b'THE \n\n\n\nSOIEKOE OF^HOUGHT \n\n\n\nCHARLES CARROLL EVERETT, D.D. \n\nBUSSEY PROFESSOR OF THEOLOOY IN HARVARD UNIVERSITY \n\nAUTHOR OF " POETKT, COMEDY AND DUTY," " FICHTB\'S \nSCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE," ETC. \n\n\n\nBEVISED EDITION \n\n\n\nBOSTON \nDE WOLFE, FISKE & CO. \n\n365 Washington Street \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1890, \nBy De Wolfe, Fiske & Co. \n\n\' 3 \n\n\n\nA OAKLAND fresh with flowers of song \nWould be an offering more meet \n\nFor thine acceptance than these sheaves \nOf ripened, dry and heavy wheat, \n\nWhich, bringing from the harvest field, \nI lay, beloved, at thy feet. \n\nI will not try vrith useless words \n\nTo glorify this gift of mine. \nIt were a hopeless task to prove \n\nThe homely offering fit or fine. \nThe truth is simply told: these sheaves \n\nAre all I have; I make them thine. \n\nBut when I sought the harvest field. \nThy careful love went forth with me. \n\nSupplied the strength I lacked, and wrought, \nThrough the long hours, ungrudgingly; \n\nEven this poor gift I cannot give; \nI bring but what belongs to thee. \n\n\n\nDigitized by the Internet Arciiive \nin 2011 with funding from \nThe Library of Congress \n\n\n\nhttp://www.archive.org/details/scienceofthought01ever \n\n\n\nPLAN AND CONTENTS. \n\n\n\nPAGE \n\nDedication m \n\nPreface to Revised Edition, vn \n\nrreface, IX \n\nIntroduction. \xe2\x80\x94 Thought and Logic in General, 1 \n\nFIRST BOOK. \n\nABSTRACT MATERIAL AND RELATIONS OF THOUGHT, OR CATEGORIES, 26 \n\nFirst. \xe2\x80\x94 Positive (Static Relations), 27 \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Quality, 27 \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Quantity 32 \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 Limit, 30 \n\nSecond. \xe2\x80\x94 Negative (Dynamic Relations), ....... iO \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 The Negative Relation of an Object or a Quality to Itself \n\n(Change), 40 \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Negative Relation of an Object or a Quality to Others (Cause \n\nand Effect), 44 \n\nThird. \xe2\x80\x94 Negation of Negation (Organic Relations), 52 \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Final Cause 54 \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Differentiation, 55 \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 Integration, 57 \n\nConclusion, 59 \n\nSECOND BOOK. \n\nFGiMS OF THOUCxHT AS EMBODIED IN LOGICAL FORMS, 61 \n\nFirst. \xe2\x80\x94 Conception and Terms (Logic of Language), .... 63 \n\nSecond. \xe2\x80\x94 Judgments and Propositions, 93 \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Propositions of Identity (\'Zog\'fc 0/ JWaiAewioWcs J, ... 98 \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Unequal Propositions, 105 \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Propositions of Perception, 110 \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Propositions of the Understanding, 115 \n\n1st class \xe2\x80\x94 of Generalization, ....... 115 \n\n2d class \xe2\x80\x94 of Classification, 124 \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 Propositions of the Reason, 137 \n\n1st class \xe2\x80\x94 of Truth, 137 \n\n2d class \xe2\x80\x94 of Goodness, 143 \n\n3d class \xe2\x80\x94 of Beauty, 153 \n\nG. \xe2\x80\x94 Mediated Propositions, 164 \n\nT \n\n\n\nTl \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nThird. \xe2\x80\x94 Proof and Syllogisms, \n\nFirst Form of Syllogism (Deduction), \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction based upon Propositions of the Reason (The Offerer\' \nEelations of thexe, \xe2\x80\x94 a priori Theology), \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction from the First Proposition of the Reason, namelf , \n\nof Truth (Lof/ic of Philosophy J, \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction from the Second Proposition of the Reason, \n\nnamely, of Goodness (Logic of Ethics), .... \n\nc. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction from the Third Proposition of the Reason, namely, \n\nof Beauty (Logic of ^Esthetics), \n\nConclusion, \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction from Propositions of the Understanding, . . \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Static, \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Dynamic, \n\nc. \xe2\x80\x94 Organic, \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 Deduction from Mixed Propositions T-ffj/poiftesis^, . , \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Static, \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Dynamic, \n\nc. \xe2\x80\x94 Ovg&xAc ( Final Cause), . . . . , . . . \nSecond Form of Syllogism (Analogy and Induction), .... \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Analogy, \n\n6. \xe2\x80\x94 Induction, ., \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Static, \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Dynamic, \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Empiric \n\n6. \xe2\x80\x94 Rational, \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 . . \n\nc \xe2\x80\x94 Organic (Final Cause), \n\nConclusion of Induction, \n\nThird Form of Syllogism (Identification), \n\nConclusion of Syllogisms, \n\nConclusion of Logical Forms, \n\nTHIRD BOOK. \n\nTHE PROBLEMS AND LIMITS OF THOUGHT, \n\nFirst. \xe2\x80\x94 The Problems of the Reason or of Philosophy, \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 Subjective and Objective, . \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 Infinite and Finite, \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 Static (Infinite Being), \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 Dynamic (Infinite Force) \nc. \xe2\x80\x94 Organic (The Absolute), \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 Inner and Outer, . \nSecond. \xe2\x80\x94 Problems of the Understanding or of Science \nThird. \xe2\x80\x94 Problems of the Reason and Understanding united in Concrete \n\nForms, or of Life, \n\n\n\nPAoa \n\n16\xc2\xab \n109 \n\n17\xc2\xab \n\n18f \n\n20P \n\n2a \n\n23; \n23c \n236 \n239 \n246 \n247 \n251 \n253 \n258 \n267 \n274 \n295 \n295 \n305 \n305 \n317 \n320 \n355 \n357 \n362 \n363 \n\n\n\n373 \n\n373 \n373 \n\n386 \n388 \n398 \n402 \n405 \n413 \n\n420 \n\n\n\nAPPENDIX. \n\n\n\nI.\xe2\x80\x94 The Proposition \ntl.-The SyUogism \n\n\n\n427 \n\n428 \n\n\n\nPREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. \n\n\n\nIn the successive imprints of this book that have \nappeared since it was first published in 1869, no \nchanges have been made except the correction of \ntypographical and similar errors. In the present \nedition several alterations have been made, both in \nthe way of addition and omission. So far as the \nform is concerned, the book is still in some respects \ndifferent, perhaps for the better, from what it would \nbe if it were a work freshly prepared by the author. \nThe fundamental principles which it represents ap- \npear to me, however, no less true, and more impor- \ntant, than they did when it was first written. I still \nthink that Hegel\'s analysis of logical forms is \nthe only one which represents their true nature ; \nwhile the philosophy, if it may be so called, which, \nin the book, underlies the treatment of the processes \nof thought, has furnished the lines which my own \nmore serious work has ever since followed. \n\nC. C, EVERETT. \n\nHaevakd University, March, 1890. \n\n\n\nPREFACE. \n\n\n\nIt is the aim of this work to consider thought as a \nreality, to approach it as any work of true science ap- \nproaches its material. It first discusses the relations that \nmake up the substance of actual thought. It then ana- \nlyzes thought into its elements, and follows it into its \nfundamental divisions. It shows the methods of each of \nthese, the kind of argument, and the degree of certainty of \nwhich it admits, its dangers and its safeguards, and how \nall of these divisions are the parts of a common whole. \nAnd, finally, it considers thought in its completeness. It \nseeks to determine its limits and its scope, and to that \nend it considers some of the actual problems with which \nthought has to contend, so far as the possibility of their \nsolution depends upon or illustrates the nature and limits \nof thought itself. Such is at least the plan of the present \nwork ; and without regard to the success or failure of its \nexecution, such, I am confident, must be, in general, the \nplan of any true system of logic ; or, if the true meaning \nand use of this term should be made a matter of dispute, \nsuch must be, in general, the plan and scope of any work \nthat shall treat thought as an object of scientific study. \n\nThere was never a period when such a study was more \nimportant than it is at present, because there was never \na time when thought was so wide-spread and so far-reach\xc2\xab \ning. The mind of the people no longer contents itself \n\n\n\nX PREFACE. \n\nmth following its old guides. It is feeling its own way. \nIt is seeking, honestly and anxiously, to distinguish the \ntrue and the false. Then, too, there was never a time \nwhen opposite systems of thouglit so asserted each its \nabsolute supremacy. Systems of religion, systems of \nmorals, of politics, of philosophy, place themselves over \nagainst each other, each denying to the other any ground \non which it may stand. Science on the one side, and \nreligion or philosophy on the other, stand thus in antag- \nonism. Nothing is more needed than an attempt to \nexpose the nature and real processes of thought, and \nwhile recognizing each of these elements to remand each \nback to its place as a member of the common whole. \nAlthough the survej\'of this field makes me feel more than \never the imperfection of the present undertaking, it makes \nme feel, also, that no such attempt, honestly and earnestly \nmade, can be altogether in vain. \n\nI have called this work " The Science of Thought," be- \ncause its scope is somewhat broader and its analysis of \nforms less detailed than might be expected in a treatise on \nLogic. The term Logic is, however, assuming a larger \nsignificance than it once possessed. The principles , of \nthought no less than logical forms are receiving profound \nattention. The scholastic logic did not treat of thought \nas a reality. It discussed certain abstract relations under \nwhich thought is possible. They discuss some of the pre- \nliminaries of thought. It is as if a writer on entomology \nshould content himself, first, with showing that each \ninsect must consist of three parts, namel}", the head, the \nthorax, and the abdomen, and then with discussing the \nmanner in which these parts should be related. It could \nbe shown how either might be in the middle ; but that \nthere could be a true insect only when the thorax was \nbetween the head and the abdomen. I suppose that these \nmatters, and what might be suggested by them, could be \n\n\n\nPEEFACE. XI \n\ndiscussed through volumes. The stuuent coald be trained \nto draw fancy pictures of possible insects with the thorax \nproperly in the middle. But whether there was ever a \nreal insect like one of these, or what to call a real insect \nwhen he saw it, or what are the shapes and habits of the \nreal insect world, of all this he would know nothing. \n\nThis is not a caricature, but an illustration of the con- \nnection which logic has been supposed to have with \nthought. It has been claimed by logicians that they had \nnothing to do with the reality or the reliability of thought. \nThey have undertaken to furnish help neither in regard \nto the basis of thoughts and arguments, nor in regard to \nthe proof to be sought in their support. If an argument \nwere formally correct, they, as logicians, could seek no \nfurther. I would not dispute the importance of this for- \nmal training, but I conceive that it is only the threshold \nto the real topics with which logic has to do ; or, if any \nwould restrict the use of this word, it is certainly only the \nthreshold to the science of thought. \n\nBut though in the prosecution of this work thought as \na reality became the matter of leading interest, my first \nattraction to it was from the formal side. First in the \nlectures of Prof. G-abler, a disciple of Hegel, at Berlin, \nand afterwards in the works of Hegel himself, I found the \nrudiments of a system of logic that charmed me by its \nbeauty and simplicity. The logic of Hegel is in general \nvery little like anything that we are in the habit of associ- \nating with the name. We should rather call it meta- \nphysics than logic. A few pages are, however, given to \n" subjective logic ; " that is, to what we should call logic \nitself. These pages of course contain only the most ab- \nstract statements in regard to the nature and relations of \npropositions, syllogisms, etc., but these furnish the germ \nof an entirely fresh treatment and working of the whole \nfield. \n\n\n\nXII PREFACE. \n\nPeihaps the greatest objection to the scholastic logic is \nnot that it undertakes to do so little, but that it does the \nlittle that it undertakes so poorly. With its excess of \nformalism it is destitute of form. You inquire, for in- \nstance, how many kinds or figures of syllogism there are, \nand are told that, according to the arrangement adopted, \nthere should be four, but that really there are but three ; \nthe fourth being needed to complete the plan, but not oth- \nerwise. What is this but a confession that the system of \nclassification is a wrong one ; that it misses the real nature \nof the syllogism ; in other words, that it is not natural, but \narbitrary. Further, three of these four figures are of com- \nparatively little use except as they may be converted into \nthe first. But in the Hegelian system, there are and can \nbe only three forms or figures of the syllogism. The sys- \ntem of arrangement as well as the facts of the case require \nthis. Moreover, these three are bound together in the \nclosest and most necessary union. Each is needed for \nthe completion of any common argument. Each supports \nthe other, and the three together form a triple cord that \ncannot be broken. Further, in this sj^\'stem, the syllogism, \nthe proposition, and the term form also the elements of \none complete organization ; and one principle is the foun- \ndation of all. \n\nIt was this beautiful and simple arrangement that first \nmade the word logic an attractive one to me, and in this \nwork this plan has been adopted. \n\nIn the union of these two elements, of substance and \nform, it has been my aim to attain the maximum of form \nand the minimum of formalism. While one principle of \ndivision and arrangement has been followed throughout, \nwhatever is merelj\' formal has been, so far as possible, \ntreated in separate sections ; and the reader has b6en often \nleft to apply for himself these formal distinctions, and \nespecially the formal terminology to the material that fol- \n\n\n\nPEEFAOE. XIII \n\nlows. It has further been my aim, so far as possible, to \ndispense with purely technical words. "When these could \nnot be avoided they have been kept, as just intimated, so \nfar as possible in the background. In other words, I have \nendeavored to follow the plan of nature, by which the \nform is an internal impulse rather than an outward re- \nstraint. In accordance with this principle, while each \ntopic has been treated in correspondence with, and in sub- \njection to, the whole, yet each has been treated, so far as \npossible, as if it stood alone. \n\nI have already stated that the formal arrangement of \nsyllogisms, etc., is adopted from Hegel. In accordance \nwith this arrangement the relative position of the second \nand third figure has been reversed. Besides this, an occa- \nsional truth or statement has been taken from him. This \nis especially true of the earlier part of the first book. In \nthe discussion of the logical relations of language, under \nthe head terms, I have been very largely indebted to \nBecker\'s "Organismus der Sprache," a work that is most \nvaluable as giving a logical analysis of language, and to \nwhich the reader who would pursue this branch of the study \nis referred. It is a work, however, that any one, not ac- \nquainted with the later philological results, should read \nwith great caution, and only with the accompaniment of \nsome such work as Muller\'s " Science of Language," or \nWhitney\'s " Lectures on Language." I have, in various \nparts of this work, made frequent reference to Schopen- \nhauer, the most brilliant of metaphysicians, the clearest \nand most satisfactory, for the most part, in his details ; \nthe most unsatisfactory in his grand results ; whose sys- \ntem, with its sad centre of pessimism, is like a rich and \ntempting fruit, fair without, but rotten at its heart. To \nthis writer I have been indebted perhaps more than to any \nother, except Hegel. \n\nThe logic of Mr. Mill forms an exception to the general \n\n\n\nXIV PREFACE. \n\nworks upon the subject. It regards logic as ha^ing to \ndo with real thought, and not merely with the forms of \nthought. It is everywhere of value, and in particular in \nwhat relates to induction it furnishes material that must \nbe adopted into every discussion of the subject. It is, \nhowever, based upon what appears to me a very imperfect \nsj^stem of philosophy, and adopts an unsatisfactory sys- \ntem of logical forms. I make this reference to it here, \nlest from some incidental allusions to it in the body of \nthe work, where its arguments occurred to me as the best \nexamples of the views I woiil(3 oppose, I might seem \ninsensible to its great worth. \n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION. \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT AND LOGIC IN GENERAL \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT AND LOGIC IN GENERAL \n\n\n\noj*:o \n\n\n\nThe technical name of the science of thought la \nlogic. The word is derived from an adjective formed \nfrom the Greek substantive ^dyoq. The meaning of \nthis substantive is, on the one side, "reason" or \n"thought," and on the other side the "word," which \nis the manifestation of thought. Its central meaning \nwould therefore seem to be, "thought in its manifes- \ntation." It is the nature of thought to manifest \nitself. It is not lifeless like the stone ; it is germi- \nnant. It cannot be repressed or hidden. Not merely \ndoes it develop itself according to the laws of its own \nnature, that is, as thought ; like the sprouting seed, \nit shows itself above the soil in which it springs. \nWords and acts are its inevitable expression. Thought \nruns through all the framework of our outward life, \nas the nerves run through the body, forming a sepa- \nrate system, yet giving life to all. \n\nWe may perhaps better understand the meaning of \nthe word logic, by remembering that the termination \nwhich marks the names of many of the separate \nsciences is derived from the same root as itself. We \nspeak of theology, of geology, and of so many other \n" ologies. " The word logic is the \'logy without the \n\n3 \n\n\n\n4 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nlimiting or determining prefix. It is the pure science \nabstracted from the different sciences. It is thus the \nscience of sciences. If the science of stones, of \nanimals, and the like, is important and interesting, \nwhat place shall we assign to that science which is the \nscience of thought itself? Any particular science is \nthe reducing or elevating the objects of which it treats \nto the relations of thought. We can only see the \nstones by the wayside. By the help of mineralogy \nwe think them. \n\nThe science of logic includes the basis or starting- \npoint, the Imvs and tJie limits of thought. It has to \nfollow the fundamental divisions of thought itself. \nIt has thus to analyze the fundamental ideas from \nwhich thought springs, and the special methods that \nbelong to the different divisions of thought. "We say \nfor instance, " Such a picture is beautiful ; " " Such \nplants are poisonous ; " " Such an act is noble." Logic \nshould not only furnish the means of determining \nwhether such statements are formally correct, it should \nalso furnish means of determining whether they are \nactually true ; that is, it should have such classifica- \ntions of thought, that one could tell to which class \nany one statement belongs, and what is the sort of \nproof of which that class is susceptible. These \ndivisions, as all other logical forms, should be seen \nto t-pring from the very nature of thought itself. \nThese forms should not be " Spanish boots " to torture \nthought, they should be the very body and limbs of \nit. There should be one pulse-beat through the whole. \nSuch is the high standard which the present work \nsets before itself. If it falls short, this will none \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 5 \n\nthe less continue to be the true plan and scope of \nlogic. \n\nThe science of sciences does not include of course \nall sciences and philosophy, but it contains the prin- \nciple out of which these spring. This is the trunk, \nthey are the branches. At least the knots must mark \nwhere the leading divisions of our thought begin. \n\nWhile logic stands in this relation to the other \nsciences and to philosophy, it stands in an intermedi- \nate relation to psychology. Psychology is like the \nrest, a science springing from thought, a special appli- \ncation of the laws of thought ; but thought is also one \nfaculty of the soul, and thus the science of thought \nis a part of psychology. The division in all these \ncases must be a little arbitrary, like all divisions. \nWho shall say just where the branch of a tree ceases \nto be the trunk, or how much of crystallography should \nbe included in any general treatise on chemistry? \nFor all practical purposes, however, the lines are \nsufficiently defined. Individual judgment must deter- \nmine how far to go in any direction, for the sake of \ncompleteness or illustration. \n\nIf logic contains the formulas and the fundamental \nprinciples of all the sciences, it must also contain \nthose of the facts and objects to which the sciences \nrefer. A science is true only as it hits upon and fol- \nlows out the actual relations of the materials which \ncome within its cognizance. The principles of the \nscience, if it be true, must be one with the princi- \nples of its material. The two must cover each other. \nThe artificial system of botany was imperfect, because \nits divisions did not fall in with the divisions of nature \n\n\n\n6 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe natural system claims to follow and to cover the \nactual divisions in the outer world. What is true of \nthe principles of any science must be true of the \nprinciples of thought. The principles of thought \nmust be the priuciples of that which is the object of \nthought. Logic unites the inner subjective world \nwith the outer world of objects. It is the boundary \nline between the two : that being so, it belongs \nequally to both, and its fundamental categories must \nbe those of beino; as well as of thouo^ht. \n\nWe may go a step further. It has already been \nsaid that outer objects must be transmuted into \nthought before we caa comprehend them. What \nchange is this which they undergo? If the thought \nis something utterly foreign to them, then we might \nas well have any other thought, or no thought about \nthem. In that case our thought is idle and useless. \nIf, however, the thought is true, then it cannot be \nforeign to the object of thought. The thought must \nbe what the object is in itself. If this is so, the \nobject in itself must be thought. This statement may \nseem a little startling at first sight. If we say the \nouter world is objective thought, w^hile what we call \nthought is only subjective thought, and thus the two \nare at heart one, a person who hears this for the first \ntime may be confused. Yet we have just seen, that, \nobviously, if our thought be worth anything, the \nthought and the object must be at heart one. The \nphrase objective thought is not after all so difficult as \nit may at first appear. Erwin von Steinbach thought \nout a cathedral. The builders of Strasbourg embodied \nhis thought in stone. What, then, is the cathedral at \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 7 \n\nStrasbourg, but the thought of Erwin von Steinbacb \nmade outer or objective to himself? We may ap- \nproach this structure simply as objective thought. \nWhen we strive to comprehend it, we strive after the \nthought, which is its reality. When we do compre- \nhend it, we have got hold of its place and object ; that \nis, of the thought which is its reality. We might \napply the same course of reasoning to the steam \nengine, or to any other Avork of human skill. Each \nis an objective thought. We look at it, and study to \nget hold of the thought that is in it. The same pro- \ncess we apply also to the objects of the natural world. \nWe find these, also, when we approach them aright, \nunfolding themselves, and becoming thought. We \nmay illustrate this by saying that the world is the \nthought of God made objective. When we study \nand analyze the world, we trace the unfolding of this \nthought. \n\nBut it may be very properly urged that this illus- \ntration goes only a very little way. The world may be, \nor may be supposed to be, the thought of God ; but \nwhose thought can we suppose God himself to be? \nTo this may be answered that if God is omniscient \nhe must know, that is, must think, bis own being. \nHis own beiug must be absolutely an object of \nthought, that is, this also must be objective \nthought. \n\nWhen, then, it is said that all being is simply ob- \njective thought, it is meant that all being exists to \nthe infinite mind as thought, and that all being may \nexist to any mind as thought, so far as this mind is \ndeveloped enough to grasp it ; the limit in every case \n\n\n\nO THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nbeing not the nature of the outward object, but the \ncapacity of the mind itself. \n\nIt may be further remarked that this discussion \ndoes not enter into the metaphysics of thought itself. \nIf thought and will are, as I may here assume them \nto be, the two poles of being, they must, through this \npolarity, be in essence one. \n\nThe common thought of man assumes this corre- \nspondence, or identity, between thought and being. \nIf a common man have the notion of cause and effect, \nif he cannot think without assuming this notion to be \ntrue, he does not hesitate to take it for granted that \ncause and effect are in reality what he thinks them to \nbe. To doubt in such a case would be to give up all \nreality to thought. We might as well dream as think. \nThe man of culture, on the other hand, finds often a \ngulf separating the world of thought from the world \nof being. His thought seems to him unreal, and he \ncannot get hold of true being. He makes perhaps \nsome concession ; he says, " These thoughts come and \ngo without any will of mine ; they form in themselves \nan organic system, which I cannot disarrange or re- \nmodel ; they are, then, in a sense, objective to myself. \nTho}\' must have some cause external to my own mind. \nWhat this is I do not and cannot know. Whether it \nhas, or not, any resemblance to my thought of it, is a \nquestion that can never be answered. True being I \ncan never find." But the difiiculty is one the think- \ner himself has originated. He cannot find true be- \ning? What, then, is his thought itself? Is not thai \nreal? Whatever else is, or is not, that is. His \nthought forms a world in itself. It is the only world \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 9 \n\nhe knows anything about. Whether anything else \nhas or has not being is a question that is grasped \nentirely out of the air. He has no conception of anj\'-- \nthing else. When he has such a conception he may \ndiscuss its reality. But then that conception will be \nitself a thought, A single example may show the \nresult which springs from this simple and common- \nsense affirmation of the reality of our thought. Meta- \nphysicians have discussed the question whether time, \nthat is, the succession which gives rise to the concep- \ntion of time, has any real existence. Yet our thoughts \nare real. They succeed one another according to the \nrelations of time, and thus these relations are real. \n\nBut, it is urged, the thing in itself must be some- \nthing very different from our thought of it. The \nthing in itself is a cold and shadowy ghost, that \nhaunted the philosophy of Kant, as it has haunted so \nmany others. The fact is, we have a real world \nwithout it. It is a phantom standing outside of the \ngreat forces of the world, or, rather, thought incor- \nporates it into our world. We may go further, and \nsay that there is no such thing as the thing in itself. \nEverything exists in the relations in which it stands \nto the things about it. Existence is no lifeless ab- \nstraction ; it is the throb of action and reaction. \nApart from this, a thing is annihilated. And it is \nthese relations which are the objects of thought, and \nwhich resolve themselves into the relations of thought. \nIt may be urged still further that after all that is \nthought has been extracted from the outer world, \nthere must be a residuum that is not, and cannot be, \nthought ; that is the material that forms the basis of \n\n\n\n10 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe world of objective thought. In a word, matter \nmust always be the antithesis of thought. But what \nis more truly an object of thought, or what is more \ntruly the creation of thought, than the abstraction \nthat we call matter ? \n\nBut the statement of the identity of the subjective \nand the objective world becomes false if we take it \ntoo literally. \n\nThere is a sense in which water, ice, and vapor are \nthe same ; yet they are very different. Water is not \nice, neither is it vapor, though it is potentially both. \nThe abstract chemical formula is the same for all. \nWater, ice, and vapor is each H2O. So it is with \nthought and the outer reality in their relations to one \nanother. Neither is the other, yet each is at heart \nwhat the other is, and the formula for one is the for- \nmula for the other. This formula, common to both, \nit is the business of logic to express. \n\nAll that has been said above is simply an elabora- \ntion of what is contained in the simple faith in which \nwe think. If it is not true, all thought is simply an \nescape from the tedium of vacuity. Objections to \nthe fjround taken may be brought from two sources. \nOne of the sources is thought itself; the other is the \nimagination. When thought begins to plead against \nthe reliability of thought, we may be pardoned if we \ngive it little attention. All that has been said has \nbeen based on the reliability of thought. Suppose \nthought prove thought to be ftilse, what remains? \nThought. For my thought to question the relia- \nbility of thought in general is to set the individual \nagainst the universal, from which it springs. \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 11 \n\nThe other source from which objections may \nspring is the imagination. In tlie statement that \nthought and the outer world are at heart one, there \nseems nothing for the imagination to lay hold of It has \nnot been used to represent thought to itself, other- \nwise than as the thought of some particular person, \nmy thought or yours. Against the objection of the \nimagination the onl}^ reply is, that the imagination \nhas here nothinj? to do. When we discuss the abso- \nlute relations of being, the imagination must remain \nsilent, content only with such fragments as the reason \nmay be able to throw to it. Much of our false concep- \ntion and false reasoning results from the feeling that \nthe imagination must be considted and satisfied. The \nmathematician has had the