appear at first sight. Instead, when all the bones were considered in relation to one another in the light of Cuvier's morphological theories, the megatherium emerged as a structurally coherent creature.47 The ultimate meaning of such perceived interrelationships was that all parts of the universe—even the long-extinct megatherium—were included in the Designer's blueprint.

5) ANALOGY: According to Campbell, who drew selectively on Butler's The Analogy of Religion (1736), analogical evidence is ‘at best but a feeble support, and is hardly ever honoured with the name of proof. Nevertheless, when the analogies are numerous,… it doth not want its efficiency’.48 This scepticism about the power of a single analogy and the implicit need to multiply instances may help explain why natural theological texts abound with examples of design. In works like Ray's, Derham's and Paley's the analogies are amassed, sometimes several to a page, and the argument appears to gain inductive strength from the accumulation of instances especially when chosen from several different domains.

The fundamental form of analogy employed four terms arranged in two pairs. One pair included a man-made artefact—such as a telescope—and its maker; the other a specific part of the natural world—for example, the eye—and its Maker. Just as the telescope was constructed by the optician, so the eye was forged by the Creator; in both cases design implied a designer and craftsman. The analogy may be expressed in the following form:

Sometimes a non-specific artefact was chosen. For example, Whewell portrayed the luminiferous ether simply as a complex machine, ‘as skilfully and admirably constructed’ as the atmosphere—which he considered to be another machine.49 More specific artefacts were usually cited, often reflecting widely-available modern technologies. Clocks and watches were frequently evoked long before Paley fantasised about finding one on a heath. Heat and steam engines also sometimes provided analogues, and even in the early 1710s Derham had discussed the role of the atmosphere, and particularly the rain cycle, by appealing to its analogy with a ‘Pneumatick Engine’.50 While natural theologians often described the human body as a machine—‘that wonderful machine’ according to Kirby51—mechanism rarely played so central a role as in Paley's Natural Theology. Imbued with an optimistic utilitarian and progressivist ethic Paley appealed to mechanistic analogies and identities throughout his book. Not surprisingly, he claimed that muscular motion is mechanical and it ‘is as intelligible as the adjustment of the wires and strings by which a puppet is moved… and is as accessible as the mechanism of the automaton in the Strand’.52 When discussing the circulation of the blood the Archdeacon drew an analogy with another kind of mechanical system—the water supply to a city, which requires a central pump. He insisted that the argument from design could be made all the more rhetorically appealing to his readers—and all the more comprehensible—by identifying much of the body with familiar forms of machinery. Paley's enthusiasm for locating mechanical contrivances in nature sometimes resulted in strange mentions, as when he declared that ‘every [bird's] feather is a mechanical wonder’!53 Ironically, the claim that the world is or is analogous to a machine evoked the very term—mechanism—that had often been associated with the atheists' conception of a self-sustaining godless universe. To distance himself from mechanical reductionism Paley was at pains to insist that a piece of mechanism, such as a watch, no matter how well contrived, is not sell acting but requires an external source of power. Although we can identify a mechanical structure in nature, ‘living, active, moving, productive nature, proves also the exertion of a[n external] power’.54 Therefore Paley's God not only designed the world-machine but was also its mover.