courage to banish it or re- \nduce it to quiet. He follows the course of his symbols, \ntreading airy heights where the imagination would \nbecome dizzy, and from which she would hold him \nback. The philosopher has to tread far more dizzy \nheights than those of the mathematician. He, how- \never, too often takes the imagination as his compan- \nion. She, appalled and dizzy with the wastes about \nand beneath them, conjures up many-colored and \nfantastic clouds. Amona^ these the reason wanders \nconfusedly, studying them and sketching them as if \nthey were realities. Thus has it so often wandered \nin vain, if it has not indeed lost itself and perished. \n\nThe position which we have taken is thus free from \nthe possibility of assault. From it result two con- \nclusions, each of the utmost value to the student of \nthought. The first is, that the categories of thought \nand of being, of the inner and the outer world, are \n\n\n\n12 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe same. The second is, that there is no absolute \nlimit to thought, but that for it the unattainable is \nthe untrue. \n\nIt need hardly be remarked, that all this is true, \nnot of my thought or yours, but of thought itself. \nThe special problem for each individual is to make \nhis thought fall in with, and express, so far as it goes, \nthe absolute thought. We will pass then, now, from \nthe general to the individual stand-point. \n\nThe line where the individual comes into direct \ncontact with the outer world is that of the senses. \nWhat has been said in regard to the reliability of \nthought does not necessarily involve that of the \nsenses, in their simple and crude reports. The ap- \nprehension of the unthinking is, that things exist \nexactly as they appear to do ; that the table actually \nstands as they see it before them, with its crimson \ncloth ; that the flowers are many-colored and fragrant ; \nthat the lamp actually emits light ; that sounds are \nactually produced from the piano. A slight analysis, \nhowever, shows that all these colors and scents and \nsounds are mere sensations, and can be reproduced \nseparately without the aid of the corresponding out- \nward object. Thus the sensation of color is often \nproduced by mechanical pressure upon the eye. If \nyou look earnestly at one bright color, and then turn \naway from it, or close the eye, an entirely different \ncolor will be seen. The sensation of light may be \nproduced by a blow. The school-boy can testify of \nthe stars that he sees when the back cf his head \ncomes in contact with the ice. Perfect figures may \nappear before the mind when there is no outward ob- \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 13 \n\nject answering to them. Such are the visions which \npresent themselves to us in our dreams, or as the re- \nsult of disordered sensational action. The sensa- \ntion of sound may also be excited without external \ncause. One may have a ringing in his ears, when \nthere is no ringing to be heard by any one else in his \nneififhborhood. \n\nThis analysis need not be continued further. From \nit, it would appear that the world flashes into beauty \nwhen our glance ftdls upon it ; that the brook beginS\' \nits rippling song and the cataract takes up its mighty \nmusic when we approach them ; but that without the \npresence of the eye and the ear nature is blank and \nvoiceless. If one, pressed by such reasoning, aflirms \nthat he knows that the world exists as he sees it, be- \ncause of the resistance which he feels when he comes \nin contact with any part of it, as when he strikes his \nhand against a wall, the answer is, that what we call \nthe hand, like everything else, may be analyzed into \nsensations. It and the wall stand in the same rela- \ntion, and each has equal need of verification. \n\nThe first remark to be made in respect to such \nreasoning is, that our sensations are as independent \nof us as our thoughts. The causes of the sensations \nare independent of us. We can indeed move the \nhand and the whole body. We thus distinguish our \nbody as peculiarly ours. Yet we cannot change it by \nour will. We cannot make one hair white or black, \nor add a cubit to our stature by an act of will. The \nworld of the senses is therefore as independent of us \nas the world of thought. We are forced by the in- \nstinct of our nature to believe in it. We do not \n\n\n\n14 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nnecessarily believe that it exists in the crass form in \nwhich the senses picture it to us, or in the yet more \ncrass form of matter, which is a lifeless abstraction \nof our own ; but we cannot help believing that it has \nin some way a real existence. \n\nThe instinct which forces us to this belief divides \nitself into two forms. The first of these forms of \ninstinct we may call negative. It is that of self-pres- \nervation. We shrink from any object which seems \nto approach us with violence. We flee from the \ntrack of an approaching locomotive. We feel that \nif we did not do this our animal nature would be \nannihilated. Such safeguard is needed in one form \nor other, and, to a greater or less extent, every mo- \nment. So dear as life is to us then, we must believe \nin the world of the senses. \n\nThe other form of this instinct of belief we may \ncall positive. It is the instinct of the activity and \nthe development of our whole nature. The moral \nlaw within us is the highest form which the instinct \nassumes. This moral law requires us to believe in \nthe world of the senses ; otherwise it would have no \nfield for its activity. This law we feel to be the cen- \ntral point of our being. This impels us to go forth \ninto the world, to bring relief to the suffering, and \njustice to the wronged, to throw ourselves into the \npath of evil, and to make the world such as we feel \nit should be. Our aesthetic nature, and indeed all the \nactive part of our nature, forces us tc the same \nresult. \n\nFrom the analysis of the elements of the instinct \nof belief in the world of the senses, we may under- \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT m GENERAL. 15 \n\nstand the emptiness and the lack of reality wliich the \nworld acquires for those who are placed by their \nfortunes in circumstances in which the instincts O\'f \nself-preservation are not called into action, in which \nthere is no need to labor for the daily bread, and in \nwhom the moral sense has not been quickened or has \nbecome dead. The two elements which make up \nthe instincts of belief lose thus their tone and vigor, \nand the world becomes, as the result, shadowy and \nunreal. \n\nWhatever confidence we may put in these instincts, \nand in their general testimony, they are, we must \nconfess, no certain guide in regard to the truth of \nparticular perceptions. In our dreams we strive to \nflee from danger, or to defend ourselves from it. \nThe man who is suffering from an attack of delirium \ntremens is affected by the objects that haunt him as \nif they were real. He flees from pursuing serpents, \nor turns to struggle with them, and is wild with ter- \nror. Thus even the instinct of belief in its strongest \nform, as the instinct of self-preservation, is no cer- \ntain guide as to the truth of particular perceptions. \nWhat means have we more competent to de- \ncide? \n\nBefore answering this question , it must be admitted \nthat the force of our impressions may be at any mo- \nment so strong that, however false they may be, no \npower can make us doubt their truth. The victim of \ndelirium tremens is absolutely imder the power of \nhis delusion. No reasoning of his own, and no pro- \ntestation of friends, can make him doubt that he is \nreally pursued by serpents. Yet when the mind is \n\n\n\n16 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\niu a healthy state, we often can and do distinguish \nbetween false and true impressions of the senses. \nWe distinguish the ringing in our ears from any out- \nward sound. We often know by a feeling of chilli- \nness that we have taken cold ; that is, we know that \nthe chill is within us, not outside of us. A person \nsubject to ocular illusions can very often distinguish \nbetween these and the solid objects about him. This \nis sometimes difficult, however. If one, for instance, \nhas a vivid impression of the visible presence of some \ndeparted friend, it is often difficult for him to deter- \nmine whether what he has seen is the result of a play \nof the senses, or whether it is in truth a vision from \nthe spiritual world. If the forefinger and the middle \nfinger be crossed, and some small object, as a pea, \nbe placed between the tips, the impression upon the \nsense will be, for obvious physiological reasons, that \ntwo objects are in contact with the fingers ; yet we \nhave no difficulty iu determining that there is only \none. We more often decide against the reality of \npast than of present impressions. A dream may af- \nfect us with as much power as a reality ; yet when we \nlook back we have no difficulty in determining what \nwas dream and what was reality. \n\nThe appeal in such cases is to thought. Indeed, it \nis by thought, unconscious it may be, that we deter- \nmine every moment the truth of the testimony of \nthe senses. Something is accomplished by compar- \ning the testimony of the senses among themselves. \nSomething, also, by comparing the impressions of \nothers with our own. In general, however, we have \nto compare the results and impressions of the senses \n2 \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL, 17 \n\nwith the fundamental principles of thought. We \ninquire whether the world which the senses give us \ncan possibly be identical with the Avorld of thought. \nMy thought assumes that all change takes place in \naccordance with certain relations which we call those \nof cause and effect. These relations form a chain \nby which the course of events is bound together. It \nmatters not for our present purpose whether these \nrelations are discerned by a posteriori reasoning, or \nwhether they are the original forms furnished by \nthe mind itself. This last is the position of Kant, \nand he urges that we cannot have gained the knowl- \nedge of cause and effect from the outward world, \nbecause it is by the presence or absence of these \nrelations that we distinguish the outer world, and \nwithout them we could have no knowledge of it. \nIt is enough for our present purpose that these rela- \ntions are inseparable from our thought as it exists, \nand that it is by means of them that we recognize \nthe reality and truth of the world which the senses \noffer to us. When this chain of cause and effect is \nbroken, then our confidence is lost. We believe that \nthe outer reality of our impressions stops when the \nchain is broken. I look back, for instance, to what \nhas happened to me within a few hours. I remem- \nber going to my place of business, or, perhaps, on a \nramble with a friend. Afterwards I came home to \ntea. When tea was over I went to my room, lighted \nmy gas, read Plato or Shakespeare, then extin- \nguished my light, and stretched myself upon my bed. \nThe next thing I know is, that I am wandering in \nscenes of Oriental beauty, riding on the same can?ej \n\n\n\n18 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwith the Grand Turk, or sailing over broad seas be- \nneath the clear blue heavens, or, perhaps, conversing \nwith friends that before had beei> leagues away. \nThen I tind myself in my bed again, not wearied by \nmy camel-ride or my voyage. My friends are as far \naway as ever. I rise and go about the regular duties \nof the day. \n\nIn looking back upon all this, I see one point \nwhere the chain of cause and effect was suddenly \nbroken. After that break, I wander through scenes \nconnected with one another, or utterly distinct from \none another, all of them unconnected with those that \nhad preceded the break in the chain of cause and \neffect. At last I come to a spot where the links of \nthe chain unite with those that had been broken, and \nthino;s are bound to2:ether again in the oriajinal series. \nI distinguish thus in my memory between what it \nreality and what is a dream. All seemed equallji \nreal at the time of its occurrence, but only those \nimpressions which are strung together on the thread \nof cause and effect are recognized by our after- \nthought as real, while those introduced between \nthese seem to be mere dreams and fancies. \n\nWhen things in general are connected by cause \nand effect, but something uuusual happens which \nseems entirely unconnected with the series, we, in \ngeneral, admit it to be real, because the regularity \nof other things persuades us that we are in the full \npossession of our senses. Indeed it is in this manner \nthat we decide upon the reality of a hundred things \nin a day, for the presence of which we can give no \nreason. But when all the events of our life take \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT m GENERAL. 19 \n\na sudden turn ; when we find ourselves embarked on \nsome unexpected journey ; when friends are suddenly \nremoved from us, or our life seems in any way dis- \nconnected from its previous course, \xe2\x80\x94 we say often \nthat we feel as if we were in a dream. We have to \nlook back and see how our present state grew out of \nour former condition. In like manner a phenomenon \nmay appear to us so remarkable that the utmost reg- \nularity in other matters will hardly convince us that \nwe are not deceived. Here we need the evidence of \nothers, and still more the repeated evidence of our \nown senses. We read of men who, in like circum- \nstances, have pinched themselves to see if they were \nawake ; that is, to see whether so slight a cause as a \npinch will produce its customary effect, namely, the \npain. The appeal in all these cases is to thought^ \nthat is, to the relation of cause and efiect, elsewhere \nmaintained, which proves to us that we are still con- \nnected with the world of reality. \n\nAlthough we may thus, by the aid of thought, ad- \nmit the outward reality of any phenomenon, the \ncause and general relations of which are unknowm to \nus, on account of the regularitj^ of the phenomena by \nwhich it is surrounded, just as a man is judged by \nhis company, yet we do not rest with this. We do \nnot admit that we hnow any fact or phenomenon till \nwe have reduced it to the laws of thought. If the \nastronomer sees a strange star in the heavens, he is \nnot content till he finds whence it comes and whither \nit is going. The man of science does not linow any \nobject till he has brought it into his system of the \nuniverse. We see, for instance, a muscle in the \n\n\n\n20 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhuman body. It strikes ns as a mere phenomenon, \nwhich might be there, or might not. But when we \nsee it, in its connection with the rest ; when we see \nthe regular part that it plays in the bodily system, \nperhaps to enable us to raise a limb, perhaps only to \nbring a dimple to the cheek ; when we see that it is \nthe aualogon of the corresponding organ in the lower \nanimals, perhaps, like the motor muscles of the ear, \nonly existing as a trace of this lower organization ; \nwhen we examine its structure, and see how this is \nadapted to its purpose, the provisions that are made \nfor its support and excitation ; when we see how it \ndestroys itself by its action, and repairs itself from \nthat which is akin to it in the blood, and which had \nbeen first eliminated from the food ; when, in a word, \nwe have reduced it to thought, so that we have before \nus no longer a mere object of the senses, but an \nobject of thought, or, more accurately, a complex \nthought, \xe2\x80\x94 then first we feel that we know it ; then, \nindeed, does it first become real to us. \n\nNot only do we analyze an object of sensation into \nthought, we often by thought change its whole ap- \nparent nature, and contradict the senses by means of \nthe very material which the senses have given us. \nIf our senses inform us of anything, it is that the sun \nrises and sets. This is at first implicitly believed by \nus. Afterwards we find that it is impossible. The \nsun, so far as its rising and setting are concerned, \ndoes not move. It is we that move, and thus \nthe testimony of the senses is proved to be false. \nI know that it will be said that our senses utter the \ntruth in this case ; that it is our inductions from this \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENERAL. 21 \n\nthat are in the wrong ; that our sensations are just \nwhat they should be, the circumstances being what \nthey are. This is freely admitted ; yet the object \nwhich we place beneath and behind our sensations in \nthis case is no more the result of induction than it is \nin all cases. What we call an object of sense is, in \nall cases, our induction from our sensations. The \nman who scorns thought, and trusts to his senses, \nreally trusts to his induction from them, that is, to \nhis thought about what the senses affirm. Reason- \ning only substitutes clear, thorough, and complete \nthought, in the place of that which is imperfect and \nconfused. \n\nIt often happens that thought afterwards restores to \nthe world of the senses that of which it at first robbed \nit. Thought is very apt to be first destructive, and \nthen constructive. We have already seen how the \nfirst serious thought seems to take its life and beauty \nout of the world of the senses. Color, form, sound, \nfragrance, beauty, melody, \xe2\x80\x94 all these seem to de- \npend upon human presence. The beauty of nature \nseems an obsequious slave that springs into action \nwhen our glance falls upon it, and sinks back into \nindiiference when we turn away. More perfect \nthought, however, reaching the conception of the \nInfinite Subject, the divine consciousness everywhere \npresent, restores to nature more than it took from \nher. There is always present this higher conscious- \nness of God, to which no life or beauty is lost. The \nworld is always fresh and fair, let us come and go as \nwe will. \n\nWe have thus seen how universal is the world of \n\n\n\n22 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthought. We have seen that it is real, and the only \nveality, and that in it we live and move and have our \nbeing. We see, then, that no study comes more near \nto us than the study of the laws and relations of \nthought. When we first enter the world of thought \nthese relations seem utterly confused and entangled. \nMen think everything and about everything. One \nman thinks one thing and another another. Child- \nhood, manhood, and age has each its thoughts. The \nthoughts of one generation are not those of another. \nAll is confused, as when we look at the crowd of bees \nthat seem huddled together in a hive, or the crowd \nof ants swarming about their little hill. But as when \n"we look at the bees long enough and wisely enough, \nwe distinguish the work and the place of each ; as by \nproper observation we discern that the ants do not \nmove perfectly at random, but that each has its work, \nand the work of all is in reality the same : so when \nwe study these crowding, hurrj\'ing, swarming thoughts, \nlong enough, we see that they, also, have their order \nand their system. We shortly detect two distinct \nlines of movement, which, without more minute \nanalysis, we may accept at present. We see that \nthou2:ht moves either from the more o-eneral towards \nthe particular and individual, or else from the latter \nto the former. The separate impressions of the senses, \nwhich are the extremes of individualization, we seek to \nlead to higher and higher generalization. The instinct \nof generalization and induction is one stamped \ndeeply on the soul. From this tendency have sprung \nall the natural sciences. We ever seek a higher law \nin which all others shall find themselves absorbed ; a \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT IN GENEAL. 23 \n\nbroader fact which shall include all that we have \nknown before. On the other hand, no abstract thought \nis content to remain in its abstraction. It will develop \nitself into the most minute subdivisions of which it is \ncapable, and it will find itself embodied in outward \nfacts. This twofold motion, downward from the \nuniversal towards the particular and the individual, \nand upward from the individual towards the universal, \nconstitute the life and being of thought. It is to \ndiscover the manner in which the universal, the par- \nticular, and the individual find themselves related, and \nthe movement by which one passes into another, that \nis the object and the substance of logic. \n\nThe most universal terms, which express in brief \nthe relations within which all existence is confined, \nand which furnish thus the form and the material of \nour thought, are called categories. If what has been \nsaid of the relation of thought and being is true, \nthese must in their last analysis correspond with the \nrelations of thought itself. In entering upon the \nstudy of thought as a reality, we must first take ac- \ncount of these. \n\n\n\nFIRST BOOK \n\n\n\nABSTRACT MATERIAL \n\n\n\nRELATIONS OF THOUGHT; \n\nOB, \n\nCATEGORIES. \n\n\n\nFIRST.-POSITIVE. \n\nSTATIC RELATIONS. \n\n\n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 QUALITY. \n\n\n\n"When we seek for the idea which is the most uni- \nversal, or for the fact that includes all others, we \ncome upon the idea and the fact of being. This is \nnot absolutely universal either in thought or in fact. \nIt is already discriminated from non-being or nothing. \nWhen we say that a thing is, or that God is, we ex- \nclude the possibility of the nonentity of that in \nregard to which we affirm that it is. When a thing \ncomes into being, it ceases to be nothing. Being is \nthus affirmation over against non-being. We have, \nhowever, no thought, and thus no word, which in- \ncludes all that is and all that is not. ThoxJght de- \nmands limit. It is the limitation of the universal, or \nthe expanding of the limited into the universal. Our \nthought begins with the separation between being and \nnon-being. \n\nBecause thought consists in entering into, or pass- \ning out of limitations ; because, also, existence is \nlimitation upon limitation, \xe2\x80\x94 pure being, unlimited \nand undetermined, ishardly different from non-being. \nIf we say simply is, we say nothing. Every other \n\n27 \n\n\n\n28 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nword which is not merely formal says something by \nitself. You may say lucdk or run, hlach or ivhite. \nEach word means something by itself, to any one who \nis used to and comprehends it. But if you say is, \nwhat meaning can any one attach to that ? If you say \nGod is \xe2\x80\x94 , to one who attaches no meaning to the \nword God, the answer would be, God is, very wdl, \nwhat is hef When you say is, you say nothing, till \nyou say what is, and Avhat it is. You might as well \nsay is not, as is. Thus pure, absolute, undivided \nbeing would be no thing, because it is not as yet sub- \njected to the limitations by which it becomes some- \nthing. Pure, unbroken light is indistinguishable \nfrom darkness. If the universe were full of light, \nwith no object to break up this light into color, you \nmight as well say that the universe is dark as that it \nis light. There is indeed this difference, that in the \none case there is the possibility of color, and thus of \nlight, and in the other there is not this possibility. \nBut thus far this difference is merely potential. What \nthe senses mean by light has no existence. \n\nThings exist in their qualities, and all quality re- \nsults from limitation. A thiugis what^ it_is, on ac- \ncount of what it is not. Red is red because the \ngreeh"^i\'ays have been absorbed, or in some way \nstricken out from the ray of light. Color is the union \nof light and darkness ; that is, of light and the absence \nof light. Thus everj^thing is what it is through \nwhat it is not. As color is a union of light and dark- \nness, so quality Jn_^eneral is a mingling of being and \nnon-being ; that is, it is partial being. This fact lies \nat the very threshold of metaphysical thought. \n\n\n\nQUALITY. 29 \n\nAll qualities are limited, because each is only the \npartial expression or manifestation of the object, the \nquality of which it is. The object, so to speak, \nbreaks itself up into these qualities, as light breaks \nitself up into colors. No one quality represents the \nunit of being which is the object of which it is one \nof the qualities. The qualities of finite objects are \ndoubly limited, because it is owing to the finiteness \nof the object that it has these particular qualities and \nno others. \n\nWhen it is said that quality is limitation and exclu- \nsion, it must not be understood that thus it is merely \nnegative. The color of red is not merely the absence \nof green, it is light, though light destitute of the \ngreen rays. So all quality has a positive reality \nalthough this reality is partial. Neither must it be \nsupposed that this negation is anything imposed upon \nthe body from without. The negative element is as \nmuch a part of its existence as the positive. The \nquality, if we may use the expression, separates itself \nfrom its opposite. Thus colors and sounds separate \nthemselves by their own laws. \n\nQualities often appear to us merely different from \none another. Walking, running, leaping, are each \nspecial methods of motion. The qualities of each \nmotion distinguish it from other forms of motion, and \nspecialize it out of abstract motion. These qualities \nhave no particular relation to one another, so far as \nwe can discern. Other qualities differ as mere posi- \ntive and negative ; that is, one is the mere absence of \nthe other. Thus, good and bad, light and dark, differ \nmerely as presence and absence. But from the defi- \n\n\n\n30 TECE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nnition of quality, it will be obvious that this relation \nmust often be more special and direct. If qualities \nresult from limitation, and thus from division, one \nquality being one side of the line, and another the \nother, there must be two qualities which are comple- \nmental to each other ; that is they result from the \ndivision of a unit which is reformed by their union. \nOf these complemental qualities we find an example \nin the colors red and green, already so often referred \nto. This relation we may even call polar ; but we do \nthis not with perfect propriety. Qualities which are_^ \npolar standiji a more intimate relation to one another, \none having no possible or conceivable existence with- \nout the other. Thus the positive and negative elec- \ntricity are distinguished by their peculiar qualities, \nyet neither can exist without the other. We thus \nsee that elements which are the most sharply divided \nare the most intimately connected. Those that are \nmerely different from one another may exist inde- \npendently ; but when the difference has become \npolar, we know that the elements must be at heart \none, each having its being in the other. "We might \nexpect, from what was said above, that complimen- \ntary qualities would be as inseparable as those that \nstand in a polar relation to one another. We might \nexpect that, if they are the result of the division of \na unit, both of the separated elements must remain; \nand there could be, for instance, no green without red, \nand no red without green. In the case of a color, as \ngreen, however, the energy that would have mani- \nfested itself as red may put on another form. An \nobject is green, because, while the green rays are \n\n\n\nQUALITY. 31 \n\nreflected, the red have been absorbed or exist no \nmore as red but are transformed into some other \nkind of activity. \n\nThe quality of an object may be defined as that \nwhich cannot be changed without change in the \nstructure or nature of the object. Tlie object changes \nwith its qualities. When we say that an object is \nchanged, we mean that its qualities have become dif- \nferent. Some qualities involve in their transfor- \nmation a fundamental and radical revolution in the \nobject. We speak of the lion as carnivorous. Should \nthe time ever come when the lion shall eat straw like \nthe ox, his whole organization would be changed. \nTeeth, claws, digestive apparatus, and indeed the \nwhole structure and economy of the animal would \nbe transformed. Other qualities demand for their \nmutation less general disturbance. Of these, color \nis, perhaps, the most superficial. The mineralogist, \nfor instance, to a very great degree disregards color \nin his classification. Color is not essential in the ^ \nstone. Yet the color of a stone implies the presence \nor the absence of some ingredient which extends / \nthrough all the particles of its composition. So in \nall cases a change in color involves some change, \nhowever slight, in structure or composition. \n\nDifferent objects may have similar qualities. We \ngeneralize this similarity, and reach the conception \nof a quality common to all these objects. The qual- \nity extends beyond one object, and we may sum up \nall that possess it under the quality which they have \nin common. Many objects are red ; many animals \nare carnivorous. The whole world is divided by the \nwords organic and inorganic. Life, motion, rest, \n\n\n\n32 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nmay be affirmed of multitudes of objects th;it dixTc;r \nin almost all other respects. Thus, a (quality may be \nconsidered as a universal, and the objects possessing \nthe quality as individuals under this universab \n\nA moment\'s thought will show us, however, that \nwe might take a diametrically opposite view. Each \nobject has not one quality but man3\\ All of these \nare its broken manifestation. Each partially repre- \nsents it. We may, therefore, regard the object as \nthe universal, and the qualities as particulars and \nindividuals under it. Moreover, we may sum up the \nunits of being, which are the objects, under some \ngeneralization that shall include them in their whole- \nness without breaking them up into qualities. We \nthus leave out from our thoughts the qualities of ob- \njects, and consider them as independent of these. \nBut matter abstracted from quality exists merely as \nquantity. \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 QUANTITY. \n\nQuality has been defined to be that which cannot \nbe changed in a bod}^, without change in the struc- \nture or composition of the body. Quantity is that \nin which a body may be changed without any change \nin its structure and composition, and thus in its qual- \nity. This definition, however, includes too much ; \nfor rest and motion and other outward relations \nim^ly possibility of change without change of qual- \nity. It does not include enough ; for a quality itself \nadmits of change that is quantitative and not qualita- \ntive. We may then give, as a final definition of \nquantity, the following : Quantity is that to the per \n3 \n\n\n\nQUANTITY. 33 \n\nmanence or the changes of which quality and the \nrelations of space are iucliiferent. This definition \nincludes all and no more than is involved in the con- \nception of quantity, while, at the same time, it avoids \nthe tautology of the common definition, which speaks \nof increase and diminution, which already involve the \nidea of quantity. \n\nQuantity may be extensive or intensive. A \nstone may be larger or smaller. This involves the \nidea of extensive quantity. Red may be more or \nless intense, and it is still red. This is intensive \nquantity. \n\nExtensive quantity may be continuous or discrete. \nThe possibility of extensive quantity we call space. \n\nFrom the definitions above given, it is obvious \nthat quantity is not merely quantitative, but that it \nis qualitative also ; that is, it has itself qualities. The \ndifference of intensive and extensive, of continuous \nand discrete, are differences of quality. These qual- \nitative distinctions are found in the whole extent of \nquantitative relations. Continuous quantity and dis- \ncrete quantity, each involves certain necessary rela- \ntions which form the qualities of each. The qualities \nof continuous quantity form the basis of geometry ; \nthose of discrete quantity form the basis of arith- \nmetic and algebra ; that is, of number. When we \nspeak of the extent, or the size of any object, we re- \ngard it as continuous. If it has separate parts, if it \nis composed of atoms, we overlook them. We regard \nsimply the space occupied by the body. When we \nspeak of the number of any bodies, we regard them \nas discrete. When we apply the distinctions of arith- \n\n\n\n34 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nmetic to chemistry, we regard the bodies under con- \nsideration as made up of atoms, each distinct in itself. \nAccording to the atomic theory in its full extent, the \nmolecules of a body do not touch each other. Thus, \naccording to this theory, there could be no contin- \nuous quantity, except in the separate molecules them- \nselves, and in abstract space. Space itself we may \nconsider as made up of points, but we recognize \nthis as a mere help to the imagination, since these \npoints cannot be separated. The same is true of the \nfictions by which a solid is supposed to be made up of \nplanes, or the circumference of a circle to be made up \nof straight lines. All of these cases change continuous \ninto discrete quantity, because the relations of the \nlatter are so much more easily handled than those of \nthe former. We must not, however, allow ourselves \nto be deceived and misled by such practical methods \ninto theoretical error. Quantity is both continuous \nand discrete. Neither element can exist by itself. \nContinuous quantity consists of points. Yet these \npoints fill all the space, and are themselves perfectly \nalike. Each is what the other is ; and thus they are \ncontinuous. The point has no existence by itself, \nmerely as an abstract point ; neither has continuous \nquantity an existence without points. The famous \nparadoxes of the Eleatics, by which they sought to \nprove that there could be no motion, were founded \nupon the fallacy of supposing that either continuous \nor discrete quantity could exist by itself. Thus it \nwas said, when a body moves through a certain space \nit is for an infinitely minute period of time in every \npoint of the space through which it moved. Thig \n\n\n\nLIMIT. 35 \n\nbeing so, it was argued that it was at rest at every \none of these points, and if it rested at every point, it \nwas all rest and there could be no motion. We can- \nnot thus sever the two elements of quantity. It is \nboth discrete and continuous. It is made up of \npoints, yet it is an unbroken whole. Such reasoning \nupon continuous motion, as if it were made up of \nsuccessive rests, however infinitesimal, is as if the \ngeometrician should take in serious earnest the occE\' \nsionally convenient assumption, that the circle is a \npolygon with infinitesimal sides. \n\nQuantity, as we have seen, is independent of all \nqualities save its own, and these it carries wherever \nit goes. We found that quality was imperfect as a \nuniversal, because it might be considered as subordi- \nnate to the unit of being of the object, one of whose \nqualities it is. We therefore turned from quality to \nthat unit of being, which is one form of quantity. \nWhen we sum up objects as units, we sum up all that \nthey are. But quantity took us faithfully at our word. \nThe qualities that we gave up are lost to us. Quan- \ntity is more abstract even than quality. Take a thing \nas a unit, and you regard nothing more in it. A unit \nis a unit, and all units are alike. Let it be pebbles \nor worlds, each is a unit ; each is one. \n\n5-1-3 = 8, \n\nwhether we are considering men, nations, or straws. \nWe find a like abstractness in continuous quantity. \nIt measures the space occupied by an object, not the \nobject itself. It is utterly empty and unreal. \nThis indifference of quantity has, however, its limit. \n\n\n\n36 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nAs quantities change we meet, here and there, points, \nwhere change in quantity becomes change in quality. \nIt is the last straw, says the proverb, that breaks the \ncamel\'s back. As addition after addition is made, \nhowever slight and gradual these may be, a point is \nat last reached, where the load Avhich was at first \nhardly perceptible becomes a crushing weight. \n\n0. LIMIT. \n\n"We reach thus the knowledge, that the indifference \nof quality to quantity has limits beyond which it does \nnot exist. Quantity and quality thus strike into one \nanother. To everything there is placed a limit, with- \nin which it is confined. If it passes this limit, it \nceases to be what it was. The higher the oriraniza- \ntion of a body, the more it is subjected to the law of \nlimit. The worlds, the mere rude material bodies \nwhich are scattered through space, are of all sizes \nfrom the meteor to the suns. Yet even here quantity \nmakes a difference in quality. The condition of the \ndifferent worlds at any given time appears to depend \nupon their size, more than upon any other circum- \nstance with which we are familiar. All originally \nbeing fiery and molten masses, the rate of their cool- \ning depends upon their bulk. One, like the moon, \nis cold and lifeless, without moisture or inhabitant. \nAnother, like Jupiter, is still a watery mass unfit for \nhabitation. Another is a mass of fire ; while others \nstill have reached and not passed the temperate period \nsuitable for habitation. What other causes may be \na*\' work we do not now know. Whether the heat of \n\n\n\nLIMIT. 37 \n\nthe sun is, according to the ingenious theory of \nMayer, kept up by meteoric blows, as the iron may \nbe kept hot by the hammer, has not yet been deter- \nmined. Still the fact remains in general true, that \nthe present condition of each world is dependent \nupon its size. The mineral elements of the earth are \nless directly dependent upon their quantity for their \nquality. A stone may be any size, and yet the same, \nalthough there is in many respects a difference be- \ntween a grain of sand, a rock, and a mountain. In \nwater this is more marked. The difference between \nthe ocean with its tidal flow, and all else that mark \nit for what it is, and a pool by the roadside, is a dif- \nference of size. The higher organic forms are held \nmore sternly to the law of limit. Man and all the \nhigher animals have limits which they cannot pass. \nWhat goes beyond these by any chance, we call mon- \nstrous, and feel for it either horror or disgust. It is \nworthy of remark, however, that this limit is much \nmore fixed at present than it was in the geologic \nepochs. Then animal life, and especially reptile life, \nseemed to be subjected to no law or restraint of bulk. \nOne element of the awe, if not the horror, which we \nfeel, as we contemplate the swarming monsters of the \nmesozoic period, is this lawlessness, this absence of \nlimit. The classes of existence seemed to run to- \ngether. Bird, beast, and reptile seemed to flow into \none another, while all grew together, apparently to \nsuch bulk as chance might suggest. Here were \ndoubtless law and limit, but these were so different \nfrom anything which we know as such, that we do not \nrecognize them without careful and prolonged study, \n\n\n\n38 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nand then only partially. The dread which many feel \nof any theory of development results from this, that \nthe law and limit which rules the world seems by it \nto be done away. \n\nIn social organizations we find the law of limit as- \nserting itself A town, as it varies in size from a \nfrontier settlement to a mighty city, changes its na- \nture, as the Tityrus of Virgil discovered to his wonder, \nmore even than it changes its size. The political \norganization, the architecture, the furniture, the cus- \ntoms of society, these and innumerable other elements, \nchange by a certain necessity with the growth of a \ntown, so that one hardly knows, in the contemplation \nof London or New York, whether he is more struck \nby the extent of streets and houses, or by the ap- \npearance of a single street. Broadway is more New \nYork, the boulevards are more Paris, than the extent \nand the mass of buildings and population that sur- \nround them. But yet Broadway and the boulevards \ngrew out of this mass, and are its exponent. We find \nthe same principle in smaller structures and organiza- \ntions. The rig of a vessel varies with its size. One \nis a sloop, another a brig, another a ship, with vary- \ning limits to be sure, but in general according to its \ntonnage. In a word, this principle runs through civil- \nized life. \n\nIn qualities the law of limit is no less marked. \nHere we see more clearly manifested the tendency, \nnot merely to a change, but to an absolute transfor- \nmation and inversion, in passing the limitation line. \nA quality tends to become its opj)Osite when it passes \nbej\'ond its limit ; that is, its generic character thus \n\n\n\nCHANGE. 39 \n\nchanges, even when its formal individuality remains \nthe same. Thus a virtue overdriven becomes a vice \nGenerosity passes the limiting line and becomes prod- \nigality. Economy becomes avarice. Zeal becomes \nbigotry. Playfulness becomes emptiness. It is in \nthis way, by the transformation of qualities and their \neffects, that extremes meet. The miser often feels \nmore of the evils of poverty than the beggar to whom \nhe refuses a pittance. The mere pleasure-seeker is \nthe most melancholy being in existence. What is \nthrough its novelty a joy, becomes through repetition \ncommonplace and wearisome. The means of enjoy- \nment, and the capacities for enjoj^ment, tend to reach \ntheir limit together. A punctilious legality may pass \ninto Pharisaic pride, and sin itself may, through re- \npentance excited by the very enormity of its sinful- \nness, become virtue. \n\n" Pride ruined the angels ; \nTheir shame them restores ; \nAnd the joy that is sweetest \nLurks in stings of remorse." \n\nThis tendency is indeed the saving, if not the \nmoving, power of history. Tyranny thus works for \ndemocracy, and democracy, when it degenerates into \na mob, assumes some law, even if it be that of an \nempire. The Spartans used to send a drunkard \nthrough the streets as a teacher of temperance. In \nthis way vice itself becomes the minister and the \nhandmaid of virtue. In a word, this tendency is the \nbasis of the great law of compensation, according to \nwhich self-sacrifice becomes its own reward ; of the \ngreat law of retribution, by which self-indulgence \n\n\n\n40 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nbrings its own penalty ; and of the great law of action \nand reaction, by which the world keeps its balance \nand is fenced into its appointed path. \n\n\n\nSECOND. -NEGATIVE. \n\nDYNAMIC RELATIONS. \n\n\n\nA.. THE NEGATIVE RELATION OP A QUAUTT OE \n\nOBJECT TO ITSELF. \n\nCHANGE. \n\nWe have seen that there is a point where change in \nquantity becomes change in quality. The change in \nquality, as change in quantity goes on, has been com- \npared to the length of a knotted cord. Every now \nand then you come upon one of these knots which \nmarks a change. \n\nNot only is it true that these limits exist. It is no \nless true that everything tends to pass its limits. \nNothinof rests behind the limits which are assiojued to \nit. Thus there is a law of change in all things. \nThis tendency of an object to become something dif- \nferent from what it is constitutes its negative rela- \ntion to itself. It has in its own nature that element, \nwhich, so far as its present structure aud condition are \nconcerned, will prove its destruction. By fulfilling \nits own nature, it passes out from its own nature \n\n\n\nCHANGE. 41 \n\nThe abstract possibility of such change we cal] time. \nTime is the abstract possibility of succession, that is, \nof chans^e. We are conscious of time through \nchange, and we measure it by the different rapidity \nof the changes that take place in different objects. \nObjects are so formed, or so related, that mere duration \nor length of time becomes equivalent to change. By \nmere existence, prolonged to a certain limit, they \nbecome either changed, or as individual objects they \npass out of existence. Objects that have not pri- \nmarily this negative relation to themselves are de- \npendent for their existence upon, and thus mere out- \ngrowths of, others that have this negative relation to \nthemselves, and whose very continuance thus becomes \ntheir own change or destruction, and thus the change \nor destruction of all that depends upon them. The \ntendency to pass beyond the limit which is affixed to \nan object becomes stronger according to the strictness \nof the limit in which it is enclosed. The higher an \nobject stands in the scale of being, the more closely \nit is subjected to the law of limit, and the more does \nit tend to pass its limit. \n\nThe world, originally a fiery mass, possessed this \nnegative relation to itself, which involved constant \nchange, and which made mere duration equivalent to \nchange. The form of this negative relation was the \nlaw of the radiation of heat. This radiation, which \nwas one of the fundamental conditions of the burning \nmass, involved change with every moment. It could \nnot remain as it was unless time itself stopped. Thus \nall the changes and convulsions which followed were \ninvolved in this first germ. Often the world reached \n\n\n\n42 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nperiods of seeming rest, but the fate of each was \nwritten upon itself. Each succeeding form of the \nearth\'s surface retained within itself the seeds of its \nown overthrow. As the earth grew cool, race after \nrace of animal and vegetable life succeeded one \nanother. Each being bound to conditions which were \ntransient was transient also. Those races of mon- \nsters, which we just contemplated, seemed to have \nno limit of size and shape. The limit of time was, \nhowever, upon them. The relation to itself of the \nwhole order to which they belonged was negative, \nand it must pass away, and they with it. \n\nAt the present day, some forms of vegetable life \nseem to have no element of destruction within them- \nselves. A tree, it would seem, might grow forever. \nBut the circumstances change on which it depends, \nand thus at length it passes away. Some vegetable \nlife, and all animal life, stands of itself in this nega- \ntive relation to itself. Every animal organization \nbears within itself the principle of its own destruc- \ntion. Death is a regular part of the process of life. \nWe are apt to regard it as something superadded to \nlife, as an accident, or at least as something intro- \nducing itself from without. We are apt to think \nthat at least it is caused by some defect in the ma- \nchinery of life, and that, if this defect could be re- \nmoved, life would run on forever. The contrary of \nthis is true. Death is the natural and necessary result \nof the merely individual life. The more perfect the \norganization, the more certain and inevitable is this \nresult. The tree, we have seen, may live for centu- \nries. A reptile, under certain circumstances, may \n\n\n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT, 4,^ \n\nhave its life prolonged indefinitely ; such is the case \nwith regard to those toads which have been found \nembodied in rocks. But in such cases as this, the \nsuspension of death resulted from the suspension of \nlife. When the wheels of life began to move again, \ndeath began also its approach. In the case of the \nhigher organisms there is no such reprieve. Finite \nlife, by its very process, like everything else that is \nfinite, passes into its opposite. The process of life \nis also a process of death. \n\nIn the complex organizations of society we find \nthis negative relation equally supreme ; each civiliza- \ntion, each structure of social, civil, or ecclesiastical \norder, rests upon an idea or group of ideas. But \nthese ideas are forms of thought, and thought by its \nown nature is constant change. Universal principles \ndevelop themselves to fresh and special results, and \nfacts, familiar or strange, give rise to new general \nprinciples. Thus ideas change no less than outward \nrelations, and a civilization which has grouped itself \nabout an idea is but the shell of a germinant seed. \nThe seed will germinate, and the shell must be broken \nand destroyed. The task of the historian, often a \nsad one, is to show how in each civilization lies the \nsentence of its own death. \n\nThis negative relation to itself, that is, the limit \nwhich is affixed to everything, and its tendency to pass \nthis limit, is the principle and power which the an- \ncients embodied in their conception of fate. It is \nthe power of repression, of compensation, and of \ndestruction. We may also remark, that if this law \nof limit, and of the passing beyond this limit, by \n\n\n\n44 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwhich a change in quantity \xe2\x80\x94 extensive or intensive \xe2\x80\x94 \nbecomes a change of quality, were recognized, it would \ntake from many the prejudice and the dread that they \nhave of any theory of creation by development. No \nsuch theory has, indeed, as yet been established, but if \none should be established, this development would be \nonly the progress along such a knotted line as has been \nreferred to ; and though the line were the same, the \ndifference between what lay on one side of one of these \nknots, and what lay on the other, although in itself \nonly a difference of degree, would amount to a differ- \nence in kind, as complete as though each belonged to a \nseries of its own. \n\n\n\nB NEGATIVE RELATION OF A QUALITY OR AN OB- \nJECT TOWARDS OTHERS. \n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT. \n\nWe have seen how each object involves by its \nnature the necessity of change. This change can- \nnot concern itself alone. Its change is a change in \nquality, and a quality is the relation in which it stands \nto other objects, the way in which it is affected by \nthem, and in which it affects them. A change in one \nobject will thus affect other objects, and cause a \nchange in them. We thus reach the conception of \ncause and effect. This relation is indeed, in itself, \nthe exemplification of the negative relation to one\'s \nself. It is the nature of a cause to produce the ef- \nfect; when the effect \'s produced, the cause in gen- \n\n\n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT. 45 \n\neral, as a cause, ceases to exist. Practically, however, \nthere is this difference ; an object, as cause, stands \nnot merely in a negative relation to itself, but also to \nsome other object outside of itself. The elements \nof the process are separated, and stand over against \none another. A fusee burning in a keg of powder \ndestroys itself by its negative relation to itself, but \nas cause it destroys the powder which is outside of \nitself. This negative relation of a body, not to it- \nself, but to an object outside of itself, then, is what \nmarks the present stage of the process we are con- \nsidering. \n\nThe relation of cause and effect was formerly treated \nin a purely metaphysical manner. Some philoso- \nphers denied that we had any such notion as that of \ncause. Metaphysical definitions were given, which \ndid not meet the circumstances of the case, or did \nnot discriminate them from others. At present, \nthanks to our modern science, we can give a scien- \ntific definition which, while it does not remove all \nmetaphysical difficulty, furnishes a conception of \ncausation more real and clear than has before been \npossible. \n\nThe more strictly metaphysical aspects of the sub- \nject will be referred to later in this work, under the \ntitle "Propositions of the Reason." \n\nThe simplest form of causation is that in which the \nbody itself, which is the cause, passes over into other \nrelations, and becomes effect. \n\nThe definition of this form of causation would be \nthe trans/errence of substance. The rain falls from \nthe sky : this is the cause ; th e effect is that the \n\n\n\n46 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nground is wet. The water has been transferred from \nthe atmosphere to the earth. A light weight is in \none scale of a balance, too light to outweigh the sub- \nstance that is in the other scale. I throw an iron \nweight into the first scale, and it sinks. Here the \niron weight is cause, and it acts by being itself trans- \nferred to the scale on which it acts. This is the sim- \nplest form of causation. It may, however, become \nmore complicated without changing its nature. In \nthe examples just given, the qualities of the objects \ntransferred in the one case of the w^ater, and in the \nother of the iron, are recognized in the new combina- \ntion. In other cases, however, the object transferred \nloses its distinctive character. The changes that \nsurprise us in the chemist\'s laboratory result largely \nfrom transferrence of substance, though we cannot \ntrace the substance in its new composition save by \nchemical analysis. \n\nThe more general definition of causation is the \ntransferrence of force or motion. This is the form of \ncausation that underlies all othvirs, and upon which \nmodern science has thrown such floods of light. It \nincludes the form of causation first referred to, since \nthe transferrence of substance implies and involves \nthe transferrence of force. \n\nI strike a rock with a hammer. The hammer strik- \ning the rock is stopped in its descent. The rock may \nnot be broken. Hammer and rock both appear as \nbefore. Still the force that moved the hammer is \nnot lost. The outward motion has become an inner \nmotion, a molecular action. Hammer and rock are \nboth heated to a degree corresponding with the vio- \n\n\n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT. 47 \n\nlence of the concussion. Thus no force is lost. No \nmotion is succeeded by rest, but only by a different \nform of motion, or by motion in a different body. \nHeat, light, electricity, chemical action, and vital \naction, are thus shown to be different forms of the \nsame force. This force can be tracked in all its \nchanges. It can be weighed, measured, calculated, \nwith the utmost exactness. This discovery of science, \nwhich is called variously the correlation of forces and \nthe conservation of force, is one of the grandest ever \nmade, and the extent of its application and its results \nis only beginning to be known and appreciated. In- \nstead, therefore, of giving clumsy metaphysical defi- \nnitions of causation, or getting into metaphysical \ndifficulties about it, we may simply say that causation \nis the transferrence of force. To make this definition \ncomplete, the word force should be itself defined. \nForce is the momentum of action, or that property by \nwhich activity is continued under some form or other. \nAn ivory ball in its motion strikes another and is put \nto rest. The other moves. The momentum of the \nfirst is transferred to that. This transfer is, however, \nnot complete. The second moves with less momen- \ntum than the first. A part of the momentum of the \nfirst is applied to the atoms of each, producing that \nmotion which we call heat. \n\nWe cannot indeed as yet prove that the definition thus \ngiven includes all the phenomena of causation. There \nare certain forms of this relation, which we do not yet \nfully understand, but where no transferrence of either \nsubstance or motion can be discovered. Chief amonsT \nthese stand the phenomena of attraction, especially \n\n\n\n48 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe attraction of gravitation. It should be borne ic \nmind that this and all apparent exceptions to the \ngeneral principle of causation are merely phenomena \nwhich we do not understand. We cannot say posi- \ntively that they are exceptions. The attraction of \none body by another, of all bodies by the earth, and \nof all worlds by one another, seems to be force ex- \nerted without being transferred. The force of attrac- \ntion seems to spring into being as the bodies are \nbrought near to one another, and to lessen and finally \nto be destroyed as they are separated. It may be, \nhowever, that some corresponding change, not yet de- \ntected, takes place in the internal structure of the \nbody, corresponding to, and making possible this ex- \nternal manifestation of force. This is at least the \nconjecture of Faraday. We can readily imagine that \neither the chemical attraction or the attraction of co- \nhesion becomes less, as the attraction of a body for \nanother that is approaching it grows stronger. If \nanything like this should ever be detected, then gravi- \ntation itself would be comprehended under the law \nof the correlation of forces. Another apparent ex- \nception to this law is the very strange fact, that in \nchemistry two objects, the affinity of which is not \nstrong enough to promote a union, do yet unite at the \nmere presence of a third body, which remains un- \naffected by the operation. This uucomprehended fact, \nwhich is called by the chemists Catalysis, appears to \nstand in an exceptional relation to the law of the cor- \nrelation of forces. This, however, may also seem to \nbe an exception simply because it is not understood. \nIt will very possibly be some day discovered that a \n4 \n\n\n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT. 49 \n\nmolecular action and disturbance is introduced by the \npresence of the third body, which enables the two \nfirst to combine as they were otherwise unable to do^ \nand that this itself sustains some corresponding \nchange. \n\nBut we apply the word causation not merely to \nphysical, but also to spiritual and mental, relations, and \nthe question arises, in what manner the definition of \ncausation that has been given applies to these. If it \nbe urged that we know too little of the relations of \nminds to one another and to matter to affirm in regard \nto them the transferrence of force, the reply is, that if \nwe cannot apply this definition to spiritual causation \nliterally, we do it figuratively. The word can have \nno other meaning. The meaning of the word fall \nremains the same, even if it cannot be applied liter- \nally to the " Fall of Man. " If, however, we confine \nourselves to ordinary human, mental, or spiritual \ncausation, we find, in fact, that the law of the con- \nservation and correlation of forces is unbroken. Men- \ntal causation, in regard to physical matters, bears a \ndirect ratio to the amount of force contained in the \nfood taken into the system, or otherwise received \nfrom the external world ; at least it can never go be- \nyond this. Thus it would appear that force is directed, \nnot generated, by the soul. \n\nFurther objections to the definition of causation \njust given, though furnishing no exceptions to it, may \narise from the confused notion which many entertain \nin regard to what causation may be supposed to ac- \ncomplish. Cause can simply relate to change. There \nare two classes of facts, then, which lie out of the \n\n\n\n50 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nrange of causation, and cannot be included in any \nseries of cause and effect. The first of these is abso- \nlute being, and the second is the primary and funda- \nmental qualities of being. These can be brought \nunder any system of causation, only by reference to \nthe transfer of substance. There the causation can- \nnot be absolute. The confused nature of the popular \nnotion of causation may be seen from the ease with \nwhich arguments based upon it have been refuted \neven by a child. What is the cause of the world is \nthe question, and the answer is, God. The next \nquestion is, What, then, is the cause of God, or, as the \nchild puts it. Who made God ? By such logic we are \ncarried back and back with no possibility of rest. \nCausation applies to change. We see a series of \nchancres going on in the universe. We see them all \nstanding in harmonious relations to one another. We \nmay well ask, then, what is the principle of unity \nin all these different processes and substances ? This \nunity of process, this controlling oneness of plan and \noperation, is that which we are to seek. We do not \nask thve cause of existence, but the power which \nworks through existence to a given end. If the uni- \nverse be, according to the Buddhist conception of it, \na dream and a delusion, then it may, indeed, have \nbeen created out of nothing. But if it be a real and \nliving thing, then did God impart to it something of \nhis own divine energy. To pursue this topic further \nwould, however, carry us bej^ond our present discus- \nsion.* \n\n* The propriety and usefulness of the application of analogical reasoning \n\n\n\nORGANIC EELATIOXS. 