Although mechanistic analogies were dominant, authors often deployed analogies derived from other domains. Even Paley recognised that the animal body was not completely reducible to a machine and on several occasions turned to chemistry to account for natural phenomena that were not susceptible to mechanical analysis. He noted that mechanical systems often terminate in chemical ones and characterised the stomach as ‘the great laboratory’, likening digestion to the chemical process of fermentation operating in the manufacture of cider.55 Although such processes were not well understood he conceded that they were law-like and must therefore be accepted as signs of design. In one of the very few natural theological works that engaged chemistry, Prout contrasted the limited knowledge and abilities of the most proficient chemist with ‘the great Chemist of nature’. God therefore emerges as the ‘great Chemist’ possessing super-human skill.56 Other authors likened God to a sculptor fashioning a statue or an architect designing a house. When contemplating the way each animal species depended on the appropriate kind of food, Derham described God as a ‘most prudent Steward and Householder’, thus emphasising the economy of the natural world.57 Whewell, however, made use of legal terminology, since in stressing that nature is law-governed he was claiming that the laws of nature are ‘remarkably adapted to the office which is assigned them; and thus offer evidence of selection, design and goodness’. God was therefore not only the Creator but also the ‘Legislator’.58 Close analysis of these various analogies indicate subtly different conceptions of God and of His relation to the world. Yet, for all its literary ornament, natural theology in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries lacked the clear, incisive analysis to be found in the most competent scholastics, such as Aquinas, and tended towards anthropomorphic images of the deity.

If we want to find an accomplished nineteenth-century theologian we need look no further than Thomas Chalmers, the Scottish Evangelical. Although critical of natural theology earlier in his career, he had made some accommodation to it by the early 1830s. Of particular interest is his response to those writers who portrayed God as the lawmaker. However effective this analogy, Chalmers was concerned that it could readily be subverted by atheists who claimed that laws were natural and not of divine origin. He therefore argued that in constructing a watch an artisan does not create elasticity in its mainspring but rather fashions the spring and the other components, so as to form an integral, working whole. The artisan is not a lawmaker but one who carefully and thoughtfully shapes and positions the material objects according to a plan. By analogy ‘we behold the finger of God’, not in the properties of matter but in its dispositions; not in the law of gravity but in the location of the planets round the sun. Indeed, had both matter and laws been created but the matter had been incorrectly distributed throughout the universe, then chaos would have resulted, not order.59 The point that emerges from Chalmers' intervention is that analogy can be subject to contradictory interpretations. A recurrent theme within the genre of natural theology was how to elaborate such analogies as effective rhetorical devices while preventing them from being hijacked by the deist or atheist.

6) METAPHOR: Tropes, such as metaphor, metonymy and synecdoche, feature prominently in both classical and modern studies of rhetoric such as those by Campbell and Whately who emphasised that, appropriately deployed, metaphors and other tropes add greatly to the energy and effectiveness of an argument.60 Natural theological texts abound with such tropes. For example, when Derham referred to the ‘Almighty hand’ and Paley to the ‘hands of the Creator’, they were using a conventional synecdoche in which a part—a ‘hand’ or ‘hands’—is taken to stand for God and his actions.61 However, less familiar examples were also employed and one of these bears closer examination since it contains crucial insights into the way the argument from design was articulated. In his chapter on the length of the year Whewell stated that ‘The vegetable clock-work is so set as to go for a year.’62 The conjunction between ‘vegetable’ and ‘clock-work’ immediately produces a tension since vegetables are normally classed as organic and are thus usually contrasted with mechanical devices. However, the effectiveness of the metaphor is due to the more conventional appeal to the regularity of the planetary motions. The earth takes a year to orbit the sun and the seasons are ‘set… to go for a year’. What the metaphor achieves is the introduction of celestial clockwork into the vegetable realm. The life of plants takes on the characteristics of orderliness and regularity, cohering with the time-period governing the earth's annual movement. But the image also binds together these two often-contrasted domains of the physical universe and shows them to be interlocking, synchronous parts of the Divine plan.