51 \n\nAnother point to which the hiw of causation does \nnot apply is the peculiarity of the primary qualities \nof substances. Causation is the transfer of force. \nThe force which in one object produces one result, \nin another object produces another result. One mo- \nment it is heat, the next it is light. Why one form \nof undulation will produce upon us the effect of one \ncolor, another that of another color, another that of \nno color, but of a sound, lies probably beyond the \nreach of possible discovery. We can analyze quali- \nties to a certain extent, and show the dependence of \none upon another, but the fundamental qualities of \nsubstances we cannot in any scientific manner ex- \nplain. \n\nIn regard to all these objections and apparent ex- \nceptions, it may be remarked, though with some repe- \ntition, in conclusion, that the meaning of the word \ncausation is the transfer of force; and that the mean- \ning of the word force is the momentum of activity. \nThis is the meaning and the only meaning of the word \ncausation, though the word is often used to express, \nby analogy, a fact not wholly understood. If it be \nthen asked, whether the word causation had no mean- \ning till the truth of the conservation of force was dis- \ncovered, it can be replied, that this discovery brought \nto consciousness what had been latent in the soul. \nThe meaning of the word causation was real, yet \n\nand illustration to such vast topics as that referred to in the text will ba \nfound discussed in the second book of this work, under the title " Analogy; " \nwhile the subject here touched upon will be found taken up again and \ntreated more fully, in some of its relations, in the third book, under the \ngeneral title " Problems of the Reason." \n\n\n\n52 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nobscure, as maybe seen from the fact that men would \nuse it, even though the philosophers afTrmed that it had \nno meaning. Exceptions to the law of the correla- \ntion of force, and thus to the definition of causation \nwhich was given above, are merely apparent, and not \nreal ; at least they cannot be shown to be real. They \nare like some unexplained phenomena which the \nastronomer detects among the stars. He does not \nlook upon them as exceptions to the law of attraction, \nbut as furnishing new fields for its application. \n\n\n\nTHIRD. -NEGATION OF NEGATION. \n\nORGANIC RELATIONS. \n\n\n\n"We have seen that objects stand in a negative re- \nlation to themselves in accordance with which their \nvery continuance leads to their change or destruction. \nThe relation of cause and efifect is the same negative \nrelation, only the parties concerned in it are separated \nand stand over against one another. In causation \none object stands in a negative relation, not only to \nitself, but thereby to another. Our common con- \nception of causation is indeed that cf a positive \nrather than of a negative relation. The fundamental \nnotion of cause is, however, that it disturbs the ex- \nisting state of things. It overthrows the present \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSE. 53 \n\norder, and the object acted upon is no longer what it \nwas before. There is, however, in this negative re- \nlation of a body to itself, a second step involved, to \nwhich the process itself leads us. If this change is \ninvolved in the nature of the body, then, in its ac- \ncomplishment, though in one sense it may destroy \nitself, in another and more complete sense it really \nreaches and fulfils its true nature. Thus a seed \nstands in a negative relation to itself. If it fulfils \nits nature it destroys itself. It exists as a seed no \nlonger. But the real nature of the seed is to produce \nthe plant. Its existence is fulfilled in that. Thus, \nwhile apparently destroying itself, in reality it reaches \nand accomplishes itself. Thus this negative relation \nis, by the law of limit, and that of the passing of \nlimit, transformed into a positive relation. The \nnegation is itself negated, and we have only positive \naffirmation. Another example of this we find in the \ndeath of man. A higher life springs out of it. We \nmay illustrate the effect of this double negation in \nthe difference between the consciousness of the ani- \nmal and that of the spiritually instructed and devel- \noped man, in regard to death. The animal is \nunconscious of death. With the consciousness of \ndeath in man comes at first the terrible sense of \nnegation and of destruction, until this destruction is \nitself destroyed, and a consciousness of the immortal \nlife springs out of it. We here see, at a glance, the \neffect of this double negation. The animal is un- \nconscious of death ; man is conscious of immortality. \nThe same process is accomplished, though in a less \nstriking manner, in all cases of the negative relation. \n\n\n\n54 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe cause, though it no longer exists as cause, is ful- \nfilled in the efiect. The end may be more really the \ncause than the beginning, for, in the end, the cause \nfinds first its real and complete existence. This is \nwhat we understand by the expression, "Final \nCause." \n\nA. \xe2\x80\x94 FINAL CAUSE. \n\nWhere a process is carried on by means of parts \nco-operating for their own mutual support, or for the \npromotion of a common end, this composition of \nparts is called an organism, and the end for which \nthey co-operate is called a final cause. The analytical \nthought of modern times finds some difficulty in con- \nceiving of an organization as such. It is with diffi- \nculty that it gets beyond the thought of a collection \nor juxtaposition of parts. It has not reached the \nidea that the parts of an organization cannot exist \nwithout the whole, any more than the whole can \nexist without the parts. We meet the same relation \non a higher plane that we found to exist between dis- \ncrete and continuous extension. We saw that neither \na point as such, nor continuous extension as such, \ncan exist. The point exists only in continuous ex- \ntension ; and extension, however continuous, consists \nof points. So neither the parts of an organism on \nthe one side, nor the organism itself on the other, \ncan have a separate existence. We can see the dis- \ntance we have passed in our inquiry by observing \nhow much out of place the fundamental axiom of \nmere quantity would be at our present stage. The \n\n\n\nDIFFERENTIATION. 55 \n\nfundamental axiom of quantity is that the whole is \nequal to the sum of the parts. Let there be a num- \nber of men of equal strength. To obtain the amount \nof their working ability you would multiply the \nability of one by the number of men. If their labor, \nhowever, be organized, \xe2\x80\x94 in other words, if the prin- \nciple of the division of labor be adopted, \xe2\x80\x94 the math- \nematical formula would fail. \n\nThe end for which all work together, which we \ncall the final cause, is really the cause. If you go to \na certain city, your object in going is the cause of \nyour movement rather than the locomotive that took \nyou there. A seed is buried in the earth. The \nwarmth and the moisture make it sprout into life ; \nyet if it had not this tendency to life, this final cause \nembodied in itself, the sun would have shone in vain. \nThus, wherever it exists, the final cause is the real \ncause. In nature, in life, and in history, this is the \nworking power ; this sums up all parts of the process \nin itself, and the beginning finds its real existence in \nthe end, or in the process which leads to the end. \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 DIFFERENTIATION. \n\nThe first step in the evolution of the final cause is \na departure from the simplicity and apparent unity of \nthat in which the process is accomplishing itself. \nThe seed has, shut up within it, the germ of the plant. \nThe final cause of the seed, and of the changes which \nit is to undergo, is the production of the plant. The \nseed is a simple unit. The beginning of the process \nwhich it is its nature to fulfil is the parting of the \n\n\n\n56 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncotyledons, that is, the destruction of its unit}\'. This \nis a type of the entire growth of the plant. There \nis a constant striving apart. The units which result \nfrom each division, as, for instance, the buds that come \nout on opposite or corresponding sides, themselves \ndivide, and this process is continued through the \nwhole growth of the plant, which becomes with \nevery new stage more complicated. This process of \ndifferentiation takes place in all evolution. It is in- \ndeed one essential element of organized growth. If \nwe start from the thin and homogeneous ether, which \nmay have been the germ of the world, and trace the \ncourse of subsequent changes and evolutions up to \nthe very highest products of political association or \nhuman thought, we shall find an unceasing process \nof differentiation. For instance, in human societies, \nin the earliest period of barbarous life, every individ- \nual, with slight exceptions, fills the same place that \nevery other does. The functions of society are per- \nformed by all alike. The more complete a society \nis, the more complicated it is. Callings are sepa- \nrated. Social functions are divided and subdivided. \nIf we stoop to the lowest form of animal life wx find \na sack without differentiation of organs, save that the \nside which happens to be on the inside performs cer- \ntain duties which that which chanced to be on the \noutside could perform just as well, if the relative \nposition of the two were changed. Rising to the \nconception of thought itself, we find that this differ- \nentiation is the very life of the progress of thought. \nThe understanding begins by detecting differences m \nwhat had before appeared similar, if not the same, \n\n\n\nINTEGRATION. 57 \n\nand such difference it continues to discover through \nits whole existence. Thought has its law of develop- \nment as much as the seed. Thought divides and \nbranches, and evolves multitudinous diversities out \nof what had seemed a simple unit. This division is \nmarked in all the forms in which thought embodies \nitself. The diiferent parties in which a state divides \nitself are the manifestations of the different elements \ninvolved in the fundamental idea of the state. Phi- \nlosophy takes form in opposing systems ; theology in \nconflicting sects. The idea everywhere divides it- \nself and contends with itself. A superficial glance \nat religion, at philosophy, at any manifestation of \nthought, sees only strife. Political history is only \nthe petty contest of politicians. Strife without end \nand aim seems to be the law of all history. This \nlaw is, however, not final. This differentiation is it- \nself the reverse of what it appears. Like the nega- \ntive relation in all its forms, it passes into its opposite. \nThe negation negates itself, and becomes thereby \npositive. The differentiation is only a step in the \nformation of a concrete and united whole. \n\nC. INTEGRATION. \n\nThe law of integration is everywhere present, pre- \nsiding over, controlling, and directing the process of \ndifferentiation. The two seem at first sight utterly \nhostile, but they are merely two forms of the same \nprocess. To be a whole, a thing must have parts.* \n\nThe equally mixed assemblage of elements which \n\n* The reader will find a full discussion of the process of differentiation \n\n\n\n58 TIIK SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nconstituted the ether out of which the worlds si)r;iug, \nwas only in the mathematical seuse of the term a \nwhole. Not till these confused elements had become \nto a certain extent parted and ranged, did they con- \nstitute what could be called in any higher sense a \nwhole. The simple unit which a seed represents is \nonly in a meagre sense a whole. As yet, it is rather \nthe abstract possibility of a whole. When it has \nbecome a plant, when it has leaves and branches, \nthen it becomes a whole, worthy of the name. This \nintegration, in the lowest sense of the word, requires \ndistinction and order in the arrangement of the parts. \nIn the higher use of the word, it demands the co-op- \neration of all the parts to a single end. We see this \nlaw of integration typically illustrated in the example \nso often referred to of the growing plant. We see, \nin this, how no part of the divergence is lost. The \ncotyledons part and fall away. The leaves, however, \nstill represent this primary division. The flowers \nare a modification of the structure of the leaves. The \nfruit itself retains the marks of the divisions of the \nflower. So we find in the large study of history that \nnothing is lost. Philosophy, politics, religion, gather \nup what was vital in the systems they leave behind \n\nand integration in the First Principles of Herbert Spencer, who uses the \nterms, however, in a somewhat different sense from that in which they are \nhere employed. It lias been objected to the illustration taken from the primi- \ntive condition of the universe, according to the Nebular Theory, that this \nnebulous mass contained all the elements, that is, all the variety, afterwards \narranged and added. But if these elements were equally divided and com- \nbined, the structure was as homogeneous as if there had been but a single \ningredient; or we may suppose the atoms to have been originally of one kind, \nand the variety of substances to have been produced by difference in arrange- \nment. \n\n\n\nRELATIONS OF THOUGHT. 59 \n\nthem. Christianity contains the transfigured forms \nof all the world\'s religions. The complete philosophy \nhas, within itself, the life of all previous systems. \nHistory reconciles the claims of conflicting parties, \nand shows how neither contended wholly in vain. \n\nCONCLUSION. \n\nA glance at the fundamental relations, or categories, \nwhich we have thus considered, will show that they \nare all modifications of a single and simple set of re- \nlations or categories. This fundamental system may \nbe thus expressed : affirmation, negation, and the \nnegation of the negation, which results in an affirma- \ntion higher, fuller, and more complete than the first, \nsince it involves and retains all the results of the pre- \nceding negation. The division of the categories into \nstatic, dynamic, and organic, is simply a making more \nconcrete this fundamental division. The static rela- \ntion is the simple affirmation. The dynamic relation \nis the negative of this simplicity, while the organic \nbrings back the dynamic into the limits of the static, \nbeing itself both static and dynamic. The divisions \nmto which each of these last passes repeat the same \nprocess. Quantity is the negation of quality, which \nnegation limit destroys, by bringing quantity itself \ninto a qualitative relation. Under dynamics we have \nthe twofold form of the negative relation, the nega- \ntion of which negation introduces us into the higfher \norganic relations, in the form of the final cause. \nThe final cause, in the realm of organic relations, at \nfirst seems to lose itself in the division and strife \n\n\n\n0)0 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwhich mark the process of differentiation, but finds \nitself again, complete and concrete, in the process of \nintegration. \n\nThese categories furnish the form and the material \nof our thought, and it is in thougld that they find \ntheir free and conscious manifestation. Thought is \nthe category of categories. All find themselves in \nthought, while the process of their development is \nthe very life of thought. We have now to follow \nthis process in the realm of thought. We shall start \nwith the concej)tion. In the discussion of the rela- \ntions and process of thought upon which we are \nabout to enter, it will be noticed that logical terms, \nthat is, those that refer to the outward expression \nof thought, are more often used than those which \nrefer to thought itself. The reason of this is, that \nsince these external relations are the exact counter- \nparts and representatives of the inner, their names \nanswer the same purpose that would be served by \nthe names of the corresponding moments of thought, \nwhile at the same time they are simpler, more defi- \nnite, and involve less psychological difficulty and \ndiscussion. \n\n\n\nSECOND BOOK. \n\n\n\nFOEMS OF THOUGHT \n\n\n\nLOGICAL FORMS. \n\n\n\nPIRST.-CONCEPTIONS AND TERMS. \n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. \n\n\n\nThe nature of thought is a matter in regard to \nwhich there has been much difference of opinion. \nNothing could better illustrate the impossibility of \nsettling psycological questions by mere introspection, \nthan such divergence in regard to the mental pro- \ncesses which fill all our waking moments. The most \nimportant opinions that have been held as to the \nnature of thought are in general these : That we \nthink in pictures, the conception being a form of \nimagination ; that we think in words ; and that \nthought is a mental process distinct from all others. \n\nIn regard to each of the two views first named, an \nimportant distinction is to be made. It is one thing \nto say that we think by means of pictures, and \nquite another to say that our thinking is merely pic- \ntorial. It is one thing to hold that we can think \nonly by means of words, and another to hold that \nour thinking is merely verbal. For myself, I \nincline to the opinion that we never think without \n\n63 \n\n\n\n64 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhaving as a substratum or starting point for the \ntliought, a mental picture, a remembered feeling, or \na word ; and that the substratum of thought may be \nindifferently one or another of these. I am sure, \nhowever, that the thought itself is something very \ndifferent from the mental picture, the remembered \nfeeling or the word, which may make the thought \npossible. These may be necessary for thinking ; \nthey do not constitute the thought. \n\nThe most important of the opinions referred to is, \nthat which confounds thought with mental 23icturing; \nfor if this were true, it would follow that the range \nof thought is no greater than that of the imagina- \ntion. A little examination will show the falsity of \nthis theory. How do we think, for instance, of a \ntriangle in general, apart from any notion of some \nparticular kind of triangle ? If the thought has any \npictorial basis this must be one of two kinds. It \nmust be either some definite form, as that of a right- \nangled triangle, or it must be a form more or less \nblurred or undefined, though it is hard to see how \nthe lines of the picture could be distinct enough to \nsuggest a triangle without also suggesting the kind. \nWe are met, then, by the fact that the picture must \nbe of some special kind of triangle; right-angled, \nisosceles, or some other. It must also be of some \nparticular size. The conception is of a triangle of \nany kind and of any size. Further, the picture, \nwhether blurred or distinct, represents a single \ntriangle ; the conception stands for all triangles. \nThe picture in the mind stands, thus, for something \nthat cannot be pictured. We give to it a represen- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 65 \n\ntative character. It is the representative of all \ntriangles. It could not be this if it did not siiofaest \na conception that goes beyond itself and includes all. \n\nThere are, further, conceptions for which it seems \nimpossible to find any pictorial basis. What picture \ncould suggest the idea of totality, for instance ? If \nthis notion has any mental substratum it would seem \nthat it could be only a word. \n\nWhat is true of the mental picture, is true of the \nremembered feeling. This also needs a general \ncharacter which the memory of no feeling can have \nwhen taken by itself. \n\nIf we turn now to the assumption that words are \nessential to thought, it must be admitted that with- \nout words, by which conceptions are made distinct \nand permanent, thought would have remained in a \nvery rudimentary state. By words, a man\'s thought \nis made clear to himself; by them it becomes the \nproperty of the community. By words, the thought \nof one age becomes a solid basis upon which succeed- \ning generations may build. It has been well urged, \nhowever, that the common experience of seeking a \nword to express a thought shows that words are not \nan absolute necessity for thinking. It may be added \nthat no one can claim that we think in regularly \nformulated propositions ; and wherever there is a \nbreak in the formal completeness of the proposition, \nthere the thought makes a leap unaided by verbal \nexpression. What particularly concerns us here, \nhowever, is the obvious fact, that, so far as words are \nused in thinking, they are means to thought, and not \nthought itself. In a mathematical equation the con- \n\n\n\n66 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntent of the x and the y, the a and the 5, does not \nconcern us. All that is essential is the fact that the \ncontents of these several letters are, or may be, \nunlike one another. In ordinary thought or speech, \non the contrary, words are not thus formal. Each \nhas a content. If we do not know its meaning, the \nword is useless. This content is a conception. \n\nHaving thus seen that thought is not to be con- \nfounded with any other form of mental action, we \nwill consider its different forms and stages. \n\nThe conception is the simplest form of thought. \nIt has not necessarily any direct reference to an \nobject as actually existing in the outer world. Being \nthought, the conception involves the two elements \ncommon to all thought, the positive and negative, or, \nas they may be otherwise named, the general and the \nlimiting ; or, to give still another phrase more iu ac- \ncordance with the terminology which we shall have to \nuse iu other portions of this work, the universal and \nthe particularizing or individualizing. The sensation \nred is not a conception. When we think of red as a \ncolor, we have a conception of it. It involves the \ntwo elements, \xe2\x80\x94 color in general and this color in par- \nticular. We do not, however, necessarily separate \nthese two elements iu our thought. We are often, \nperhaps most often, unconscious of this distinction. \nWe take the conception as a whole, without regard \nto its formation. Indeed, iu regard to the nature, the \nformation, and the relation of conceptions, there is \nno more fallacious guide than consciousness. Many \nprocesses of our thought pass at once into oblivion. \njMany change their nature when we contemplate them. \n5 \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 67 \n\nFortunately we are not left to the varying and often \nfallacious guidance of consciousness in this matter. \nThouo;ht at once embodies itself in languao^e. The \nconception takes form in the term. By a term is \nmeant a word, or words, by which a conception is \nexpressed. Words in their formation and changes \nbear the living impress of thought, and by the study \nof words we can often settle questions that otherwise \nwould be insoluble. We can thus learn more of the \nnature of the conception by studying the term which \nis its concrete expression, than by studying the con- \nception itself. To it, therefore, we will address our- \nselves. \n\nA term has just been stated to be the expression \nof a conception. This is sometimes denied by those \nwho affirm that the term (a word) is the name of a \nthing. The truth is that the term is immediately the \nname of a conception ; mediately it may be the name \nof a thing. If the conception stands for an outward \nobject, and the term stands for the conception, the \nterm, indirectly, stands also for the thing. Both of \nthese statements must be kept carefully in mind. \nOne of them is commonly omitted. Logicians and \nmetaphysicians commonly assert that words are the \nnames of conceptions. This is true ; but if it be left \nout of the account that conceptions directly, and thus \nterms indirectly, may stand for things, the discussion \nbecomes partial and vague. On the other hand, Mr. \nMill and others assert very positively that words are \nthe names, not of conceptions, but of things. What \naccording to this view the word is the name of, when \nthere is nothing answering to it but a conception, is \n\n\n\n68 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nnot clear. "Words follow all the varying forms of \nhuraau thought. Humau errors, human dreams, all \nexpress themselves in words. The word answers to \nhuman thous^ht. It is a record of huraau thouofht. \nIt is the name of a thousfht. If the thousrht answer \nto a thing, then the word also answers to a thing. A \nhomely comparison may illustrate the whole matter. \nYou stand by the sea-shore and pull a boat by means \nof a rope. Do you pull the rope, or do you pull the \nboat? Most metaphysicians, if the analogy to the \nposition above described were preserved, would say \nthat you pulled the rope. Mr. Mill, looking at your \npurpose and consciousness, would say that you pulled \nin the boat. If a landsman were in a boat, and \nwished it to be pulled ashore, he would throw a rope \nto some one standing by, and say, \'\'Pull in this boat, \nplease." An old salt would throw the rope on shore, \nand call on the bystander to haul in that line. Thus \nmetaphysicians occupy the place of the sailor with \nwhom the handling of ropes is a profession. Mr. \nMill and those who agree with him occupy the posi- \ntion of the landsman. If the rope should break, the \nman on shore would find that it was the rope, and \nnot the boat, that he was pulling. We will content \nourselves with saying as above, that immediately he \npulls the rope, mediatelij the boat, and thus we tell \nthe whole story. This may illustrate the position \nthat words are immediately the names of conceptions, \nwhile they may be mediately the names of things. In \nthis latter case there is no harm in speaking of them \nin their mediate relation, although such use is unsci- \nentific and may easily lead us into difficulty. \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. dd \n\nThe determination of this niatter in the case of any \nparticular word depends, first, upon the belief of the \nspeaker, and, secondly, upon the facts of the external \nworld. If a person uses a word, believing that the \nconception for which it stands has a counterpart in \nthe outward world, he believes that the word stands \nfor a thing. If the conception have such a counter- \npart, the word does stand for it. In this work I shall \nspeak of the word in its popular use, as standing for \nan outward object, returning to the strict scientific \nusage where it is necessary for precision. \nWe have now, however, to consider the word strictly \nas the name of a conception, and to observe how \nlanguage shapes itself according to the thought which \nit embodies, so that it becomes a living organism. \n\nSo far as the Indo-Germanic languages are con- \ncerned, the word, like the conception for which it \nstands, consists in general of two elements : namely, \none which, with reference to the group of words \npossessing the same derivation, may be called uni- \nversal ; and another, which limits this giving to it a \nparticular significance. The universal element is \nrepresented by the root of the word. In the Indo- \nGermanic languages this has a verbal significance. \nIn other words, it represents some form of activity. \nIt is probable that originally this action was an out- \nward one. The expression was, however, so large \nand vague that it could be applied to various anal- \nagous processes, even to those of the mind. The \nroot of a word may thus be regarded as representing \nits more general element in two ways. In the first \nplace, as was intimated above, its universal charac- \n\n\n\n70 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nter appears from the fact that the same root gives \nlife to many different words in which its significance \nassumes as many different forms and applications. \nIn the second place an action is something that has \nno separate existance except in our own mind. It \nis thus the result of abstraction. This verbal root \nwe may compare to the nerve and artery of a bone. It \nis the vital point of it, and by it the word stands in con- \nnection with the great body of human speech. A lan- \nguage is full, rich, and living, so far as it retains its \nroots in a significant form within itself, and its words \nstill consciously pulsate with their life. It is hardly \nfair to call language living or dead, according as there \nare, or are not, living men who make it their language. \nLanguage is properly living that retains its connection \nwith its roots. In this sense the Greek will always \nbe a living language. Among modern languages, the \nGerman represents, to a great degree, this fulness \nof life. On the other hand, the French may repre- \nsent a derived language, that is, one that has been \ncut adrift from its roots, and is in this sense dead. \nThe German shows its life in its pronunciation. The \naccent of the words follows their life, and represents \nwith logical accuracy the development of the word. \nFrench words have no accent. By their very utter- \nance they show that their parts have no vital con- \nnection. The German words farther show their life \nby their readiness in uniting. You can graft the \nwords into one another, and their lives will coalesce. \nFrench words show their lack of life by their lack of \nany power of combination. They will not grow to- \ngether any more than so many dead sticks . The German \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 71 \n\nlanguage has, further, the richness and fuLiess which \nspring from the vital presence of roots, whose mean- \ning is not yet exhausted, but which are ever ready \nfor new uses, and suggest more than they strictly \nexpress. Such language is fitted for poetry and \nphilosophy, and all the higher uses of the imagina- \ntion. The French language is never less at home \nthan in the flights of poetry, or the profoundness of \nphilosophy. The German language is, on the other \nhand, by this very fulness, less fitted for the strict- \nness of science. Its scientific terms are vague, and \nto an outsider somewhat ridiculous. To speak of \nhydrogen as TFassers^q^ (water-stuff), and nitrogen as \nSticJcsiqf (stifle-stuff), can hardly help exciting a \nsmile. The French language has all the merits \nwhich result from precision. The growth of its \nwords in the vital, normal, and unconscious form of \ngrowth, has nearly reached its end. Its words have \na distinct and definite meaning. Its science is accu- \nrate and precise to a hair. Moreover, its expres- \nsions admit infinite point and polish. They may be \nwrought and smoothed like dead bone or shell. Thus \nthey are piquant, fitted for wit and for the interchanges \nof society. The French language is moreover rich \nin idioms. Idioms arise most freely when a language \nis cut loose from its original roots, and the meaning \nof the words has thus become, to some extent, arbi- \ntrary. They are thrown about among one another, \nand acquire, by various chances, meanings foreign to \nthe original ones. Sometimes these foreign mean- \nings result from gross blunders. I see every day in \nmy paper an advertisement of " troche powders." The \n\n\n\n72 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ninventor of the medicine evident!}^ understood the \nmeaning of troche to be a medicine for bronchial trou- \nbles, rather than medicine in a particular shape. An \nomnibus-maker in one of our cities, awhile as^o, brouo;ht \nout a new omnibus marked in flamiuo: letters with the \nname "Ply d rant." He had seen the name on fire- \nengines, and liked it, and did not see why it would not \nlook as well on an omnibus. It probably suggested \nto his mind something about the hydra. Now, if \nthese blunders had become incorporated into common \nspeech, the words would have acquired a meaning \nutterly foreign to their organic significance ; they may \nthus illustrate one fertile sense of change in the \nmeaning of words, but change that could not arise \nwhile the words carried their root-meaning with \nthem. Idioms that are not of the blundering sort \nadd to a language vivacity and brilliancy. The efiect \nof them is something like that of puns. They \nstartle us with a pleasant surprise. The idioms of a \nlanguage are not essentially different from slang. \nSlang terms are the idioms of low society. The \nFrench language has all the conditions necessary for \nthe production of idioms, and sparkles all over with \nthem. The vivacity of the French mind imparts a \nbrilliancy to these idioms, and is in a peculiar manner \nat home with them. The growth and power of \nidioms may be well illustrated by the French word \nhelle-mkre meaning mother-in-law. The French had \na word in common use, which meant mother-in-law, \nthe word maratre. This word came to be used in a \nbad sense. It became a general expression for harsh- \nness and hardness. French politeness, or it may be \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 73 \n\nFrench tenderness, substituted for it the most grace- \nful expression that could be devised, and the maralre \nbecame the helle-mere. Thus idioms are what we \nmay call the play of words after their regular devel- \nopment has reached its limit, or outside of this regu- \nlar development. \n\nThe English language occupies an intermediate \nposition between the French and the German. It is \nfurther removed from its vital roots than the German ; \nnot so far as the French. It thus possesses some of \nthe advantages of each. It avoids some of the \ndefects of both, while at the same time each is supe- \nrior to it in respect to its own peculiar excellence. \nThe greater distance in which it stands from vital \nconnection with its roots than that occupied by the \nGerman may be seen by comparing words in the two \nlanguages, and seeing how much more dwarfed is \ntheir meaning in the English. In the German the \nword Stall means stable. In English it is a small part \nof a stable. The German Tisch is a table. Our \nEnglish dish shrinks into something very different. \n\nWords have power to us as we can trace their uni- \nversal meaning ; that is, their radical life in the limi- \ntations which they have assumed. Most words to \nmost of us are dead. We associate them merely \nwith hard, outward forms. Glass is a shining, trans- \nparent object. Glass, in its original use, meant \nsomething that had been melted. The word contains \nthe genesis of the substance. It sees it emerg- \ning, forming itself from the seething mass. In our \nuse it has become cold, hard, and brittle. The word \nsalmon suggests to us a savory meal. In its original \n\n\n\n74 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\netymological meaning, the word expresses the grand \nleap of the living fish, making magnificent headway \nagainst the cataract. The eff\'ect of having fresh in \nour minds the fundamental meaning of a word may \nbe seen in the difierence between speaking of eradi- \ncating an evil, and of rooting it out. This is the \nsecret of the great power of our Saxon words. We \nmay well call them pithy, for they have the pith still \nin them. \n\nEnough has perhaps been said to illustrate the gen- \neral development of language from the universal to \nthe particular and the individual, and to show how in \nevery word the two elements that were described as \npositive and negative, or as universal and particular, \nare united. To follow this development in the deri- \nvation of words and the oro;anization of lan\xc2\xbbua2fe is \nbeyond the scope of the present work. We will con- \ntent ourselves with considering, very briefly, these \nrelations, as they embody themselves in grammatical \nforms. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will appear that \nthe verb is the most purely universal of all terms. \nIt implies a state or action, separate from all connec- \ntion with individuals, and in the simplest form. \nVerbs of course admit of different degrees of partic- \nularization amons^ themselves. To move is a more \ngeneral term than to run, to walk., or to fiy. To he \nis the most universal term, though it is not absolutely \nuniversal, since it particularizes being in opposition \nto non-being. It represents, however, the starting- \npoint of speculative thought. The Eleatics affirmed \nto be and that only. It is the beginning of religion, \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 75 \n\nas it is recorded in the Bible. Jeliovah, or as it is \nexpressed in the first person, the / am, is the name \nby which God was worshipped by the Hebrews. It \nis the beginning of speculative thought, in the individ- \nual as well as the race. It is the starting-point of \nreason, the only absolute datum. It is the begin- \nning, expressed or implied, of all statement. We \nsay / am, he is; whatever follows is limitation or \ndefinition. We have, then, verbs of various grades \nof generalization from the most universal, to be, to \nthose representing more particular states or actions, \nsuch as to slip, to strike. But in all, the verb is, \nwhen compared with other parts of speech, the most \nuniversal term. It solves the fixed, it connects those \nwhich had stood motionless over against one another. \nThe verb is the life of the sentence. It is the rela- \ntion between its parts. And life and relation are \nmore universal than that which lives and is related. \nThe verb is like the attraction of the planetary system, \nwhich might seize a world standing aloof and immova- \nble, shut up in itself, and Avhirl it away to become a \npart of the great whole, and subject to the common \ninfluences. So the verb breaks up the isolation of \nthe objects which fill the rest of the sentence, and \nbrings them into the common system of action and \nreaction. \n\nThe limitations which the verb undergoes in con- \nnection with other words do not concern us here. \nWe have here only to notice the limitations through \nwhich it passes in its own flevelopment. These are \ntwofold, \xe2\x80\x94 limitations of mode and time. The infini- \ntive is spoken of as the infinitive mode. This is not \n\n\n\n76 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nstrictly correct. The infinitive is that which is above \nand behind all mode. It is the infinite, the un- \nlimited. To he is not a mode or form of being. It \nis that which underlies all these forms and modes. \nTo go is not a mode of going, any more than happi- \nness is a mode or form of happiness. The infinitive, \nthen, is, as its name implies, the unlimited. To un- \nderstand the theory of modes, we must remember \nthat words are primarily the names, not of things, \nbut of our conception of things. The mode is not \nthat of being, but rather of our conception of being. \nThis may exist in the intellect, in the emotions, or in \nthe will. These two last modes do not imply any \nlogical relation. The one would be the optative, the \nother the imperative. The optative regards its object \neither as existing, or as not existing, or as hypotheti- \ncal ; that is, the emotions regard it through the intel- \nlect. It requires, then, no separate form for its own \nexpression, though such a form may be given to it. \nThere are three forms, and three only, under which \nthe intellect can conceive of existence. It may re- \ngard it as having objective reality, or as not having \nthis, or it may regard it without reference to its re- \nality, that is, hypothetically. We have thus three \nmodes of conception, technically, though not with \nmuch reason, called the indicative, the conditional, \nand the subjunctive. Better names would be the \npositive, the negative, and the hypothetical. The \npositive form is thus : he is, or he is not. The last is \nas positive as the first, so fiir as the form of the verb \nis concerned. The not is merely the predicate. \nVery different is the purely negative mode, if he \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 77 \n\nwere. This implies, by its veiy form, that he is not. \nIt implies it more strongly than the positive with the \nnegative predicate, because the negative is involved \nin the word itself, is in a manner united with the \npositive. It is thus often the language of passion. \nIf he had been a man, he ivould not have done this, \nis a stronger expression of feeling than, he did it \nbecause he was no man, or because he was inhuman. \nThe third mode is thus expressed : if he be. This im- \nplies nothing in regard to the actual existence or non- \nexistence of the supposed case. It looks upon the \naction or state by itself, without regard to its exist- \nence. \n\nMuch confusion is introduced into our grammars, \nfrom the fact that the negative and hypothetical \nmodes are regarded as distinctions not of mode but \nof time or tense. The neo^ative mode is made the \npast tense of the hypothetical or subjunctive mode. \nThe reason is, that our grammars are based more \nupon outward resemblance than inward relation. \nThus, in the Latin grammar, the learner is confused \nby different sets of rules for the different tenses of \nthe subjunctive. It must be admitted, at the same \ntime, that most languages, particularly the Latin, are \nformal rather than logical ; that is, they consult re- \nsemblances of form, more than logical relations. In \nthe German language, on the contrary, the logical law \nprevails. In this, the modes may be studied free \nfrom everything that is formal, in their purely logical \nrelations. The fact that inflections of the negative \nmode imitate those of the past tense springs from the \nfeeling that what is past is not^, and can never be. \n\n\n\n78 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe past form, then, is the one which presented itself \nmost naturally for this use. \n\nThe fact that the hypothetical mode, when it \nresembles the present of the indicative, is more regu- \nlar than that, as in the German and English, shows \nthat it is a later product. When it differs from the \npresent, and assumes a form more like the future, as \nin the original form of Latin conjugation, \xe2\x80\x94 that is, in \nthe conjugations called third and fourth, \xe2\x80\x94 this arises \nfrom the fact, that the future, being contingent and \nhypothetical, offered itself more readily for this use. \nThe important point is this : the distinction between \nwhat we have called the negative and hypothetical \nmodes is modal. The resemblance to distinctions of \ntense or time is merely the means of expressing, by \nsome analogy, this modal relation. \n\nThis is all that need occupy us as far as the devel- \nopment of the verb is concerned, because it is all \nthat has a direct logical value. The whole develop- \nment of the verb, is, however, logical, and might be \nconsidered in a more extended discussion. Certain- \nly, while logic derives such help from grammar, the \nreverse should be done, and our grammars placed \nupon a direct logical footing. \n\nThe verb, we have seen, may be regarded as the \nmost universal term. The adjective may be regarded \nas especially the particular term. It may, it is true, \nbecome, and sometimes is, a universal term. Its \nnatural and more common use is, however, as a par- \nticular. At least, this is what is peculiar to it when \ncompared with the verb. \n\nTwo considerations will illustrate the fact, that the \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 79 \n\nnatural use of the adjective is to develop the par- \nticular antagonisms contained in the more universal \nverb. The first is, that adjectives are developed in \npairs. Thus we have good and had, fast and slow, \nwise and foolish, hard and soft. We can, indeed, \nhardly think of an adjective, which does not at once \nsuggest its antagonistic one. So common is this, that \nwhere an adjective does exist alone without a mate, \nit is fair to infer, either that it has lost its original \nmeaning, or else that its mate has become obsolete. \nThe second illustration of the peculiar tendency of \nthe adjective to a particular significance, compared \nwith the more general use of the verb, is the loose- \nness with which verbs are used, and the precision \nwith which adjectives are used. Each adjective not \nmerely has its antagonist, but when it is used it ex- \npressly excludes that. The verb has no such distinct \nand exclusive meaning. No matter how slow the \nmovements of a person may be, he will hardly hesi- \ntate to speak of running over to see a friend. No \nmatter how he may have been disturbed at his hotel, \nhe will say that there is where he slei^t. If a person \nsays that all his friends live in England or France, he \ndoes not mean that none of them have died. How \ndifierent is the meaning of the adjectives which cor- \nrespond to these verbs, asleep, awake, alive, dead! \nEach distinctly and carefully excludes its opposite. \nA person says that all his friends in Prance or Eng- \nland are alive. Here the sense is precise. None of \nthem have died. It should be remarked, however, \nthat the participial form of the verb is intermediate \nbetween the verb and the adjective. \n\n\n\n80 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nI have said that the adjective, though peculiarly an \nexpression of a particular relation, may be used as a \nuniversal term. It will be clear, from what has just \nbeen stated, that it never does this in the full, un- \nqualified manner that the verb does ; that is, without \nany regard to its opposite. It remains to observe \nthe modifications which it undergoes in this twofold \nuse. This will explain the distinction better than any \nelaborate discussion. \n\nThe school-boy is commonly surprised by meeting \nin his Virgil this expression : " Varium et mutabile \nsemper Foe.mina.\'\' Without regard to the meaning of \nthe clause, its construction seems to oppose all the \nrules for the adjective which he has learned. The \nnoun is feminine, the adjective is neuter. Nothing \ncould better illustrate the truth, that the natural use \nof the adjective is to express particular, rather than \nuniversal relations, than the fact that cases like \nthis where the language marks as plainly as it \ncan the other use of the adjective stand in such \ncontrast to its general use by Latin writers. Let \nus look more closely at the nature of the agree- \nment of predicate adjectives. These horses are black. \nIn this sentence the word horses is understood, or \nmay be supplied. The meaning of the sentence is, \nThese horses are black horses. They are distinguished \nfrom white ones, or from those of any other color. \nIf our language admitted of adjective agreements, the \nadjective in this case should agree with its substantive \nhorses, not that substantive which is the subject of \nthe sentence, but that which is understood with it. \nTake as an opposite exnmple, Lead is heavy/. We \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 81 \n\ncould not here supply, or understand the substantive, \nlead, with the adjective. We cannot say lead is heavy \nlead, for the adjective has a wider sweep than the \nsubstantive which is supplied. The one use of the \nadjective places the object in a particular class of such \nobjects. The other goes beyond the entire range of \nsuch objects. In the former case there should be \nagreement of the adjective with the noun, if the lan- \nguage admits it. In the latter, there is no need of \nsuch ao^reement, unless the forms of the language re- \nquire it. If there is such agreement, it is because \nthe language respects the regularity of forms more \nthan it does the changes of relation. Take the Latin \nclause referred to. The word Fcemina could not \nbe supplied with the adjectives, as is supposed by \nagreement. We could not change the sentence to \nF(x,mina est mutahilis, se Fcemina. There is, then, \nno reason for agreement. The neuter is here regarded \nas taking the place of a noun. If any substantive \nis to be supplied , it is the neuter substantive genus. \nThis might well be supplied. \n\nThe French language, which is, more than any \nother, the language of the understanding, that is, of \nsharp distinction, delights to mark very narrowly this \ndifference in the use of the qualifying adjective. \nWhen the adjective puts the object expressed by the \nsubstantive into one class of such objects, thus par- \nticularizing to what kind of such objects it actually \nbelongs, it is in the French language placed after the \nsubstantive. If it has not this logical force, it is \nplaced before. The reason for this method of ar- \nrangement is, that the adjective, by being put after \n\n6 \n\n\n\n82 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe noun, gains additional emphasis; and, as we shall \nsee latei\'; the element that reduces a conception from \na universal to a particular receives always accent or \nemphasis, to mark the exclusion of all other members \nof the class referred to. If I say a black horse, I \nmean to contrast the animal with those of any other \ncolor, and to exclude the possibility of any other \ncolor. This emphasis of exclusion is what is ex- \npressed in the position of the French adjective which \nhas this particularizing force ; and there is hardly \nanything more interesting than to see how the laws \nof grammar, which seem at first sight so hard and \narbitrary, are simply the laws of the expression of \nlogical relations in concrete forms. \n\nWhen the adjective has not this logical force, it \nmay either express something which is common to all \nindividuals of the class, and thus be merely an in- \ntensive ; or, it may express the emotions excited in \nus by the object, and thus have a merely subjective \nuse. Thus, all scholars are more or less learned ; all \nmen are not. If I say a learned ma7i, I make a dis- \ntinction between him and other men who are not \nlearned. If I say a learned scholar, the adjective has \nmerely an intensive force. The French say, there- \nfore, Un homme sa,vant, and Un savant ecolier. \nTin homme grand distinguishes the tall man from \nothers. Un grand homme expresses simply my ad- \nmiration. Uhomme pauvre describes the man\'s \nactual state in contrast with the rich. Le pauvre \nhomme expresses simply my pity. Words express- \ning shape, color, and the like, qualities which we at \nonce recognize as peculiar to the object, have most \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 83 \n\nobviously a particularizing force, and take their place \nuniformly in accordance with this. Words that ex- \npress qualities which imply research, in regard to \nwhich our judgment may be wrong, or different from \nthat of others, are naturally subjected less strictly \nto this rule. But the shade of meaning which the \nadjective has varies according to its position, even \nwhere this is left free. French authors often avail \nthemselves of this power. One, by putting more \noften his adjective before the noun, gives a richness \nand depth to his style ; while another, by the oppo- \nsite course, gains an air of objective reality and \nlogical accuracy. \n\nWe have seen that the adjective may be either a \nparticular or a universal term ; that is, it may put \nthe object spoken of into a particular class of such \nobjects, expressing a quality more general than the \nwhole class. In the former case, there should be \nagreement of the predicate adjective with its noun ; \nin the latter, there need not. A study of grammati- \ncal forms shows us that a predicate adjective may he \nregarded as a universal term, even when it puts the \nobject spoken of into a particular class of such ob- \njects ; that is, the general quality may be affirmed \nwithout regard to other objects of the same class. \nAn example may show the necessity of this. Take \nsuch a sentence as this. These horses and cows are \nblack. Here, certainly, we do not mean simply these \nhorses and cows are black horses and cows ; we mean \nto establish something in common between them, to \nreduce the whole under one term. The adjective \nmust, then, in this case, be regarded as a compara- \n\n\n\n84 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nlively universal term ; if it must be so in this case, \nit may be in any other. This is the view which \nthe German language, the most philosophical of all \nlanguages, \xe2\x80\x94 that is, the language most under the con- \ntrol of the reason, as the term will hereafter be de- \nfined, as the French is the one most under the control \nof the understanding, \xe2\x80\x94 takes of the adjective in the \npredicate. It gives the adjective in its ground-form, \nwith no agreement of termination. It thus represents \nthe predicate adjective as a universal term, without \nregard to other objects of the class to which the sub- \nject of the clause belongs. \n\nMuch of what has been said of the relation of the \nadjective to the substantive may be extended to that \nof the adverb to the verb. The adverb limits the \nverb, reducing it from the universal to the partic- \nular. \n\nThe verb has been defined to be the most univer- \nsal term. The adjective represents the particular. \nNeither the verb nor the adjective can ever be an in- \ndividual term. This is peculiar to the substantive. \nThis alone can represent the individual. It may, it \nis true, be used as a universal, or as a particular, \nterm, but when compared with the parts of speech \nbefore referred to, its relation is rather that of the \nindividual. The individual stands not merely in the \nrelation of the one to the many, but of the concrete \nto the abstract. The verb by itself expresses only \naction, general and va2:ue. It attaches itself to \nnothing and springs from nothing. It can have no \nconcrete, or, what is the same thing, no actual ex \nistcnce without the substantive. It is so with the \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 85 \n\nadjective. The adjective expresses an abstract qual- \nity. This quality cau have no existence by itself. \nIt must belong to something. This thing is repre- \nsented by the substantive. \n\nWhile the substantive may be regarded as occupy- \ning this individual relation, it yet involves within \nitself the possibility of assuming any logical relation. \nIt may be used as universal, particular, or individual. \nWe have, then, to consider the substantive in these \nthree relations, and the manner in which it is reduced \nfrom one to the other. Our grammars sometimes \nspeak loosely of two kinds of substantives, proper \nand common. The common noun is the name of a \nclass ; the proper, of an individual. This is an ar- \nrangement to which the low standard of thought \nwould naturally lead. It leaves out of the account \nabstract nouns, \xe2\x80\x94 that is, absolute qualities. It rec- \nognizes no absolute virtue, no absolute truth. There \nare only truths and virtues. More commonly, how- \never, three kinds of substantives are recognized, the \nproper, the commou, and the abstract. These repre- \nsent severally, the individual, the particular, and the \nuniversal. Here our grammars are apt to stop. But \ntake the word, iron, silver, or gold. These are certain- \nly not proper nouns. They are not names of individ- \nuals. They are not common nouns. There is only \none gold. They are not abstract nouns. Our eyes \nhave seen these metals. Our hands have handled \nthem. Take also the name of any disease, or of any \naction. We should have the same difficulty in redu- \ncing either of them to the three heads beyond which \nour grammars do not go. The a priori method is the \n\n\n\n86 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nonly one that can divide nouns by a complete and \nexhaustive classification. We have, then, first, indi- \nviduals and classes of individuals. The understand- \ning divides these individuals into their elements. \nEach possesses, on the one side, certain qualities, and, \non the other side, a substance or material in which \nthese qualities exist. The union of these two ele- \nments forms the object. A stove has on the one \nside its size and its shape. On the other side, iron is \nthe material which is the basis and substance of these \nqualities. We have, then, besides proper and com- \nmon nouns, these two other kinds, which result from \nthe analysis of the understanding, names of quali- \nties, and names of material. Still further, these bod- \nies exist now in one state, now in another, now in a \ntransition from one to the other. This gives us two \nnew sorts of nouns, \xe2\x80\x94 those implying state, and those \nthat express any form of activity. We have thus six \nclasses of nouns. There is no danger of any more \nbeing discovered to increase the number. The four \nlast would, like the abstract nouns of our grammars, \nmost naturally fall under the head of universal terms. \nWe have thus considered the difference in the noun \nitself. We have now to consider how any given noun \nmay be reduced from a more general to a more par- \nticular or individual form. First, we must consider \nits reduction to a more particular signification. Two \nideas or conceptions must limit one another, in order \nthat there may be reality, just as two lines must meet \nto form a corner. In representing this process by \nlanguage, the word which represents the leading con- \nception is said to be limited by the other. The most \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 87 \n\nobvious form of this limitation is by the adjective. \nThus, we say a horse. Limiting our thought to a par- \nticular kind of horses, we say a black horse. The last \nexpression is more particular than the first. The same \nresult is, however, produced by combination with \nanother substantive. We say, thus, a truck-horse, a \nwine-glass. These two forms of limitation must \nnot be regarded, however, as identical. They are \noften so regarded by those who write for effect, who \nimitate, as they suppose, the structure of the German \nlanguage. They form compound nouns, in utter \nunconsciousness that their meaning is any way differ- \nent from that of a noun limited by an adjective, or in \nany other method. A compound noun has no right \nto existence, until the conception for which it stands \nis a fixed and a peculiar one. If a truck-horse were \nmerely a common horse used for a special purpose, \nif a saddle-horse differed from others only by a mo- \nmentary use, they would have no right to be repre- \nsented each by a recognized and permanent word. \nThis right is gained by the fact that each does express \na conception as distinct and permanent as the word. \nIf we express the universal by its initial letter U, and \nthe particular by its initial P, then the formula for \neach compound noun will be P U. This formula is \nalmost universal in every logical language. Very \nrarely, in the Indo-Germauic languages, are words \nformed by mere accretion. The relation between the \ntwo members of a composition is merely formal. \nEach may in turn serve as the universal, each in turn \nas the limiting, word. We can say horse-cart ov cart- \nhorse. In each case the formula is the same. The \n\n\n\n88 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nlast word of the composition expresses a general con- \nception ; the first limits it, Tlie symbol given above, \nP U, may also stand for the adjective with the sub- \nstantive, with this difference, that one is a permanent, \nthe other a changing, composition. \n\nThis logical relation is expressed by the accent. \nThe reduction of the universal to the particular is \ncarried on by means of opposition or exclusion. This \nis represented in the formation of words. I speak of \nglasses. They are of many kinds. If I say wine- \nglass, I exclude all other kinds. This exclusion and \nopposition is what is signified by emphasis, and in \nmany cases by accent. The accent on the first of the \nelements of compound words, in the German and \nEnglish languages, expresses the exclusion of all \nother forms of the general conception. \n\nThis siguification of emphasis, or of stress of voice \nof all kinds, is one of great importance, and of strictly \nlogical signification. If we hear a man saying em- \nphatically, it is so, we take it for granted that he has \nbeen contradicted, or that he expects to be. Empha- \nsis may be grammatical or rhetorical ; it, however, \nalways implies opposition. Take such a sentence as \nthis : You speak well. The grammatical emphasis \nfalls upon well. This limits the conception in the verb \nspeak. Rhetorically the accent may fall anywhere \nelse. You speak well, implies an opposition between \nyour speaking and your action. \n\nAccent may be of two sorts. It may be logical or \neuphonious. In a language derived from foreign \nroots, where words do not coalesce into compounds, \nthere can be no logical accent. The French and the \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 8& \n\nGerman nations are the most logical of all. In the \nGerman language, the logical principle of accent \nreigns almost universally, for nearly all its words are \nlogical compositions. In the French language there \nis no accent. The words are not logically com- \npounded, and have thus no right to be accented. The \naccent in the Spanish and Italian languages adds \nsimply to their euphony. It is superficial ; that is, it \nhas no connection with the significance of the words. \nThe language sounds better for them, but it has no \nfuller meaning. It is melodious, not harmonious. \n\nWe must carefully distinguish between accent and \nthe semblance of it produced l>y the diminished force \nwith which terminations and similar affixes are \nspoken. In the word garden, the first syllable is \nnot accented. It is spoken with no more force than \nthe monos3dlable guard would be spoken. \n\nWords, then, imitate in their composition the actual \nrealities of things. Objects are distinguished from \none another by limitation. One color, for instance, \nis produced by excluding the other elements of light. \nWithout this exclusion there would be no color. \nLimitation is, by its very nature, exclusion ; as when \nI put a fence round my land to shut out trespassers. \nHegel remarks that zoology has fallen in with the \ncourse of nature in dividing the genera of animals by \ntheir teeth and claws. It is by means of these, that \neach genus has preserved itself, and continues to \nmaintain its separate existence. The extinct genera \nhave become so because they had not sufficient of \nthis opposing force wherewith to maintain themselves \nin the world. It is so with nations. Each preserves \n\n\n\n90 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nitself by its power to maintain itself in the world. \nA nation that exists by sufferance can hardly be called \na nation. All of this warfare for beinsf, this existing \nby exclusion, that which Darwin describes so forcibly \nas the struggle for existence, on which is based the \nnatural selection by ^vhich one individual or class ispre- \nserved and another destroyed, \xe2\x80\x94 all this is expressed \nby the accent w^ith which a term,, limited to a specific \nmeaning, excludes all other uses. What in the \nspoken language is expressed by emphasis is in the \nwritten language expressed by position. A word \nmay be emphasized by being placed at the beginning \nor at the end of a clause or sentence. All languages \nallow a certain play of this kind, but in this respect \nthe Greek stands pre-eminent. The Greek sentence \nis in its structure as flexible, as expressive of every \ndelicate shade of thought and feeling, as the human \nvoice could be. \n\nWe have seen how the universal may be reduced \nto a particular ; we have now to see how it may be \nreduced to an individual. This is done by means of \nwords having an individualizing significance, such as \ndemonstrative pronouns, and possessive adjective \npronouns, and by case. The limitation by pronouns is \nclear without illustration. There is an important dif- \nference between limiting a substantive by the genitive \nof another substance, and limiting it by an adjective. \nThe words of a king are not always kingly, the acts \nof a man are not always manly. The genitive marks \nwhat belongs to the individual ; the adjective what \nbelongs to a class. We have seen before, that lan- \nguage has no right to form a compound noun until \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF LANGUAGE. 91 \n\nthere is some permanent conception to be expressed \nby it. We now see that it has no right to form an \nadjective of a substantive, until what pertains to this \nsubstantive is found to have a specific difference from \nwhat does not pertain to it. Of all the correspond- \nence of a public officer, only that can be called official \nwhich he writes in his official capacity. This, too, is a \nmatter in which affectation often sins aoainst the sfenius \nof language.* We see also the increased power \nwhich is attained by this use of the adjective. There \nis a difference between the American people and the \npeople of America. The phrase Peojple of America \nimplies simply an individual geographical relation. \nThe phrase American people suggests the idea of \nthe nation. It brings with it all the peculiar good or \nevil connected with it. It is remarkable that, with \nthe exception of the American Indians and the peo- \nple of the United States, no one of the other nations \non the continent is habitually designated by the ad- \njective American. In our difficulties with Mexico, \nthe inhabitants of the United States were alone called \nAmericans. The Mexicans have, it is true, qualities \nwhich distinguish them from other nations ; they have, \nhowever, nothing which separates them, as a distinct \nclass, from the inhabitants of other continents. The \nUnited States, alone, have become conscious of, and \nare the expression of, the American idea. The virtues, \n\n\n\n* Especially does the German language, in spite of that philosophical \ncharacter which I have noticed so frequently, often violate this rule. We \nsee so often such a phrase as this: " Cotta\'scher Verlag." It is as if we should \nspeak in English of the " Appletonian" or the "Spencerian Books^jore." \n\n\n\n92 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nand the faults, the whole national spirit of this peo- \nple, could not exist on the other side of the ocean. \n\nIt is not worth while to do more than refer to the \nexceptions to this principle. The French cannot form \nreadily adjectives from nouns. The preposition de is \nwith them the representative of the genitive and \nablative cases, as well as of the Latin preposition de. \nDe, with the article, expresses the individual relation ; \nwithout it, the particular. We have also, in Latin, the \nrule for the genitive or ablative, expressing property, \ncharacter, etc. In spite of such occasional exceptions, \nthe general principle is true, that if the letter I stand \nfor the word individual, the genitive, with a substan- \ntive limited by it, may be expressed by the formula \nI U, the genitive reducing the universal to the indi- \nvidual. \n\nBy this examination of the development, the \nchanges, and the relations of language, we have seen \nin objective reality the manner in which, in every \nconception, the two elements of the universal and the \nparticularizing, or of the universal and individualizing, \nco-exist, and the changing relations which these as- \nsume, as the conception develops itself in the fulness \nof its many-sided life. \n\n\n\nJUDGMENTS AND PEOPOSITIONS. 