7) ANTITHESIS: According to writers on rhetoric the judicious use of antithesis is ‘calculated to add greatly to [the] Energy [of a narrative]. Every thing is rendered more striking by contrast; and almost every kind of subject-matter affords materials for contrasting impressions. Truth is [to be] opposed to error.’63 Natural theologians frequently generated a stark opposition between the existing situation and other possible, but thoroughly uncongenial, worlds. Thus Whewell claimed that if the earth had been as large as Jupiter, gravity would be eleven times greater than its current value and we would be flattened against the ground. Thus ‘for man to lift himself upright, or to crawl from place to place, would be a labour slower and more painful than the motions of a sloth’. Surely no intelligent deity would have made that mistake! Likewise, when discussing the role of the luminiferous ether Whewell conjured up two contrasting possibilities—either a world without ether, in which case ‘all must be inert or dead’, or a living world vitalised by the ether.64

As these examples from Whewell's treatise indicate, one rhetorical device available to natural theologians was to confront their readers with two opposing scenarios. However, the most frequently deployed and most effective contrast was between a world that manifests order and one that is chaotic. A seminal text indicating how this opposition had been perceived in the seventeenth century is Paradise Lost. In the opening lines of the first book Milton portrayed Genesis as teaching ‘how the heav'ns and earth/ Rose out of Chaos’ and he then proceeded to characterise Chaos as the dark hell where Satan resides. In book 2 Satan visits the gates of hell where he encounters Chaos, ‘next him high arbiter/ Chance governs all’. In this ‘wild abyss’ nature is in a state of confusion.65 Like Milton, later natural theologians considered Satan's allies to be the 3 ‘Cs’—Chaos, Chance and Confusion—the terms used to characterise the picture of the universe conjured up by atheistical materialists. If Milton's evocation of hell touched the deepest chords of Christian consciousness, natural theologians exploited this prevalent mythology to discredit their opponents by aligning the atheist (and often the infidel) with Satan. At the very heart of Western religious mythology lies the choice between evil and good, between a world of chaos and a God-created one. For natural theologians the argument from design posed this existential choice in its starkest form, for to refuse to acknowledge design was to court Satan in the guise of the atheist.

The possibility that atomism might be hijacked by the atheist was repeatedly identified as a major threat to a Christianised natural philosophy. Most famously, Newton conjured up the image of the atheistical materialist and sought to confute him in the ‘Queries’ to the Opticks and the ‘General Scholium’ added to the second (1713) edition of the Principia. The argument was also repeated by Roger Cotes in the preface added to that edition. In the final ‘Query’ of the Opticks Newton poured scorn on the idea that the world could ‘arise out of a Chaos by the mere Laws of Nature’—‘blind Fate’ could not account for the meticulously calculated orbits of the planets and comets.66 Similar strategies were adopted by many other writers in the natural theological tradition. For example, Richard Bentley devoted a significant part of his Boyle Lectures, entitled The Confutation of Atheism from the Origin and Frame of the World (1693), to showing that the ‘Atheistical Hypothesis of the World's production’ was untenable. Not only did he argue against the eternity of matter, but he also showed that a chaos of atoms was inadequate to produce the present state of the physical world: or, as he stated the leading question; ‘whether a World like the Present could possibly without a Divine influence be formed in it or no?’ Facing the reader with this stark choice Bentley marshalled numerous incisive arguments against his adversaries (‘supine unthinking Atheists’), thus demonstrating that the world has been providentially created by God.67

In these examples natural theologians conjured up visions of horrendous, dysfunctional worlds that seem to have much in common with the worst ‘B’ movies. Perhaps like such films, these narratives were intended to scare and produce revulsion, but their main rhetorical function was to create a stark comparison between such nightmare universes and the one we inhabit—which, by implication, appears safe, ordered and attractive. If chance is accepted, then chaos reigns and we are lost; whereas if the theistic option is true, then readers open their hearts to the Christian message and ultimately to salvation. A long, hard look at the physical world should convince the waverer that the world is designed and that the atheistical scenario cannot be a viable possibility. Faced with these two possibilities, any impartial judge is bound to accept the theistic alternative and totally reject the atheistical one. Only the perverse would opt for the latter, those devoid of reason.