93 \n\n\n\nSECOND. -JUDGMENTS AND PROPOSITIONS. \n\n\n\nA word, as we have seen, represents a permanent \nconception which, as such, has both generic and spe- \ncific characteristics connected with it. These char- \nacteristics are at once suggested by the word, and in \ngeneral without a particular analysis of it. The word \nEnglishman, or wineglass, suggests each its distinct \nconception, as much as the word man, or glass, and \nprobably, for the most part, with as little thought of \nits derivation. It suggests, also, characteristics not \nnecessarily contained in either part of the word. \nEach word suggests a distinct and specific conception. \nA substantive with an adjective suggests a conception \nalready formed by the mind, but which has not this \nspecific and permanent character. It contains also, \nin general, little that is not contained in the separate \nwords. It expresses this conception without any re- \ngard to its external truth. \n\nA proposition utters a conception in the manner, \nif not at the time, of its formation, and at the same \ntime it decides in regard to its objective reality. The \nparts of which the conception is composed are \nbrought together in our sight ; at the same time its \ntruth is affirmed. One may say A wise man, A beauti- \nful picture, and we have merely a floating conception, \nwhich admits neither of opposition nor defence. If \n\n\n\n94 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\none say, however, TJiemanisivise, Thejyictureisbeau- \ntiful, we have something, which, if it have no objec- \ntive reality answering to it, is worse than useless, \nsomething which may admit of denial and support. \nIt may be thus the centre of strife, and if true may \nincrease our knowledge or advance our prosperity. \n\nWith the proposition, therefore, we first enter the \nrealm of outward reality. In a proposition, then, \nthe elements which are united in the term stand ovei \nagainst one another, while at the same time their \nmutual relation is affirmed. As the term represents \nand corresponds to a conception, so a proposition rep- \nresents and corresponds to a judgment. A judg- \nment is the mental action which expresses itself in the \nproposition. To understand the nature of a judg- \nment, we need, then, only study the nature, the ele- \nments, and the relations of the proposition. \n\nA proposition consists of three parts, namely, \nthat of which something is affirmed ; this is called \nthe subject : that which is affirmed of the subject ; \nthis is called the predicate : and the connecting or \naffirming particle, which is called the copula, which \nis sometimes, however, not distinctly expressed, the \naffirmation being included in the predicate. This is \nthe case when the predicate is itself a verb. \n\nThe formula, then, for every proposition is this : \nThe subject is the predicate. This, though the abso- \nlute formula of all propositions, is in itself false. \nFrom the definitions which have been given, it may \nbe seen that the subject and predicate are very difier- \nent from one another. They stand, indeed, in a pure \nantagonism to each other. We must, therefore, go be- \n\n\n\nPKOPOSITIONS. 95 \n\nhind this formula, and see what is represented by the \nsubject, and what by the predicate, and how far their \nidentity may be affirmed. A conception is made up \nof the two elements, which, taking their extreme \nforms as representative, we have called the universal \nand the individual. In other words, it is a limited \nuniversal. If the proposition corresponds to a con- \nception, it must contain these two elements. We \nhave, then, another formula for the proposition, which \ngives us much more insight into its nature than the \nformer. It is this : The individual is the universal. \nThus, in the proposition The man is wise, man is an \nIndividual term, wise is a more universal quality \naffirmed of him ; so that the abstract formula would \nbe as stated above : The individual is the univer- \nsal. \n\nAll that is meant by the formula just given is, \nthat the predicate is more universal than the subject, \nand this is true of all logical propositions. Although \nthe predicate may be an adjective, and thus, as we \nhave already seen, a particular term, it is always \nmore general than the subject. If I say A loise \nman, the word man is limited in its signification by \nthe word wise. The universal, man, is reduced to \nthe particular, wise man. But when I say The man \nis wise, man is already individualized by the article, \nso that the particularization, which in the case of the \ndescriptive adjective is a limitation, becomes, in the \ncase of the predicate adjective, a generalization. \nThus, in every proposition, either the subject sub- \nstantive is thus limited, or else the predicate adjec- \ntive goes beyond, or is supposed to go beyond, the \n\n\n\n96 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwhole class to which the object belongs : either it ia \nof the nature of the phrase, These men are wise, \nor of this, Man is rational. \n\nMr. Mill, indeed, in his able and searching review \nof the Philosophy of Sir William Hamilton, denies \nthat when a quality is affirmed of any individual, or \nany class of individuals, we go beyond the relation \ndirectly before us. The example which he uses is \nthis : All oxen ruminate. The relation, he says, of \nthis attribute to this subject, is the entire matter \nof judgment. The phrase. Oxen have horns, he \nwould, doubtless, explain in the same way, as well \nas any similar judgment. I have stated before, that \nin these matters our consciousness is entirely un- \ntrustworthy. We cannot, by observation, detect the \nquiet and secret operations of the mind. In this \ncase we must turn to the revelations of language, \nwhich expose the secret processes of the thought \nwith the same naive fidelity with which the rocks \nreveal the tracks of animals long extinct. In this \ncase the verdict of language is decisive and unmis- \ntakable. Few languages, indeed, have sufficient \ndelicacy and logical accuracy to note such facts, but \nthe French and German languages have these quali- \nfications, and representing, as they do, minds the \nmost unlike, they may represent all intermediate \nminds. The French language, in all such cases \nwhere it is possible, that is, where the predicate is \na noun or a pronoun, uses the partitive form. Mr. \nMill, in the phrase, Oxen have horns, would affirm \nthat the thought does not go beyond oxen and their \nhorns. The French language says, Les hceufs oni \n\n\n\nPKOPOsrrioNs. 97 \n\ndes comes, thus photographing the unconscious gen- \neralization of the mind. Mon frere a du courage, \xe2\x80\x94 \nin this phrase we have the same fact. It is not, \nindeed, necessary to multiply examples. All that is \nneeded is to note, as we have done, their application \nto the question at issue. The German language is \nequally decisive, though less obviously so. The \nreader has only to make it clear in his own mind, \nthat the absence of the article in the German is \nequivalent to the partitive form of the French, to be \nconvinced that its verdict is the same. Die Ochsen \nhaben Hd\'rne7-,sa.js the German, with a predicate as \ntruly partitive as that of the French phrase above \ngiven. \n\nIt will be seen that the formula. The individual is \nthe universal, is not the only proposition that could \nbe affirmed in regard to the same elements with equal \ntruth. We may say, with equal accuracy, the indi- \nvidual is the individual, or, the universal is the uni- \nversal. The universal is the individual we cannot \nsay. In the two former cases, however, as there is \nno distinction of subject and predicate, the formula \nbecomes useless, and may be cast aside. We have \nthen, in their place, the mere proposition of identity, \nof which the formula may be stated very simply, \xe2\x80\x94 \na is a. This proposition of identity has been re- \ngarded by logical writers, even by Hegel, as empty \nand barren. It is not a logical proposition, for the \nrelations of thought are entirely those of different \ndegrees of generalization, and logical propositions \nanswer only to these. Still, however, we shall un- \nderstand better the strictly logical proposition if \n7 \n\n\n\n98 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwe make a short examinatiou of this proposit\'ou \nof identity. We shall find that, notwithstanding the \nemptiness of its form, it is of great importance. \n\nA. THE PROPOSITION OF IDENTITY. \n\nThe examples commonly given of the proposition \nof identity are such empty phrases as, An elephant is \nan elephant, and the like. It is evident, however, \nthat the proposition is idle, except when the two \nelements of the proposition, though really identical, \nare yet different in expression. The proposition, \nJohn is man, is not a proposition of identity, for the \ntwo terms do not cover each other. John does not \nexhaust the possibilities of manhood, while, at the \nsame time, he possesses attributes not essential to \nthis. A complete definition of any object would ap- \nproach more nearly the proposition of identity. In \nthis the two elements, the definition and the thing de- \nfined, would seem, at first sight, to cover each other. \nYet each point in the definition would be equivalent \nto a single logical proposition of which the parts \nwould not cover each other ; and, on the other side, it \nwould be impossible to exhaust an object, save by a \ndefinition that should go into almost infinite minute- \nness. And even if this were done, the result would \nnot be identical with the object itself, for it would \nlack the element of oneness or wholeness. It would \nbe like the fragments of a watch when compared with \nthe watch itself. It is evident, then, that the propo- \nsition of identity cannot exist in regard to concrete \nobjects. We must seek it in a realm where equality \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF MATHEMATICS. 99 \n\n18 identity. This would be a realm where only for- \nmal relations are regarded. This is the realm of \nmathematics. Because, when expressed in the ab- \nstract form, \xe2\x80\x94 a is a, \xe2\x80\x94 the proposition cf identity \nis meaningless, we must seek its true use in those \ncases where the identity exists, but is expressed in \ndifferent forms. Thus, instead of the formula given \nabove, we may say, x is a, and because, in mathe- \nmatics, identity is equality, we may adopt the mathe- \nmatical formula x = a. If the statement that, in \nmathematics, equality and identity are the same, needs \nexplanation or proof, these may be found in the fact \nthat mathematics is the science of forms, and that it \nhas one absolutf^; expression for all similar forms. In \nnumoer, one or twenty is identical with every other \none or twenty. There is but one !inits So in weight. \nThere is but one pound, it matters not whether of \ngol\' or of lead. As there is but one pound, every \n\xe2\x96\xa0r c .: 1 is identical with every other. The same is \n.rue f uli other forms of measurement. The lan- \nguage of the vulgar is, in this respect, more philosoph- \nica\' thaLi that of the learned, and has, besides, the \nauthority of t! c cognate and philosophical German \nlanguage. The rustic speaks of twenty bushel of \ncorn, of five cord of wood. The critical man of edu- \ncation smiles contemptuously and says, bushels and \ncords. The rustic is theoretically right. No matter \nhow often the measurement may be applied, there is \nbut one bushel and one cord. \n\nX= a is, then, the formula for the proposition of \nequality, or the mathematical proposition. With this \nmust be associated the corresponding propositions of \nL.ofG. \n\n\n\n100 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ninequality, which are very different, it must be observed, \nfrom unequal propositions. These are thus written : \ncc > a, and X <. a. Within these limits mathematics \nas such is strictly confined, and from this it gains its \nunerring accuracy. It is the most accurate, because \nit is the most abstract, of sciences. \n\nIn the definitions of this science we find the propo- \nsition of identity. This is true of no other defini- \ntions. A straight line is the shortest distance between \ntwo joints. This statement is not a logical proposi- \ntion. Neither element is individual, neither is uni- \nversal, when compared with the other. The two \nterms absolutely cover one another. Ther^. is no \nstraight line which is not the short 3-;t \'distance be- \ntween the points. The shortest distance between the \npoints is always a straight line. The d-"fiuition in- \ncludes also ev iry clen:iont in the thing defined. It \ntells the whole st iry. It is thus a proposition of \nidentity. The difference between the two kinds of \npropositions will be seen ];y comparing the one first \ngiven with this, \xe2\x80\x94 The dog is a quadruped; in this \nthe two terms do not cover one another. There are \nmany quadrupeds which are not dogs. Or take a \nmore abstract definition of science : Ji quadruped is \nan animal that has four feet. Here the two terms do \nnot cover each other. There is no animal which has \nfour feet and nothing else. The term quadruped is \nabstract, while all animals are concrete. It may be \nsaid, indeed, that a circle has many properties not in- \ncluded in its definition. Very true ; but you can con- \nstruct a perfect circle, without other data than those \ncontained in the definition, which sufficiency is true \n\n\n\nIX>GIC OF MATHEMATICS. 101 \n\nDf no other than mathematical definitions. In mathe- \nmatics we have only abstraction, or, rather, there is no \ndifference between the abstract and the concrete. \nEvery straight line is at once abstract and concrete. \nThis is true of the starting-points in mathematics, \nand, throughout, the propositions that involve any \ndifference play a subordinate part. \n\nWhat is true of the definitions is equally true of \nthe axioms of mathematics. They a,re the most ab- \nstract and the simplest statements of the proposition \nof equality. It is because this is the science of \nequality, that it admits in so great a degree of axioms. \nThe axiom, that the whole is equal to the sura of the \nparts, or that the whole is greater than any one of its \nparts, is involved in every mathematical proposition. \nWe have already seen that this proposition is true \nonly in the mathematical sense. It partakes, indeed, \nof the nature of a definition, almost as much as of \nthat of an axiom. \n\nThe mathematical axioms are often taken as ex- \namples of self-evident truth. The fact is that they \ndepend upon the perception of equality, and of this \nalone. They have their unerring accuracy, because \nthe science deals with abstractions, and no disturb- \ninoj forces can ever be introduced to mar the result. \nThat power by which we say in any case, always, \nthat is, by which we announce from any number of \ninstances a general law, is not to be considered here. \nWe have here to do only with that element which \nadds their peculiar accuracy to these mathematical \ntruths, and which enables us to announce the law as \ncertainly from a single case as from five hundred. I^ \n\n\n\n102 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nis, I repeat, because in this science we deal with ab- \nstractions, from which every disturbing force is shut \nout by the very supposition. In any other science, \na proposition as carefully guarded would be as self- \nevident and as universal. Thus the proposition that \na body at rest will continue at rest, unless disturbed \nby some outward force or inward change, is axiomat- \nic. Mathematics, as such, does not admit of reason- \ning. We may therefore consider, in this place, what \nanswers to the process of reasoning in logic. The \ndifference between the two will be clearly seen when \nwe come to speak of the nature of the reasoning pro- \ncess. What answers to this in the mathematical \nscience is only a continuation and succession of per- \nceptions of equality. It depends upon these axioms, \nthat Two bodies equal to the same are equal to each \nother, and, that If equals he added to equals the residt \nwill be equal. As is well maintained by Schopen- \nhauer, we do not, in performing a mathematical prob- \nlem, reason from the truth of these axioms ; we per- \nceive the truth of the relations they express every \ntime afresh. As we had before a proposition of \nwhich the two terms were equal or identical, so here \nwe have what answers to a syllogism in which the \nthree terms are equal. The mathematical process \nconsists in a series of equations or propositions of \nequality, so arranged that their elements are con- \nfronted at last in their simplest state, and the two \nstatements which we wish to prove identical are \nshown to be so. Mathematics can thus discover noth- \ning. It can demonstrate what is caj)able of such \ndemonstration. The reasoning power must set an \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF MATHEMATICS. 103 \n\naim before it, or it is useless. At every step in the \nmathematical process roads branch out in all direc- \ntions ; it is the reasoning power, not the mathemati- \ncal, that determines which shall be taken. In other \nwords, an almost unlimited multitude of equations \ncan be formed. The end in view determines which \nshall be selected. Thus, if we wish to determine the \nrelation of the angles of a triangle to one another, we \nsubdivide the angles, we make new angles, we bring \nthose together which we see to be equal, and, by this \nprocess repeated, we come at last to the equation \nwhich we seek, and discover that the three angles are \ntogether equal to two right angles. This last equa- \ntion is not an intuitive perception. Taken by itself, \nit has no support from the perception of equality. \nAll that this power of perception can accomplish is \nto affirm that the truth of each previous equation \nrests upon its necessary identity with the one before \nit. It may be, and very probablj is, true, as is in- \nsisted on by Schopenhauer in his very brilliant and \ninteresting discussion, that, at least by some minds, \nmathematics, including geometry, might be so studied \nand taught that not merel}^ the necessity but the re- \nality of the equality should be seen at every step. It \nis impossible to understand and account for the rapid \nprocesses of some mathematical prodigies by any other \nhypothesis. The truth is, however, that it is not so \nstudied and taught at present. \n\nWhen Newton demonstrated the great law of attrac- \ntion, the reason had first announced it. To demon- \nstrate it, he arranged a series of equations, till he had \none which showed what is the distance which a body \n\n\n\n104 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nas distant as the moon would fall toward the earth in a \ngiven time. By another series of equations, he found \nthe distance which the moon approached the earth in \nthe same time. He then united these two results in \na final equation, which was the result sought from the \nbeginning. The mathematician is like a man travel- \nling through a strange country. Roads branch out in \nall directions. He knows the point of the compass \ntowards which he is aiming, and selects road after \nroad as it promises to lead him thither. Logic is \nthought. It is not an instrument of thought, but the \nprocess of thought. Mathematics is an instrument \nof thought. It is a sort of machine by which the \ncrude and imperfect results of thought are taken and \ndisentangled, and arranged in such a way that the \nthought can act upon them most readily. At the mo- \nment when the concrete realities with which thought \nbusies itself assume the form of figures and letters, \nthought ceases. It does not begin again till these \nrealities, purified, disentangled, and arranged, throw \noflP the mask of figures and letters and assume their \ntrue form. What the table of logarithms is to mathe- \nmatics, is mathematics itself to logic. \n\nIf mathematics is a machine, it is the most perfect, \nbeautiful, and wonderful machine that the wit of man \never devised. We cannot enough admire the wide- \nness of its sweep, or the unerring accuracy of its \nresults. It is only when it would raise itself above \nthought, on account of this accuracy, or when it would \nset itself forth as the model or type of thought, that \nwe must check its pretensions. It is accurate only \nbecause it is abstract. Strike out the fulness, the \n\n\n\nUNEQUAL PROPOSITIONS. 105 \n\nconcreteness, the manifold reality of thought, and it \ncan be as accurate and unerring as mathematics. In- \ntroduce this fulness into mathematics and it is lost. \nIt is like a hound that loses in the trodden road the \nscent of the footsteps which it has traced through the \nwilderness. \n\nThe glory, then, of mathematics is its accuracy. \nIts poverty and its weakness arise from its abstract- \nness. Its accuracy, w^iich is its strength, also de- \npends upon this abstractness. This becomes a lack, \nonly when it seeks to go beyond its proper sphere, as \nin the philosophy of Spinoza, where it would apply \nits method to the grandest and most concrete objects \nof thought. Within its proper limits, its abstract- \nness constitutes its beauty and its perfection. \n\nIt must be carefully observed, that, in what has \nbeen said, reference was had, not to the mathematical \nsciences, but to the strictly mathematical element in \nthem. There is as great a distinction between math- \nematics and the mathematical sciences as there is be- \ntween induction and the inductive sciences. Practi- \ncally, few cases of induction do not involve, to a \ngreater or less extent, deductions ; so few mathemat- \nical processes do not involve some strictly logical \nprocedure. \n\nB. UNEQUAL PROPOSITIONS. \n\nThe absolute formula of the proposition we have \nseen to be this, The subject is the predicate. In the \nmathematical proposition this is strictly true. The \nsubject and the predicate are absolutely equal and \n\n\n\n106 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nidentical. In the logical proposition we have already \nsubstituted for the formula thus given, this more per- \nfect one, The individual is the universal. This is the \ntype of every logical proposition. We have already \nleft the simple truth and accuracy of mathematics. \nOur fundamental and typical proposition is false. \nThe individual is not the universal. The universal \nstretches far beyond the individual. A single man \ndoes not exhaust the possibilities of humanity. A \nsingle animal does not exhaust the possibilities of \nanimal life. From this springs all that is false and \nimperfect in thought and in the science of logic that \ncorresponds to it. Instead of propositions of identity, \nwe have unequal propositions. This difference is not \ntemporary or accidental. The individual is not, and \ncannot be, the universal. As the glory of mathemat- \nics springs from its poverty, so the glory of logic, \nwhich is the science of thought, springs from the di- \nvergence and falsity which we have just contemplated. \nThe elements of thought, the elements even of the \nproposition, do not stand iSxed and lifeless, over \nagainst each other. Thought does not, like math- \nematics, have to do with dead and fixed forms. \nThought is a living and endless process. In the di- \nvergence and falsity spoken of above lies the germ of \nthis endless life. The individual is not the univer- \nsal, but it will be. Logic is sometimes taunted with \nbeing a progress into the infinite. This is its highest \npride. Thought rushes from step to step, from form \nto form, striving to subdue this great discord. It \nseeks ever to find the universal in the individual, to \nlift the individual to the universal. So soon as any \n\n\n\nUNEQUAL PROPOSITIONS. 107 \n\npoint is reached, after all its paius and labor, it finds \nthe gulf as wide as ever. \n\nThis is not true of thought only, but, because \nthought is one with nature and history, it is true of \nthese also. This, which is the moving power of \nthought, is the moving power of the universe. Ev- \nerywhere there is the same breach, the same struggle. \nEverywhere the universal strives to shape itself in \nthe individual, and everywhere, failing in its aim, it \nbreaks to pieces its own work, and presses onward to \nnew forms. Everywhere the individual strives to lift \nitself up to become one with the universal, and at \nevery step is as far from it as at the first. In thought, \nthis process comes to its consciousness. In logic, it \nfinds its expression and its formula. \n\nIt is commonly thought that the proposition is the \narbitrary bringing together of what is outward and \ndistinct. The quality, it is fancied, exists loosely in \nmy thought; the subject exists outside of me. By \nthe jDroposition I bring the two together. This is \nnot so. The subject divides itself into its qualities \nand various processes in order to sum itself up at \nlast in the concrete unity of its being. Logic imi- \ntates this process. The proposition is the simplest \nstatement of it. TJie plant grows; the plant is green; \nthe plant has leaves. This is not my work, but \nnature\'s. \n\nThe great fault of the common logic, next to that \nby which it fails to perceive the great law of difier- \nence stated above, is, that it places all propositions \non a level. It thus loses the very foundation of its \nown system. If the proposition be the expression \n\n\n\n108 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof a process, we must expect to fiud this process \nnuHiing through the proposition. Or if this be \nDot so obvious at the first sight, the least practised \nthiul^ier can see the great difference between such \npropositions as, TJie rose is red, and TJie rose is \nbeautiful; between saying, A horse is useful, and \nSelf-sacrifice is noble. Nothing shows the poverty \nof the common logic so much, or at least so clearly, \nas that all such propositions as these are classed to- \ngether. They rest on entirely diiferent bases. The \nproposition that quinine is a specific for the intermit- \ntent fever is the result of a very different process of \nthought from that on which rests the proposition \nthat Raphael\'s painting of the transfiguration is a \nmaster-piece of art. There are three ways in which \nbodies may be regarded. The first is, as they present \nthemselves directly to the senses. We may regard \nthis phase of the object as its abstract individuality. \nIts color and form have no reference or relation, at \nleast none that is obvious, when they are considered \nthus abstractly, to other objects. This, however, is not \nthe only method of the existence of a body. It has \nmanifold relations with objects about it. This is the \nnext form under which it presents itself to us. We \nsee it no longer in its abstract solitariness. Its being \nis divided among other beings. It has its system of \naction and reaction. But it does not lose itself in \nthese relations. It has still its root in the common \nbeing. It has the end for which it was formed. \nThis last constitutes its real and concrete being. This \nreal being, this inner nature, by which it not only \nacts and reacts, but by which it is, constitutes the \n\n\n\nDIVISION OF PROPOSITIONS. 109 \n\nthird aud highest form under which we contemplate \nit. This real and highest being we express by the \nwords, Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. By these \nwords, an object is taken out of the sphere of finite \nrelations, and lifted up into that of the absolute rela- \ntions, in which first it has its reality. We have, then, \nthese three forms, each higher than the other, under \nwhich an object presents itself to us : first, its ab- \nstract individuality ; second, its manifold finite rela- \ntions ; aud, thirdly, its absolute being. These three \nforms depend upon the point of view from which we \nregard the object. They are dependent chiefly upon \nthe degree of the development of our own nature. \nThe change is more in us than in it. We first \ntake in the world by the senses only, then the under- \nstanding begins to analyze, to observe, and to com- \npare ; and, finally, the higher reason sees the higher \nreality underlying all, and utters the verdict of true, \nor good, or beautiful. We have, then, a division based \nupon our own mental standpoint and development, \nwhich will be more serviceable than the first. The \npropositions answering to these three forms, in which \nobjects are presented to the mind, may be entitled \nPropositions of the senses, or, more generally, of per- \nception, Propositions of the understanding. Propo- \nsitions of the reason. By the perception is here \nmeant the faculty of the simple and direct cognizance \nof the outward world through the senses ; by the \nunderstanding, the faculty which discerns difierences, \nwhich discriminates, divides, and classifies, a classifi- \ncation being a method of division ; and by the reason \nis meant the faculty which discerns the inner unity, \n\n\n\n110 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe fundamental and absolute relations of all. The \nlack of this distinction, and the neglect of the \nrelations between these three forms of proposition, \nare the cause of much of the mistiness of our thought. \nTogether they form the foundation of all our knowl- \nedge, the three tiers of the bridge by which we at- \ntempt to span the gulf that separates us from the \nabsolute reality. \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 PROPOSITIONS OF PERCEPTION. \n\nThese propositions are based, first, upon the testi- \nmony of each of the five senses taken separately ; \nsecondly, upon the combined result of these ; and, \nthirdly, there is a large class of intermediate propo- \nsitions which at first sprung from the understand- \ning, but are afterwards confounded with the results \nof the senses. Such are the propositions which \nrelate to the wholeness, to the individuality, to the \ndistance, direction, size, etc., of bodies. These \nwe commonly take as if on the evidence of our senses, \nwhile yet they are the result of long, though per- \nhaps unconscious observation. The elementary \nbooks abound in examples of the utter impossibility \nthere is, that one who has just gained the sense of \nsight can determine anything in regard to the rela- \ntions existing in the world about him. Some such \npersons, when they become bewildered by the novelty \nof what they see about them, are forced to shut their \neyes in order to find their way in any familiar locality. \nThe relations of the senses, the circumstances in \nwhich, and the laws according to which, the senses \n\n\n\nPEOPOSITIONS OF PERCEPTION. Ill \n\nact, though of great interest in themselves, would be \nbetter studied in a work on physiology or metaphys- \nics, than in one on logic. For us here is only to \nbe considered the foundation that they afford for \nreliable propositions. \n\nOf the five senses, two place us in relation with \nbodies in a state of dissolution or absorption. These \nare the senses of taste and smell. One other, that of \nhearing, brings us into relation with bodies that are \nin transient motion. We have, then, only two senses \nthat bring us in connection with bodies in their integ- \nrity, and in their normal state. These are the senses \nof sight and feeling. All of our direct knowledge of \nthe outward world is based upon these. \n\nThe revelations of sight are twofold : first, in \nregard to the color; and, secondly, in regard to the \nsize and form of an object. The first we may call \nsubjective, as the color, however influenced and \ncaused by the body, is a sensation of our own. The \nsecond we may call objective, because size and shape \nbelong to the object. Here is the great difference \nbetween sight and hearing, as putting us into a rela- \ntion with the outer world. Hearing gives us the \nsensation of sound, sight that of color ; but besides \nthis sensation, color gives us knowledge of the form \nand the relative size of bodies. Thus the proposition, \nThe rose is red, is true so far as the sight is con- \ncerned ; while the proposition, that The face of the \nclock is circular, is objectively true. \n\nIt is commonly said that sight reveals only color \ndirectly. But sight does reveal directly the outline \nof forms. Even if we were without the sense of \n\n\n\n112 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nfeeling, all plane forms could be distinguished by the \nsight, and classified, just as colors are distinguished \nand classified. How distinct a consciousness of form \nwe should have without the aid of feeling, it is impossi- \nble for us to say. We could not help noticing the \ndifference between a square and a round patch of red. \nThus we should distinguish between form and color, \nhowever vaguely. The sense of feeling gives reality \nto the perception of plane forms, and adds to this that \nof projected forms, and also of distance. By sight \nalone the changes produced by motion would also be \ndiscerned ; but that any idea of motion would be \nattached to these changes is not probable. It would \nseem simply an appearance and disappearance of \ncolors, like the play of iridescence on the neck of a \ndove. By the sense of feeling, we enter first the \nrealm of fidl objectivity. \n\nThe wa}\'^ in which feeling, with the aid of the other \nsenses, leads to the full knowledge of the outer world \nand its relations, has been of late discussed very ably \nby Bain and Herbert Spencer, and to their works and \nothers similar, the reader interested in the study of \npsychology is referred. We have here to do, not \nwith the delicate methods, but with the solid and re- \nliable results of consciousness. I will, therefore, \nrefer to views opposed to those stated above, oijly in \nregard to a single point. It was acutely argued by \nBrown, that even the forms of bodies exist to us only \nin sensation. We judge of the shape, of the size, of \nthe hardness of a body, by the degree and kind of \nresistance which it offers to us. In this view he has \nbeen supported by Mill and other writers of authori- \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS OF PERCEPTION. 