United in Opposition

Natural theologians repeatedly identified atheists and their fellow travellers as the main opponents of Christianity. As in our earlier quotation from Nieuwentijt, Lucretius and his modern disciples were often cast as the enemy. A surprising amount of energy was expended on Epicurus, Lucretius and other long-dead writers whose frequently-reprinted books continued to disseminate their theories—Creech's English translation of Lucretius's De Rerum Natura passed through six editions between 1682 and 1722. The list of perceived enemies of Christianity was subsequently extended to include Spinoza, David Hume, Diderot, d'Holbach, Lamarck and Laplace, among others. Thus of the many adversaries cited by Thomas Chalmers, David Hume and Jean-Baptiste de Mirabaud—the nom de plume adopted by Paul Henri d'Holbach—feature prominently in his Bridgewater Treatise.68 It is also clear that, during the latter decades of the eighteenth century but especially after the Revolution, British theologians generally identified materialism and atheism with France. Denis Diderot's later writings, particularly his Rêve de d'Alembert, and d'Holbach's Système de la Nature (1770) were viewed as seditious and atheistical works that had contributed to the revolutionary spirit in France and had begun to infiltrate Britain. As Chalmers noted, the circulation of d'Holbach's book ‘has been much extended of late by the infidel press of our own country—where it is, we understand, working mischief among the half-enlightened classes of British society’.69 It is difficult to overestimate the impact of the French Revolution on all aspects of British life, natural theology included, and it helps explain the renewed vigour of the genre in the ensuing decades. Atheism was no longer just a philosophical enemy but was demonstrated as an insidious plot to overthrow the established order by the labouring classes. The marked increase in radical, anti-clerical agitation in the decades following the French Revolution fuelled the impression that atheism was rampant in Britain and posed a serious threat to church and state. This provides the context for the assertion in 1794 by John Adams, the Royal Mathematical Instrument Maker, that the design argument was Britain's strongest defence preventing the French cancer from crossing the Channel.70

The more scientific Bridgewater authors were, however, more selective in their condemnation of the French, since by the 1830s no branch of science could be pursued without acknowledging substantial contributions by Frenchmen. For example, in his Treatise on the form and structure of animals William Kirby borrowed extensively from Lamarck's works and adopted much of his classificatory system. However, in his extensive introductory essay this High Church Tory vehemently chastised both Lamarck and Laplace for disregarding ‘the word of God, and for seeking too exclusively their own glory’. He was particularly critical of Lamarck's view that material particles form the basis of living creatures. In his opinion the Frenchman had revived Epicureanism which portrayed nature as a blind, self-regulating and inhospitable principle of order that acts by chance, not design. Moreover, Kirby claimed that Lamarck had displaced God and instead had insinuated ‘nature’ onto His throne.71 Kirby therefore devoted his two volumes to reinstating God as the Creator and ruler of the world.

Although there is much evidence of deism during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and also some examples of more extreme forms of atheism in Britain, ‘the atheist’ presents the historian with a problem. The repeated references to Epicurus, Democritus and Lucretius, the paradigmatic materialists, suggest that we are dealing more with enemies on paper than with evil men likely to assault the casual visitor in the dark alleys of Glasgow or Leeds. Moreover, despite the claims by natural theologians that they were trying to convert the atheist, card-carrying atheists do not seem to be their main target. While not denying that atheists—especially political agitators—might have been thought to lurk at every street corner, their identity is not our principal concern here. Instead from the linguistic perspective developed in this chapter we would suggest that the atheist fulfilled specific rhetorical functions within natural theological discourse.