113 \n\niy. But this is only a partial statement. The form \nof a body is not recognized by our senses alone, but \nalso by other bodies. Or, if one insists that we have \na right to speak of things only as phenomena, we \nmust recognize two classes of these. The first are \nin relation with one of our senses onl}^ The second \nare in relation with more than one of our senses, and \nalso with one another. The color of an object does \nnot afiect other insensible bodies, or, in other words, \nother phenomena pay no regard to it ; while the form \nof an object is respected by other phenomena. Thus \nflowing water takes a sweep which answers precisely \nto the shape of the rock that opposes it, A ball re- \nbounds from the wall that meets it. Besides this, \nform is recognized not only by one, but by two senses. \nThese considerations force us to ascribe more perfect \nobjectivity to form than to color. This is, perhaps, \none reason why, notwithstanding the more varied \npower of painting, the feeling is so common that \nsculpture is the nobler art. The proposition of the \nperception, beginning with the direct effect of objects \nupon our senses, thus brings us at last to the relations \nof objects with one another, by which they become \nthe material upon which the understanding works. \nBefore, however, passing to the propositions of the \nunderstanding, we must tarry for a moment in the \nborder land which unites, while it separates, the two. \nThere are many propositions, which, judging from \nour consciousness of them, we should say depended \nupon the senses, while yet we know that the senses \nalone would not have suggested them. These have \nbeen already referred to in the opening of this chap- \n\n\n\n114 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nter, but were left with the simplest notice. Here, \nfirst, can we give a full examination to them. \n\nA man says that he sees a tree. The philosopher \nknows that he does not. He sees a certain form and \ncolor, which observation and experience, both un- \nconscious, have taught him represent a tree. This \nis a difference between the senses and the ab- \nstract reasoning which will never be completely \nsettled. Consciousness is on the side of the senses, \nabstract thought is on the side of the understanding. \nCustom and all the precedents of society are also \non the side of the senses, A witness testifies to an \nact on the evidence of his own sight. If he gives \nhis own inference about it he is checked. The court \nwishes to know, not what he inferred, but what he \nsaw. It would hardly be taken into the account that \nhis whole story is an inference ; that what he says he \nsaw he did not see, but only inferred from what he \nsaw. What he saw was forms, colors, motions. \n"What he inferred was a man doing violence to another \nman. This unconsciousness runs through life. The \nfact is, that what we see depends upon the standpoint \nwhich we have reached. A man\'s whole experience, \nculture, and development look through his eyes, and \nlisten with his ears. Thus do the senses seem to \ngain new power at every step, and the progress is one \nwhich seems almost infinite. The chemist, the geolo- \ngist, who sees the vastest laws of nature embodied in \nthe smallest object or fact, would find it almost as \ndifficult to separate the result of thought from the \nmomentary act of the senses, as the poorest rustic \nwould, who is sure that he sees men and trees. We \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 115 \n\nneed not be careful in our divisions to settle these \nrival claims, to determine whether what perception has \nthus gained shall be considered as belonging to it or \nnot, whether the understanding shall still retain any \nright over what seems thus to have passed out of its \nrealm. It is enough for us that we have here the \ncommon border-line ; and that, while discussing the \npropositions of the senses, we find ourselves already \nbusying ourselves with those of the understanding. \n\nb. PROPOSITIONS OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\nCLASS FIRST. \xe2\x80\x94 PROPOSITIONS OF GENERALIZATION. \n\nThe proposition, That horse is Avhite, even the \npropositions, That is a horse. That is a tree, may be \nreckoned as propositions of perception, though this is \ndone under some protest from the understanding. \nWhen we come consciously to generalize our obser- \nvations, then the presence of the understanding be- \ncomes more easily and universally recognized. This \ndistinctness is increased according to the vastness and \ndifficulty of the generalization. If I say. All gold \nthat I have seen is heavier than water, All the men \nof whom I have read in history were mortal, there is \nevidence of a comparison, more or less accurate, which \nall recoo-nize as the work of the understanding. Yet \nthe propositions rest for their truth on the evidence \nof their senses as much as the simple proposition, This \nbit of gold is heavier than water. No new element \nhas been introduced except that of discrimination. \nWhen, however, I rise from such a generalization as \n\n\n\n116 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthis to au absolute generalization, when I say not \nonly, All the gold that I have seen, but. All gold is \nheavier than water ; not only, All the men of whom \nI have read, but, All men are mortal, there is intro- \nduced a new element, which deserves our careful \nconsideration. Before, the understanding worked \nwith the senses. Now, it separates itself from them, \nand makes affirmations which have nothing to do with \nthe senses. They are either out of the sphere of the \nsenses, or they oppose the senses in their own sphere. \nThis broad generalization, or rather this affirmatioL \nwhich goes beyond all generalization, is the aim of \nthe understanding in all its lesser generalizatiuns. It \nbegins as an ally of the senses, in order that it may \nbe able to set them at defiance. The senses affirm, \nas they always will, that the sun rises and sets. The \nunderstanding, which seemed to be the child of the \nsenses, which suffered itself to depend upon them and \nto be led by them, returns and contradicts their most \ndirect evidence. It bases itself on general laws, \nwhich are neither seen nor heard ; and, more than \nthis, pressing into the invisible future, and relying \nupon some unknown infinity, it affirms that these gen- \neral laws shall endure forever, shall endure even if \nthe material objects from which it seemed to have \nlearned them should pass away. We have now to \nask whether the understanding has power within it- \nself to make such an affirmation as this. We are not \nnow, it will be noticed, discussing the method of in- \nductive reasoning, its rules and its safeguards ; the \nquestion is only, what is the basis of all induction, \nupon what ground rest such propositions as. All men \n\n\n\nTHE BASIS OF GENERALIZATION. 117 \n\nare mortal, All matter possesses, always has possessed \nand will possess the property of attraction. They \ncannot be the result of observation, for they go be- \nyond all observation. No analysis, not the clearest vis- \nion, has penetrated or can penetrate the time to come. \nNo telescope can sweep the mysterious realm of the fu- \nture. No observer has come to us to tell of its hidden \nwonders. Yet we speak as confidently of it as we \ndo of what we have seen. It cannot be the result of \nabstraction merely, because it includes what abstrac- \ntion can never reach. Abstraction separates from \nobjects, iu some respects unlike, some quality in \nwhich they are alike. But such propositions as those \nof which we speak, affirm these qualities to exist in \nregard to objects which we have never seen. \n\nHow do we cross this gulf which separates the seen \nfrom the unseen? At this point, different systems \ndivide more than at any other. Hume, more logical \nin his scepticism than many others in their belief, \naffirmed the crossing to be impossible. We do not \nand we cannot reason, he tells us, from the known to \nthe unknown. What appears such reasoning is, ac- \ncording to Hume, a mere habit of the mind. Belief \nis, according to Hume, mere vividness of conception \nresulting from association. We have been so often \nburnt, that we connect the feeling of heat with fire. \nWe do not know that fire will burn us because it has \nburnt us, but the presence of fire suggests so strongly \nthe thought of heat, that we call it knowledge. Thus \ndoes Hume, willing to accept nothing which is not \npart of his own conscious experience, lose that most \nimportant element of all experience, knowledge. \n\n\n\n118 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThus does positivism tend to become unreal and iie^ . \native. This criticism, however, furnishes no answer \nto the assertion that induction depends merely on as- \nsociation. We can decide the question with certainty \nonly by observing whether association is sufficient, in \nevery case, for the result produced. A man tells me, \nfor instance, that a certain plant is poisonous. I go \ninto a place where both this plant and a fire are per- \nceived by me. I believe that this plant, from which \nI have never suffered, is poisonous, as strongly as I \nbelieve that the fire, from which I have sufiered, will \nburn. With the plant I have no association of feel- \ning, but yet I fear it. It may be said that, in this \ncase, the association is with the spoken word ; that I \nam used to expecting what is said to be followed by \nthe result spoken of under the circumstances named. \nBut I am not so used. I do not believe half I hear. \nAll that can be said is, that, by induction, I deter- \nmine what association to trust in, and what not. \nThus association cannot be the foundation of induc- \ntion. It may momentarily take the place of induc- \ntion. When we do not think carefully, something \nthat is suggested by association may be taken for \nsomething proved by induction. When we think \ncarefully, we discriminate between the two, and often \nfind the two in conscious strife. A man has met with \nan accident in driving, which makes him dread to get \ninto a carriage. He may know, in any given case, \nthat there is no danger, yet he cannot free himself \nfrom his dread. Now he may drive, in spite of the \nassociation ; or he may not drive, in spite of his knowl- \nedge ; Init the strife shows that association is not \n\n\n\nTHE BASIS OF GENERALIZATION. 119 \n\ninduction, and that induction is not mere associa- \ntion. \n\nA more general statement of the same truth would \nbe this : A strong impression on the mind is not the \nsame thing as belief founded on induction. Such an \nimpression may often be equivalent to such a belief. \nThis may be seen in the training of a witness, which \nis said to be sometimes resorted to in preparation for \na trial. Mr. A. meets the party to be manipulated, \nand inquires, carelessly, if he remembers a conversa- \ntion which he (Mr. A.) had with Mr. B. in regard to \na certain subject, when one said this and the other \nthat, they standing in such a place, and the person \ninquired of at such another. The conversation may \nbe further connected with some event that actually \ntranspired. The man remembers nothing about it. \nA few months afterwards the same event is brought \nbefore his mind in the same way. This time he has \na confused remembrance of the fact in regard to which \ninquiry is made. After a few more months, inquiry \nis made of him the third time. This time he remem- \nbers all about it, and, when he is summoned into \ncourt, gives fluent and circumstantial evidence. Now, \nsuch a case as this might, with some persons, readily \noccur. The detail of circumstances is surreptitiously \nintroduced into an unsuspicious mind ; their lines are \nartfully deepened, until, at last, the mind adopts it \nas the result of its own perception. The reason of \nthis is, that whatever is thus impressed upon the \nmind, with no memory of the manner of its introduc- \ntion, is apt to be the result of perception, and is so \naccepted without inquiry. The mind may be de- \n\n\n\n120 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nceived, just as the senses are deceived, but these \nexceptional cases do not prove what is the ordinary \nand natural method. The fact that whenever the \nmethod of the introduction of such an impression into \nthe mind is recalled, this impression is strictly and \npromptly distinguished from the memory of an exter- \nnal fact, shows that the two rest upon entirely dis- \ntinct bases, and are themselves entirely distinct. Now, \nthe mere conception, before its origin is recalled, is no \n^"^ more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, or steady" (to use \nthe adjectives by which Hume would describe belief) \nthan afterwards ; yet in the one case it is belief, and \nin the other it is not. Belief, then, is something \ndifferent from the vivid and steady conception of an \nobject. Hume very properly affirms at the outset, \nthat, "in philosophy, we can go no further than assert \nthat belief is something felt by the mind, which dis- \ntinguishes the ideas of the judgment from the fictions \nof the imagination." It is a pity that he undertook \nto take that impossible step by confusing this ulti- \nmate fact of belief with vividness in the conception \nof an object ; though, had he not done this, the world \nwould have lost his very interesting speculations, and \nall the rich discussion that has sprung from them. \n\nMr. Mill adopts still another position, startling in \nits boldness, and still more startling by its lack of \nfoundation. He affirms, in effect, that faith in induc- \ntion is the result of induction. Stated more fully and \nplausibly, the position is this : We arrive by induc- \ntion at the grand proposition of the uuit}^ and invari- \nableness of the universe. This is the great result of \ninduction. It is the test and the proof of all minor \n\n\n\nTHE BASIS or GENERALIZATION. 121 \n\ninductions. If I believe that the sun will rise to- \nmorrow, because it has always risen within the mem- \nory of man, I appeal, in support of this belief, to the \nuniformity of the laws of nature. This last great \nproposition, the test of all and the proof of all, is left \nwithout proof or test, save the simple induction upon \nwhich it depends. To see the fallacy of this, we need \nonly reduce this amplification to the simple proposi- \ntion stated above, that our belief in induction depends \nupon induction. We have only to ask, upon what \ndoes our faith in this induction depend ? The ques- \ntion is not to what broader induction may these minor \nones be related, but why do we have confidence in \ninduction itself? In other words, supposing that all \nthe past in its fulness were known to us, all space fa- \nmiliar to us, and all time up to the present moment, \nand we knew that in every case, up to this moment, \nthe laws of nature have been unvaried, what right \nwould we have to say that they would be so in the \nnext moment? This would be induction in its most \nperfect form, but why have faith in induction at all?* \nIf we look back on the ground that we have passed \nover, we shall see that the three positions, which we \nhave successively occupied, are separated each from \nthe other by a gulf which we can hardly bridge. We \nhave, first, the impressions of the senses ; we have, \n\n* Mr. Mill, in his valuable critique on the Philosophy of Sir William \nHamilton, appears to defend, in a note, this position in regard to induction, \nby saying in effect that many seem to forget the mutual support which propo- \nsitions derive from each other. This should be forgotten by no sound mind. \nBut this does not show that propositions may derive their only foundation \nfrom this mutual support. No relation of action and reaction would enable \na man to sit in a basket and lift himself up by the handles. \n\n\n\n122 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsecondly, the iinclerstaiicling busying itself with these \nimpressions, not doubting that they represent real \nobjects ; and we have, in the third place, the thought \ngoing beyond the senses themselves, and stretching \nits results into that which is unseen. \n\nThe attempt to explain and justify these leaps, by \nthe theory of certain innate truths, is at best an awk- \nward one. It is not primarily by these innate truths \nthat the transition is made. In other words, the \nconsciousness of the truths, called innate, is developed \nout of the processes of mind which are said to rest on \nthem, instead of being the conscious- starting-point \nof these processes. I do not have faith in the sta- \nbility and unity of the universe because I believe the \nproposition that the universe is a perfect and system- \natic whole. On the contrary, I deduce this proposi- \ntion from the faith with which I expect in every case \nthis stability. Still further, I do not believe from \ninduction in this stability ; for my faith in induction \nis itself based upon this other faith. \n\nIf, giving up all theory, and omitting nothing \nfrom our data because we do not understand it, we \ntake the facts of our consciousness just as they are, \nwe shall be able to simplify this whole thing. The \ntruth of the matter appears to be that we come into \nthe world with certain instincts of activity, bodily \nand mental, and a faith by w^hich we follow these \ninsti\'icts, confident that they will not deceive or mis- \nlead us. As, however, the word faith ma3^seem to \nimply too much a conscious foundation, we will use \nthe term, good faith. Man comes into the world in \ngood faith. By this is meant that he comes without \n\n\n\nTHE BASIS OF GENERALIZATION. 123 \n\nany feeling that he is to be imposed upon or trifled \nwith. He takes it for granted, even without being \nconscious of it, that life is a real and earnest thing. \nIn other words, he begins to live in good earnest. \nThe infant has an instinct to suck. It knows nothing \nof the provision nature has made for its support. It \nsimply sucks, in good faith, anything that comes \nwithin the reach and compass of its mouth. Now, \nthis instinct in the child involves, in its truth, a very \ncomplicated system of facts and relations, the full \nknowledge of which is only reached by prolonged, \nand even professional, study. The child has further \nimpressions and sensations. It takes it for granted \nthat they mean something and correspond with some- \nthing. As the child grows older, he watches the \ncourse of events, and so soon as he detects any \nsimilarity or appearance of method, he takes it for \ngranted that that is the way that things are done \nhere. This seriousness, earnestness, honesty, or \ngood faith, whatever term we may apply to it, in \nwhich even the infant, in which even the brute, be- \ngins life, is the basis of the conscious faith in induc- \ntion. It is the parent of the grand truth of the \nreason, that the world is a systematic whole, nay, \nthat the universe is such a whole. The individual, \nmeaning honestly and seriously himself, believes the \nworld to be honest and serious. And, if this be so, \nit must have some meaning, some bond, some unity. \nIn one word, the individual believes in the truth of \nthings, and this implies, when developed to its full \nmeaning, that they are not isolated shadows, but that \nthey stand in a certain connection with one another. \n\n\n\n124 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nWe thus come to the propositions of the reason ; but \nbefore entering upon these directly, we must con- \nsider another nse that the understanding makes of \nthe faith of the reason. Not only relying upon this \ndoes it reach new truth by induction, going forward \nin its undoubting march, it also arranges and classi- \nfies what it has already discovered. It makes its \nsystems, not doubting that there is a great system \nwhich answers more or less accurately to them. \n\nSECOND CLASS OF PROPOSITIONS OF THE UNDERSTANDING, \nNAMELY, THOSE RELATING TO DIVISION, CLASSIFICATION, \nAND NOMENCLATURE. \n\nClassification may be made for two purposes. \nThe first is, that of enabling us to find and recoo-- \nnize individual objects. The second, to form a sys- \ntem which shall answer to that of nature. In other \nwords, the first is a help to the acquisition of knowl- \nedge ; the last is a record of the results of knowledge. \nThe formation of the catalogue of a library may illus- \ntrate the peculiar advantage and disadvantage of each \nmethod, and the incompatibility which sometimes \nexists between the two. A catalogue may be either \nan alphabetical list of the titles of the books \nincluded, or it maj^ be what is called a ^^ catalogue \nraisonnee." In this last case a system is made em- \nbracing all departments of thought, and the titles of \nthe books are arranged under the heads of. this sys- \ntem. The first method enables one to find, directly, \nany book of which he knows the title, but exhibits \nnothing of the fulness of the library in au}\'\' one \n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION. 125 \n\ndepartment, and is no guide to one wishing to read \non a particular subject. The second method satisfies \nthis last need, but it involves difficulty in finding \nindividual books. One must understand, in all its \ndetails, the system adopted, or he will not be able to \ntake the first step. Some books may belong as well \nunder one heading as another, and in the case of \ncomplete sets of the works of a single author, either \nviolence must be done to the method by bringing \nthem together, or violence must be done to the sets \nby separating them. In the case of a library the \ndifficulty is solved only by a twofold catalogue ; but \nwhether these are united, either serving, as it may, \nfor the index to the other, or whether they are \nseparate, the result is the same. It is, practically, \ntwo catalogues, as the two methods admit in this \ncase of no compromise. \n\nIn the arrangement or classification of a science, \nthe difficulty does not occur in precisely this manner, \nbut the difficulty exists no less. It may be generally \nstated under this form. An arrangement on the \nfundamental principles of a science cannot, in gen- \neral, be easily understood by a beginner in the sci- \nence, and, further, such a classification cannot be \nmade until these fundamental principles have been \nreached. The first classification, then, of every sci- \nence is, and must be, popular. As the science \nadvances, a new and more properly scientific classi- \nfication may be made. Whether this ever becomes \npopular in its turn depends upon the obviousness \nof the principles of the science. We have a fine \nexample of these two stages in the history of the \n\n\n\n126 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nscience of botany. The classification of Liunaeua \nwas sufficient so far as the cataloguing of plants, and \nthe recognition of them, are concerned. But it was \nfound not to fall in with the order and arrangement \nof nature. The natural arrangement is, in some \nrespects, less convenient, but it exhibits its material \nin the order of nature. The importance of this last \nobject of classification may be illustrated by the joy \nwith which Hugh Miller found, or thought he found, \nthat the classification of geology falls in with the \norder of creation. \n\nAll scientific classification, then, grows out of- the \nscience itself. That is, it is the result of observation. \nStrictly speaking, there is no such thing as a complete \nand absolutely a ^priori division. What is called such \nis a division which, from the laws of the mind, or \nfrom some known law of things, is seen to be final ; \nbut this law of the mind, or law of things, has been \nalready learned by observation. Take, for instance, \nthe classification of nouns already given under the \nheading Terms. Nouns may be the names of indi- \nviduals or of classes, of materials, of qualities, of mo- \ntions, or states. We know that we cannot conceive \nof objects except under these heads. The division is \na priori, so far as the mass of nouns is concerned, but \nnot so far as these possible conditions are concerned. \n\nSo far as any division is purely a priori, it is sim- \nply negative and thus partial. We see some objects \npossessing a certain quality, and we make a division \ndistinguishing those that have this quality from those \nthat do not. We seem to om-selves to say something \nwhen we divide objects into organic and inorganic. \n\n\n\nca:iASSiFicATioN. 