The figure of the atheist (and likewise the infidel) is a familiar one in Christian mythology since he shares many of Satan's characteristics. He radiates evil and threatens to seduce the unwary away from the path of righteousness. He is the Antichrist who seeks to subvert the social order, which he was seen to have achieved in revolutionary France. He is the power lurking in the human mind that wilfully refuses to acknowledge manifest evidence of divine design. Among its various functions natural theology could provide valuable support to the clergy in pursuing their calling which required them to battle for the souls of men and women. In this struggle for souls the aim of natural theology was not only to win over the atheist (real or imagined) but, perhaps more importantly, to strengthen the resolve and commitment of those already receptive to the Christian message and particularly the waverer. For example, in his preface to Nieuwentijt's book John Theophilus Desaguliers warned that ‘the Weak and Ignorant’ were particularly at risk.72 A century later Alexander Crombie devoted eighty pages of his two-volume Natural Theology to examining the causes of atheism. Yet his analysis was addressed primarily to the wavering Christian, since he warns his readers not to be seduced by the misuse of words, the writings of the sceptics their own arrogance or deference to the judgement of others. Indeed, on this last issue he cautioned against the authority of well known atheists—Epicurus, Democritus, Spinoza, Diderot and Laplace—and asserted that when deciding the question whether the eye is Constructed for seeing, a peasant is as competent a judge as a trained scientist.73

As constructed in these narratives the atheist cuts a pathetic figure since, when confronted by the argument from design, he denies design and thereby flies in the face of both evidence and reason. Chris Kenny has claimed that for defenders of Christianity atheism ‘could not by its very nature be philosophical and any attempt to clothe infidelity by means of philosophical coverings was a mere exercise in the art of concealment’.74 Thus although often proclaiming to be a champion of rational argument, the atheist's deployment of reason had to be shown by theologians to be a sham. The atheist is thus revealed naked as a monster. Derham dismissed him as ‘a Monster among rational Beings… a Rebel against human Nature and Reason’ since he ‘is under the Power of the Devil, under the Government of Prejudice, Lust, and Passion, not light Reason’. Samuel Clarke likewise chastised atheists as ignorant, stupid, debauched, corrupt and hardly superior to animals.75 Employing the language of deviance, madness and monstrosity natural theologians portrayed atheists as beyond the pale of rational civilised society since they perversely refused to comprehend that nature unflinchingly testifies to its Creator.

What is particularly fascinating about the history of natural theology is its symbiotic relationship with its proclaimed antagonists. Although natural theologians tried desperately to keep their opponents at arms length the two sides shared much—perhaps too much—in common. Natural theology was therefore vulnerable to subversion by deists who accepted that the world appeared to be ordered but rejected the inference to a biblical God still intimately concerned with creation. Hence natural theologians were forced to defend the genre by repeatedly policing its boundaries so as to exclude the taint of deism. For example, Whewell moved onto the defensive in his chapter on Laplace's nebular hypothesis, which offered a naturalistic account of the development of the solar system. He proceeded to dismiss all such theories which purported to offer the ‘ultimate cause[s]’ of phenomena and which thereby inhibited the search for divine meaning in the universe. If such causes ‘claim a place in our Natural Theology, as well as our Natural Philosophy; we conceive that their pretensions will not bear a moment's examination’.76 For Whewell, then, the nebular hypothesis and other purely naturalistic theories were monstrosities that had to be barred, refuted and distinguished clearly from the legitimate domain of natural theology.

Even language was a shared resource. As Michael Buckley has noted, atheism was ‘necessarily dependent upon theism for its vocabulary, its meanings, and its embodiments’.77 However, although Christians, deists and atheists drew on a common vocabulary, that vocabulary was constantly being refined and contested. This point is well illustrated by d'Holbach's Système de la Nature, which Henry Brougham claimed had made a far greater impact on the British public than any other atheistical work.78 D'Holbach adopted a hard-headed style in trying to undermine the arguments of theologians, particularly natural theologians. Thus he ruled out of court any appeal to the perceived wonders of nature which he dismissed as merely the result of a ‘heated imagination’. For him this misplaced feeling of wonder did not form part of the natural world but was an indicator of the prevalent nonsense encouraged by theologians. There are, he claimed, neither ‘wonders nor miracles in nature’. Instead he argued that if we discern nature clearly then such feelings of wonder are dissipated and we come to recognise that all physical phenomena are produced by the regular course of nature, governed by the laws of matter.79 By dismissing the feeling of wonder as an inadequate and inappropriate response, d'Holbach sought to undercut one of the natural theologians' main rhetorical strategies.

He deployed a similar strategy to neutralise the traditional opposition between order and chaos (or confusion) which natural theologians had used to create a sharp antithesis between their own providentialist view of nature and the atheists' chaos of atoms. D'Holbach, however, redefined these terms so as to dissolve this contrast. He argued that both ‘order’ and ‘confusion’ are not to be found in nature but are terms imposed by humans: when we can identify causes—such as the regular motion of the planets—then we perceive order, but when we fail to do so—as in cases of drought, plague, earthquake and (in earlier times) comets—then we proclaim confusion and pray to God for deliverance. Yet, for d'Holbach, plagues, droughts and earthquakes were as natural as the planetary motions, although we might not, at present, know the laws by which they are governed. Nature was redefined to include not only the finely-sculpted chrysanthemum but also the disastrous Lisbon earthquake of 1755. Sounding all too much like his opponents, d'Holbach dismissed the term ‘chance’ as ‘a word devoid of all sense’ whose function is ‘to cover… [man's] ignorance of those natural causes which produce visible effects’. For d'Holbach the customary but improper meaning of the word ‘chance’ stands in opposition to intelligence. Moreover, theologians had illegitimately transferred the notion of intelligence from its human reference to an hypothetical intelligent being who, they claimed, has ordered the universe. As with the previous example, d'Holbach declared this dichotomy false and argued that both chance and intelligence are not in the natural world but are merely products of an erroneous theistic perspective. When correct meanings are appreciated, ‘nothing is given to chance, nothing to a blind cause; but every thing he [mankind] beholds is attributed to real, to known [physical] causes, or to such as are easy of comprehension’.80 All ultimately resolves into nature and the laws of matter, not into God and His laws.

D'Holbach's book was just one of an increasing number of attempts from the mid-eighteenth century onwards to attack natural theology by weapons from its own armoury. The linguistic approach suggests that we should not simply concentrate on the arguments used by the warring parties or on their social and political contexts. Rather the texts and their rhetorical structure should be savoured. The central claim of this chapter has been that we can recover from such texts the dynamics of the design argument (and that of its opponents). To do so we need to appreciate that in its heyday theologians utilised all the rhetorical strategies at their disposal to hone the design argument for consumption by the wider public. In particular they conceived it as a genre that could rescue waverers and bring them back into the Christian fold. Thus we misinterpret the significance of the design argument if we simply dismiss it as either wrong or trivial and easily undermined by the philosophically sophisticated.

Epilogue

Finally, we wish to broach a related issue of contemporary relevance. Despite the recent renaissance of interest in natural theology, the decline of the design argument in the later decades of the nineteenth century has left a major lacuna that has not been adequately filled. So much of modern science is directed to the solution of either theoretical problems or practical ones arising from the requirements of business, industry and the military. Hence science is now usually justified to the public either in terms of expanding the frontiers of human knowledge or as the goose that lays the golden egg. The first may be the source of great satisfaction to the scientist, while the latter only impinges rather indirectly, perhaps via technology, on the woman on the Hillhead omnibus. Neither of these rationales appears particularly persuasive at a time when many sections of the public manifest little interest in science and science courses in many universities are significantly undersubscribed. The scientific community has therefore sought to remedy the situation by encouraging scientists to communicate with those outside their own milieu—for example in Britain through the many ventures organised by the Committee for the Public Understanding of Science, such as the aptly-named Faraday Award.

By contrast, in nineteenth-century Britain the public, or at least large sections of the reading public, evinced considerable interest in science. Their interest was stimulated by public lectures and by a wide variety of texts including textbooks, articles in the periodical press and works on natural theology. In many of these science was not simply presented as a series of facts about the universe but the wider significance of scientific knowledge was exploited. One recurrent theme was the alliance between science and natural theology, as in the Bridgewater Treatises. This alliance manifested two important features so lacking in modern science. First, it provided a bridge between the scientist and the wider public. Such a bridge is now more needed than ever before. Second, it was an expansive from of discourse that communicated the broader meanings of the scientific enterprise in ways that could touch people's lives. This issue was addressed as follows by George Fownes in a mid-nineteenth-century natural theology text:

What is the object of all science? Is it to procure the means of increased indulgence and refinement in the luxuries and the arts of life that we seek to extend the boundaries of natural knowledge[?] Is it the discovery of abstract principles only desirable on account of the possible application of these principles to the attainment of wealth and power? It cannot be by such considerations that the philosopher [scientist] is urged forward in his painful and thorny path of discovery. It is rather by an irresistible impulse, an instinct of his nature, which prompts him to rejoice in the contemplation of physical truth for its own sake, and to take delight and pleasure in its development.

A few lines later Fownes states that the primary aim of science is ‘the elevation and improvement of the mind itself’.81 He does not mean simply the acquisition of knowledge but he also included improvement of our moral, religious and ethical condition and understanding. For Fownes and many other writers in this genre natural theology made science edifying. Science was not therefore just an end in itself or a means of attaining wealth. Through natural theology science became a morally elevating discourse that celebrated nature and provided a glimpse through nature to its Creator. The term ‘the wonders of nature’ may have adopted a deeper, more vibrant, ring when nature was perceived through the lens of natural theology. Today, we live in increasingly technological, man-made and rather sterile environments and all too rarely can we glimpse the natural world (however defined). We may also have lost our sense of wonder and our appreciation of the poetry of natural theology.

In part science was responsible for this change. But it was not just evolution and materialistic theories in physics, biology and psychology that are relevant to this story. Professionalisation placed a premium on specialisation, utilitarianism and a sometimes myopic vision of the scientist's role. Partly as a result, the hiatus between the scientist and the public has increased considerably throughout the twentieth century. Moreover, science has become a business and the strings of bureaucratisation often inhibit the wellsprings of science that lie deep in the human spirit. Whatever the causes, few non-scientists can appreciate the poetry of science. Even scientists may be experiencing increasing difficulty in seeing beyond the limited scope imposed by an ends-means research programme.

In the decline of natural theology something very valuable has been lost, perhaps never to be regained. In dissociating itself from natural theology science lost a powerful ally and a potentially humanising force. Yet natural theology was not all light and we must not mourn its passing without drawing attention to one of the seeds of its own destruction. In emphasising order in the universe most natural theologians were unable to cope adequately with disorder, chaos or evil. The very optimism apparent in so much natural theology has not survived into the late twentieth century. After two devastating world wars, the Holocaust and the Atom Bomb, few can perceive design in history. In science the main locus of the design argument is pushed far back from our daily lives to the first few seconds of creation. Yet one of the main aims of this chapter has been to show that until the middle of the nineteenth century the design argument was a thriving, dynamic and popular genre.

For most of the twentieth century science could manage without the help of natural theology. In many countries science has seemed secure, progressive and appreciated by its political masters. However, in Britain the tide began to turn in the late 1970s when the scientific community found its budget cut and realised its lack of political friends and public support. The battle cry ‘Save Bridal Science’ has been heard in the land. After a long period of neglect the public is again being actively wooed by the scientific community. Yet there is much disagreement about how a new rapport can be achieved. While large sections of the scientific community have sought secular responses to their predicament, natural theology might be reconstructed for this purpose. Many of the old arguments are no longer serviceable and the old edifice will have to be substantially refurbished if this programme is to become viable. But how should it be reconstituted? Should the burgeoning new natural theology be concerned principally with God's selection of the physical parameters at Creation? Or is a more active and immanent God required? Most importantly, could a new natural theology inject the sense of social responsibility which the Chernobyl disaster and the BSE scandal have shown to be so lacking but so necessary?