127 \n\nThis is, however, do proper division. It simply af- \nfirms that some objects are organized. Of the rest it \n-affirms and knows nothing. We might as well say, \nStones and other things, and call it a classification. \nWhen we take a step further, and divide objects into \nanimal, vegetable, and mineral, we seem to have a \nmore perfect classification. All that we have gained, \nhowever, is a subdivision of the one class already \nknown, while the same formless and unknown mass \nof objects, before called inorganic, is now called min- \neral, \xe2\x80\x94 a term which has a positive meaning, it is true, \nbut a meaning which has no reference to a great por- \ntion of the objects comprehended by it. Not until \nthe science of mineralogy has become developed so \nthat we know what are the common principles which \nunite this vast mass of things, as the principle of or- \nganization, either vegetable or animal, unites the first \nclass, does it become really the basis of a scientific \ndivision. When we can say that mineralogy includes \nall objects which are subject to mechanical and chemi- \ncal laws, and to these alone, and are capable of crys- \ntallization, we have what is the basis of a real and \npositive class. The title is popular, but the class is \nscientific. Either the laws of chemistry, or those of \ncrystallization, or both, may furnish the positive char- \nacteristics of it. The result of all is, that a division \nis a priori only so far as it is in part negative. \n\nWe have then a classification which is based upon \nobservation. We have examined, it is supposed, all \nobjects sufficiently to find certain marks by which one \ngroup may be distinguished from another. Each \ngroup is not merely negative, but possesses certain \n\n\n\n128 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\npositive peculiaritie-: of its own. This is the extent \nof most attempts at classification. It does not, how- \never, satisfy the mental desire for completeness. We \nhave thus ftir certain points, each distinct from the \nother, and having no relation to it. Each would be \njust the same if the other did not exist. What we \nnow need is, a classification which shall exhibit the \nclasses in their relation to one another, so that the \nwhole shall not be merely exhaustive, but systematic \nand organic. \n\nOf this form of classification that adopted by Comte \nfor the arrangement of all our knowledge, and called \nby him the Hierarchy of sciences, is a very beautiful \nexample. The basis of this is the greater or less \ncomplexity of the sciences. Mathematics is the most \nabstract of sciences, and forms the basis of the struc- \nture. Sociology, or the science of society, forms the \nculmination of it. Between these are ran2:ed me- \nchanics, astronomy, chemistry, etc. Each is more \ncomplex than the other, and as it gains in complexity \nit loses in accuracy and perfection. This is a very \nbeautiful classification, for each class stands in its \nplace as regards all the others, and the same test is \napplied to all. It is not merely a series, it is a hie- \nrarchy. It is, perhaps, small disparagement to say \nthat this system is not perfect, in a sphere where per- \nfection seems as yet unattainable. The reason de- \nmands not merel}^ this relation of each to the whole, \nit demands also that this relation should be a funda- \nmental one. It should be based upon what is really \nthe vital point in each. If the assumption with which \nthis sj^stem starts were true, that is, if we knew that \n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION. 129 \n\nall other sciences could be reduced to mathematical \nlaws, had we sufficent mental skill to do this, then \nthe science of mathematics would be indeed the basis \nof all and the vital bond of all. The system would \nthen be perfect. But this assumption is one that \nwould be extravagant even in a work based profess- \nedly upon theory. It becomes doubly extravagant in \na work which claims to be based wholly upon positive \nscience. In the first part of this work we saw, in- \ndeed, that there is a point where quantity and quality \nbecome lost in one another, but yet neither can be \nconfounded with the other. They are like the oppo- \nsite arcs of a circle, which, prolonged, become lost in \none another, but which yet cannot be confounded. \nSo far as really positive science has j^et gone, it is \nonly the wildest theory to affirm that all difference in \nquality rests upon difference in quantity. Even if \nthis were so, and proved to be, yet when this quali- \ntative difference has once been produced, it brings \nwith it its own system of laws, which cannot be con- \nfounded with mathematical laws. Even if we take a \nstep further and admit, what we cannot deny to be \npossible, that science shall discover more and more \nthe mathematical laws underlying all others, the hie- \nrarchy, though very beautiful, would still be imper- \nfect. The principle adopted, instead of filling a more \nand more important place as we went on, would fill a \nless and less important one. Take, for instance, the \nscience of society . It may be that it is the greater or \nless amount of vitality, or whatever else we may call \nit, which forms difference in character, yet it is the \ndifference in character which must be recognized in \n\n\n\n130 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsociety. Such illustrations might be pursued further , \nbut it seems sufScieutly obvious that, after the difFe\xc2\xbb- \nences in quality have been established, they form a \nbasis of new laws. This must remain so, even in \nchemistry, where the mathematical laws have made \nsuch gains within a few years. Each substance has \nits own numerical equivalent, but the connection \nbetween this and the substance itself, with its varied \nqualities on the one side, and its compounds on the \nother, can never be unveiled. There will always \nremain these two elements. As we advance to the \nmore complicated sciences, we have not only more \ncomplicated mathematical and mechanical relations, \nbut also new qualitative elements which must always \nremain distinct. \n\nFurther, not only do the mathematicallavrs become \nconnected with other principles, as we proceed, but \nthey occupy more and more a secondary position. In- \nstead of becoming more obvious and more important as \nwe ascend, they become less obvious and less impor- \ntant. They do not, therefore, even if we could assame \ntheir presence as fundamental everywhere, become the \nbest basis of division or classification. This should \nbecome more important and clearer as we advance, \nprovided we have caught the true principle of nature. \nIt is the lower that is to be explained from the higher, \nnot the higher from the lower. Nature is, at least in \nform, a progression and an ascent. Class and system \nrise above class and sj\'stem. The laws of life are \nhigher than the laws of chemistry. The laws of \nchemistry, relating, as they do, to the nature of bod- \nies, are higher than the laws of mechanics. This is \n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION. 131 \n\nrecognized by the very term, Hierarchy of sciences. \nBut if mechanics has superiority to life, it is an in- \nverted hierarchy. No principle of division or gener- \nalization can be complete or final which does not \nrecognize this principle. The principle of division \nshould, then, rather be a law than a quality or rela- \ntion. It should be what might be called, formally \nat least, a principle of development. It sboulr! re- \ngard the lower froi.i the stand-poiot of the higLor, \nand not seek to drag the higher down to the level of \nthe lower. This may bo illustrated })y some of tlit- \ngreat generalizations of modern science, especiallj \nthe science of morphology. The reduction of such \ndifferent forms to a common type, the iDwer being \nviewed in the light of the higher, furnishes a beautiful \nexample, or illustration, of truly scientific generaliza- \ntion. In the plant we have, in the progress of \ngrowth, the cotyledons of the seeds, the leaves, tbf; \nbranches, the flowers, and the fruit. All are modifi- \ncations of the same structure, all are formed on the \nsame type. Here, we have the image of the world, \nas the philosopher conceives it ; all its manifold va- \nrieties beino; higher and his/her manifestations of the \nsame principle. The science of morphology goes \nfurther. It finds the same principle in the animal \nworld that it found in the vegetable ; the branching \ntrunk is the prototype of the spinal column, while out \nof the spinal column spring varied members, all \ntransformations of the same typical form ; the sku\'l \nitself being a transformed vertebra. Thus we have \nrunning through so large a section of the world a \nsingle principle ; we have the higher springing out \n\n\n\n132 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof the lower. We make divisions, but they vanish \nunder our hands. The varied parts and elements do \nnot stand over against one another in stiff and stub- \nborn opposition, but meet and flow into one another. \nWe speak of leaves and flowers. They seem distinct \nenough ; yet, as we look, we see the leaf structure \nbocoming the flower, and the flower, in some play of \nnature, falling back into the leaf form. What we call \ndivisions and elements, we find to be only moments; \nthat is, the partial and complemental stages of an \neternal progress. We cannot say that the flower or \nthe fruit is only a variation of the leaf structure, uu- \ndorstanding that it is only a chance play of forms. The \nflower and the fruit are the end of the leaf, in so far \nfis it is the nature of the plant not to rest content with \nleaves, but to press on to its flowering and its fruit. \nMore nearly just, though not strictly so, it would be \nib say, that the leaf is an arrested develojpment. This \nis just, if we mean by the expression that it is a rest- \ning in one stage of an appointed development, under- \nstandingy also, that this resting is a part of the pre- \nscribed course. So it would be false to speak of man \nas a transformed monkey, or serpent, while in the \nsame sense as the expression was used before, and \nwithout involving any theory of the method of crea- \ntion, we can speak of these lower animals as exam- \nples of an arrested development ; that is, only one stage \nin this great system, which is not complete, until it \nhas reached the highest point of development in the \nhighest of its elements. It is, therefore, evident, that \nno complete arrangement can be made, until the sys- \ntem is wholly understood and completed. Still we \n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION. 133 \n\ncan approximate this perfection. It may be possible \nto discover the law which controls this process before \nits whole sweep has been observed. This has already \nbeen found to be from unity to complexity, and from \ncomplexity to a higher and concrete unity. The \nterms applied by Mr. Herbert Spencer are as appro- \npriate as any. The twofold law of differentiation \nand integration is the law of progress. Mr. Spencer \nhas accumulated a vast collection of illnstrations of this \ntwofold law. This is, however, no different from \nwhat had been before announced as the law of pro- \ngression through antagonisms. The growth of the \nplant from the simplicity of the seed, through the \nantagonisms of the upward-pressing leaves and down- \nward-pressing roots, and of constantly dividing \nbranches and roots, to the concrete unity of the whole \nplant, furnishes the universal type. We thus return \nto the logical basis. First, we have the abstract uni- \nversal, next the antagonistic particular, and, finally, \nthe concrete individual. \n\nPhysical science will approach slowly this perfec- \ntion. Already the science of embryology is begin- \nning to unite, by a certain principle of progress, the \nfixed orders of animal life. Already speculation is \nbeginnino; to assail the fixed barriers of science. But \nit will be long before theory and the accuracy of \nscience shall have settled these matters between them- \nselves. Meanwhile the purely speculative scienceB \nshould reach after a more accurate and philosophic \nmethod of division. Mental phenomena succeed one \nanother, and pass into one another, by fixed laws, \nand it is time that the mind should bo no longer re- \n\n\n\n134 TEtE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ngarded, even in theory, as a mass of distinct entities. \nHegel in Germany, and Spencer in England, ap- \nproaching these matters from entirely different stand- \npoints, have done much to bring about the desired \nresult. The mind through all its phases is one. \nThese phases are only fluctuating forms. Most of \nall, should logic, the science of sciences, attain to \nperfection of division and method. Yet nowhere else \ndoes such confusion reign as in the popular logic. \n\nFrom what has been said above, it will appear that \nfor any perfect classification, however general or \nspecific, three things are necessary ; -first, that the \nprinciple of classification should be clear ; that is, that \nit should be such as should enable us to distinguish \ncertainly and accurately, members of one group from \nthose of another ; secondly, that it should be such that \nthe divisions resulting from it should fall in with \nthose of nature ; that is, that the members of each \ngroup should be united, not merely by some arbitrary \nexternal mark, but also by some natural affinity ; and, \nthirdly, that it should be such as to show the relation of \neach group to all others, whetner upon the same \nplane, or upon a lower or a higher. It is interesting \nand instructive to see how science has gradually made \nher work correspond to these requirements, until now \nshe consciously adopts them as the true ideal of scien- \ntific classification, and the test of its correctness. \nThe science of zoology, for instance, we find assuming \nthe form and proportions of a systematic v/hole, by \nshowing that the members of the higher orders of any \ngiven class of animals pass, in the course of their \ndevelopment, through stages corresponding to those \n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATIOX. 135 \n\noccupied b}^ the lower orders of the same class. \nOne principle of division separates and unites all \ngroups. The primary divisions, or types, depend \nupon plan of structure, " the classes upon the manner \nof its execution, the orders upon the greater or less \ncomplication of a given mode of execution, the tami- \nlies upon form," genera upon details of structure, \nand species upon minor differences in the details of \nthe same structure.* The four general types of ani- \nmal existence are arranged by Prof. Agassiz in per- \nfect conformity with the principles above, and so \noften, referred to in this work, that is, of progression \nby differentiation. The radiates represent the lowest \ntype ; above these stand the mollusks and the articu- \nlates on the same plane, one representing concentra- \ntion and contraction, the other representing outward \nexpression ; while above these stands the class of \nvertebrates. Thus we have three stages, the lowest \nrepresenting the most abstract form of life, the \nhighest the most concrete, while between them stand \nover against each other the two elements of life, the \ninternal and the external. As we pass from these \nmost general types, through classes, orders, families, \ngenera, and species, we see one principle running \nthrough all, appearing in its most universal form in \nthe first, and becoming more and more specialized in \nthose that come after, until all together take concrete \nlife in the individual. \n\nThe question of "Nominalism or Eealism," which \n\n*See the work of Prof. Agassiz, entitled "Methods of Study \nin Natural History;" a work as important to the student of \nlogic as to the student of natural history. \n\n\n\n136 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwas so long a subject of controversy among meta- \nphysicians, or, rather, the subject of controversy \nwhich separated schools from one another, is thus \nbeing gradually settled by science in the direction of \nrealism. The question was, whether names wore \nanything more than words applied to certain resem- \nblances or differences, which we observe in nature, \nthe name of a group being merely a name with no \nreality corresponding to it. The facts of embrj^ology \nshow that at least the zoological orders represent a \nreality, the members of each being united by an \ninner unity as well as an outer resemblance. If the \ntheory of development were true, science would be- \ncome wholly realistic, each group representing iden- \ntity of origin ; that is, the continuance and activity of \na single and special force ; and, leaving this out of \nthe account, all the approaches of science to a simple \nand perfect organization corresponding to that of \nnature work in the same direction, since they show \nin each group identity of relation to this common \norganism. Here, as in the matter of causation, it is \nbeautiful to see the ease and naturalness with which \nscience is gradually settling questions, which so long \ntaxed in vain the strength of mere metaphysicians. \n\nTerminology is a matter in which perfection is \nharder to reach, and less needful, than in division and \narrangement. Words are only signs ; and however \naccurately or inaccurately formed they soon pass into \nidentity with the thing signified. It does not matter \nchat the word oive once meant to oivn. No debtor\'s \nlot is lightened by that ; and oxygen is as good a \nname, though the substance does much besides forn? \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS OF THE REASON. 137 \n\nacids, and does not form all of them. Still, so far \nas it is possible, a systematic and accurate termi- \nnology is to be preferred. Chemistry, and a part of \nanatomy, approach more nearly to this than any other \nsciences ; and even in these the perfection is in some \nsort mechanical. In other sciences, the division into \nclasses, orders, genera, species, and varieties makes \na sufficiently good framework for nomenclature. In \nmental science we miss, most of all, a scientific \nlanguage. I will not here speak of the confusion pro- \nduced by the use of terms half popular and half \nscientific ; I will simply refer to the fact, that in form- \ning the divisions of this work no such word as \ngenus, species, etc., could be found to preside over \nthe separate parts. Literary terms, such as Book, \nPart, Chapter, etc., have no organic meaning or \nrelation. An argument has its terms, but for the \nconsecutive unfolding of thought there are no terms. \nThe figures and letters, by which the divisions in a \nwork like this have to be marked, show how imper- \nfect is still the culture of thought, which has not yet \ninvented terms to represent its own various stages. \n\nC. PROPOSITIONS OF THE REASON. \n\nFIRST CLASS.\xe2\x80\x94 PROPOSITIONS OF TRUTH. \n\nWe have seen that the propositions of the under- \nstanding, whether of generalization or of classifica- \ntion in its higher form, presuppose something behind \nthem. Generalization cannot of itself pass into \ninduction, and classification is based upon the funda- \nmental principle, that individuals and species are \n\n\n\n138 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nparts of one great system. The fundamental princi- \nple upon which these rest is that the universe is a \nconnected and systematic whole. This is the funda- \nmental proposition of the reason, and it is the foun- \ndation of all the reasoninsr of the understanding. To \nthis, under one form or other, all the propositions \nthat have been commonly regarded as expressing \ninnate truths may be reduced. This itself, as has \nbeen already intimated, does not pre-exist full-formed \nin the mind. There is at first only the instinct of \ngeneralization and of trust in the truth and reality \nof things, which, as it finds itself not opposed, but \nfavored by the outward world, reaches to fuller and \nfuller consciousness of itself. In this development \nit outruns at every step the results of the senses and \nof the understanding, until at last it reaches the per- \nfect form which we have stated. Now that this is \nreached, we can see that it was involved in that crude \nand luiformed faith of which I have spoken. Faith \nin our instinct of generalization is faith in the truth \nof things, in their reality, and in their mutual con- \nnection. Ever the simplest faith in outward reality \ninvolves the same truth. When we say that a thing \nis not real or true, we mean that it has no connection \nwith what is about it, with what has gone before it, \nor with what comes after it. What we mean by the \nbeing of anything is this interpenetration of rela- \ntions, which makes it a force and an object in the \nworld. This connection, as has been intimated, is \nthreefold. It looks first backward, and secondly \nforward, making of the object effect and cause, \nresulting at last in that conception which has been \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS OF THE REASON. 139 \n\nwell named Persistence of Force. It looks also, \nthirdly, towards all the surroandings of the object, \nculminating in the conception of the organic unity \nof all things. This last may be represented as giving \nus a simple circle, which the former, namely, the \npersistence of force, enlarges into a solid sphere. \nSince without this connection we could have no faith \nin the reality, truth, and stability of anything, this \nconnection being what we mean by reality, truth, and \nstability, it follows that the grandest conception of \nthe universe, as a complete and systematic whole, la \ninvolved in the simple good faith in which man \nbegins his life. We may consider this trust in the \nreality of the outward world as an instinct, answer- \ning to the instinct by which the plant is fitted for its \nlife, or by which one part of the plant answers to \nanother. Man is fitted by it to be a part of this \ngreat organism in which he finds himself. To return \nto the illustration already used, as the infant lays \nhold of whatever oifers itself, and puts it in his \nmouth, in the endeavor to suck nourishment from it, \nuntil it finds, at last, its instincts satisfied with its \nmother\'s breast, so the mind, by means of the instinct \nof generalization and induction, lays hold of the \nouter world in an unquestioning faith, seeking to \ndraw truth from it. It mistakes often, but does not \nwholly fail of satisfaction, until at last it reaches the \nfull comprehension of what this instinct means, and \nwhat is the truth for which it thirsts. Thus it is, \nthat from poor and meagre data, it leaps to the con- \nception and belief that the world is an organic, sys- \ntematic whole. \n\n\n\n140 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nBy this instinct of generalization and induction \nthat rests upon the good faith with which we begin \nlife, and culminates in the conception of the organic \nunity of the world, we may receive some help \ntowards understanding certain relations which are \nsometimes puzzling to the mind. Prominent among \nthese is the relation of cause and effect. I have \nalready given the scientific definition of causation, \nand in the same place remarked the unsatisfactory \nnature of the metaphysical definitions already given. \nBecause there was no outward method of reaching \nthe conception of cause and effect, Hume denied that \nwe had such a conception, just as he denied, though \nas we have seen not without some self-contradiction, \nthe fact of belief, as distinguished from mere asso- \nciation. Hume affirmed that all that can be meant \nby causation is invariable sequence. When one \nphenomenon invariably follows another, we speak of \nthe first as a cause of the second. It has been well \nobserved, in reply, that there is no sequence more \ninvariable than that of day and night ; 3-et day is \nnot the cause of night, nor night the cause of day. \nCausation must, then, be something difierent from \ninvariable sequence. Mr. Mill attempts to make the \ndefinition more perfect, by adding the word uncon- \nditional. Causation, he affirms, means invariable and \nunconditional sequence. The sequence of day and \nnight is not unconditional. If the sun should not \nrise, night would not be followed by day; but the \nrising of the sun would be followed by day under all \nconceivable circumstances. The relation of day to \nthe rising sun is, then, one of unconditional sequence. \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO TRUTH. 141 \n\nThis is all true, but what does Mr. Mill mean by \nunconditional? How does an unconditional sequence \ndiffer from an invariable one, except in the matter \nof causation ? Why do we say that the rising of the \nsun is the unconditional antecedent of daylight, ex- \ncept because we know that the sun is the cause of \ndaylight? When we then say, with Hume, that caus- \nation is invariable sequence, we make a definition \nthat includes too much. And when we say, with Mr. \nMill, that causation is invariable and unconditional \nsequence, we involve the very conception we would \navoid. \n\nThe relation of cause and effect is one aspect of the \nrelation of wholeness, which is the necessary object \nand condition of belief. Thus it will be seen that \nwhat we mean by the phrase cause and effect is the \nsame relation in a consecutive form, that the relation \nof parts to their whole is in a statical relation. This \nrelation of parts to their whole has its true signifi- \ncance in the fact that each of the parts has its true \nbeing only in the whole. \n\nThe relation of identity is another relation that it \nis diflicult to conceive. Modern science has been con- \ntinually substituting the word similar, for the same. \nInstead of speaking of two bodies as occupying the \nsame relation to another, it speaks of them as occu- \npying a similar relation. The nature of one man ia \nnot the same as that of another, only similar to it. \nHuman nature is simply an expression for certain \nsimilar qualities found in different objects. Although \nthe mind has hardly seen an escape from such state- \nments, it has not been satisfied by them. They have \n\n\n\n142 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nseemed to leave a gulf too broad, shutting off not \nonly one object from another, but one atom from \nanother. It has felt that such statements contravened \nthe fundamental conception of truth. This sameness \nmay be found in relation and function, if nowhere \nelse. What is identical in bodies of similar nature \nis their place in the great organism. The relation \nwhich the position of one of the hands of a man \nin respect to his body bears to that of the other, is \nthat of similarity. Their functions are identical, for \nthe body is one, and the function of ministering to \nits needs is one and identical. So. the function of \neach member of a class of bodies, so far as filling out \nthe one grand organism is concerned, is identical with \nthat of every other member of the same class ; how- \never much the relation of this individual member to \nthe organic completion of its own class may be dif- \nferent from that of any other. These examples may \nserve to illustrate the light which the fundamental \nproposition of the reason, rightly understood, sheds \nupon the obscure questions of metaphysics. \n\nBesides the power of the reason to affirm truth in \nadvance of the testimony of the senses, and the gen- \neralizations of the understanding, it has another and \nstronger power. It affirms its own intuition in oppo- \nsition to the testimony of the senses. In other words, \nin opposition to what is, it affirms what ought to be. \nIn opposition to what the senses affirm to be true, it \nmaintains an ideal truth. We sa}\' of a bad man, that \nhe is not a true man. We do not mean by this, that \nbad traits are so exceptional to good traits, that they \nare opposed to our generic definition of man ; but \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO GOODNESS. 143 \n\nthat we recognize in the good traits what ought to be \npossessed by all men. We stand thus, not as theo- \nrizers, guessing what is ; we stand as lawgivers, \naffirming what ought to be. We stand as judges, \ncondemning or approving. This leads us to the sec- \nond class of the propositions of the reason, namely, \nthose which refer to the Good. \n\nSECOND CLASS OF PROPOSITIONS OF THE REASON. \xe2\x80\x94 PROPO- \nSITIONS OF THE GOOD. \n\nPropositions by which we affirm the presence or \nabsence of goodness imply a gulf which separates, or \nmay separate, that which is from that which should \nbe. They imply either a voluntary neglect of the \ntrue being, or a voluntary acceptance of it. These \npropositions have to do, evidently, with voluntary \nagents. In them alone can material for blame or \npraise be found, for they alone have the power to \naccept or reject this true nature. \n\nThe question which here meets us is, What is the \nbasis of these propositions? The answer is, They rest \nupon one of the fundamental instincts of our nature, \nan instinct of action answering to the impulse of \ngrowth in a plant. The plant has its appointed form \nimprinted upon its germ, so that it cannot swerve \nfrom it, except under the pressure of outward cir- \ncumstances. Man has, in like manner, the imprint \nof his destiny within him, only with him it is a mat- \nter of choice whether he will accept it or not. Sin, \nevil, these are the unnatural, and as such excite a \ncertain horror. The impulse to good is the true ira- \n\n\n\n144 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\npulse of our nature, aud hence the joy we feel in \nyielding ourselves to it. This description is, how- \never, merely formal. We must now seek more di- \nrectly the nature of this instinct, by which it is \nrelated to the instinct of belief, so that the propo- \nsitions of truth and goodness belong to the same sys- \ntem. \n\nThe conception of truth implies that of the organic \nunity of all things. The instinct of belief is the un- \ndeveloped form of this. The moral sense, so far as \nour duties to the world about us are concerned, rests \nupon the recognition of this community between our \nown natures and the nature outside of us. Our du- \nties to our fellow-men rest upon the recognition that \ntheir natures are manifestations of the same general \nlife which fills out our own, as the different leaves on \na tree are all filled by the same life ; that this life \nis in them subject to the same conditions as it is in us ; \nthat it has the same needs and the same rights. The \ngood man thus rejoices in the happiness of another \nas in that of another self; while the selfish man fails \nto recognize this community, and rejoices only in \nhis own joys, and sorrows only in his private sor- \nrows. This philosophical principle, first distinctly \nenounced by Schopenhauer, is the explanation of \nour moral relations towards our fellow-men. \n\nThe facts of history fall in with this view. So far \nas men recognize in others a common origin and a \ncommon nature, so far do they extend to them the \nkindly offices of love, generosity, and fellowship. \nWe see this illustrated in the histor}^ of ancient \nGreece. The various families and clans had each a \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO GOODNESS. 145 \n\ndistinct, divine origin. Individuals belonging to one \nwere bound together by special ties of good feeling. \nThese ties were somewhat weaker in regard to others \nof a different family, although this may have been \nalso divine ; while those outside of the limits of the \nconnected families that made the nation were con- \nsidered barbarians, without claim to the kind offices \nof life. It is remarked by Grote, that a suppliant \nobtained the right to kind offices and protection, by \nidentifying himself with the family from whom he \nsought help. He sat in the ashes of the hearth, or \notherwise made himself a sharer in the most sacred \nrelations of home. The mediseval church believed \nitself full of the spirit of God. This was its life. It \ncould see no reflection of this life outside of itself. \nThus it felt no obligation, not even that of truth, \ntowards infidels and heretics. In modern times, the \noppression of the negro was felt to be unjustifiable, \nexcept on the assumption that he belonged to a dis- \ntinct race, that he was not strictly human. The \nChristian doctrine of the common fatherhood of God, \nand the common brotherhood of man, places morality \non the broadest basis, and prepares the way for that \nuniversal philanthropy in which each sees himself in \nall. The individual thus sees himself in other indi- \nviduals of the same race. He feels that he has moral \nduties towards the lower animals, just so far as he \nperceives in them a life akin to his own, that has, like \nhis, its sufferings and joys. He cannot, indeed, see \nhimself reflected from the inanimate objects about \nhim, so as to be impelled to kindly offices towards \nthem, such as he would demand for himself. The \n10 \n\n\n\n146 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nfaith, however, in the oneness of the world, demands \ns^omething akin to this. What he cannot do in re- \nspect to each he can in respect to all. Thus the \nnature which fails to find its conscious kindred in \nthe separate objects of the world finds it in the \nPower which is within and behind all ; and, itself a \nspirit, feels itself in relation and contact with the \nInfinite Spirit in whose life it lives. \n\nWe find thus the basis of the moral relations \nbetween man and man, and between man and God. \nHe who violates these is either unconscious of them, \nor else he feels himself, by the violation, shut out \nfrom this common relationship, v/hich springs from \na common life. This feeling of severed connection, \nof isolation, unnatural exclusion, and banishment, is \nthe punishment of injustice and wrong, so far as the \nmoral sense is concerned, and the fear of it is \nthe dread which works wnth the positive element \nbefore referred to, to enforce compliance with the \ndictates of the moral sense. In all this, uothins: has \nbeen assumed or invented. The moral sense itself \nhas only been reduced to its simplest form. \n\nThere yet remains, however, the virtue of in- \ntegrit}^ which, standing by itself, has been found \nmore difficult to bring under any common system. \nIntegrity may be defended on the ground of utility \nindeed, yet it is not practised on that ground. We \nfeel that we owe the truth to others, but yet more \nthat we owe it to ourselves. Integrity has, indeed, \na comparatively, though not an absolutely, distinct \nbasis. In other words, it branches ofi" very low \ndown from the common trunk. It is simply the \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN PvEGAED TO GOODNESS. 147 \n\nobverse of the good faith which we found to under- \nlie, and to be involved in, all our natural instincts \nThe instinct of acting in good faith is inseparable \nfrom even the unconscious expectation of good faith \nin the world. Thus the principle of integrity is \nbound up with the very first activities of the \nnature. \n\nAfter this presentation of the true theory of the \nbasis of morality, we will now notice, very briefly, \ncertain false theories, in order to show their falsity, \nand then will return to the principle first enunciated, \nand illustrate its truth and its application. \n\nThe fiiult with most theories of goodness is, that \nthey fail to reach the true and distinctive basis of it. \nThus it is maintained that it is the command of God, \nwhich determines what is good and what is not. But \nthis assumption defeats itself. It seeks to exalt God, \nbut takes away the basis of this exaltation. If we \nare to love God because he is good, then it must be \nbecause he wills that which is good. If the simple \nwill of God created goodness, then there would be \nno moral perfection in him. But, in the second \nplace, this assumption does not meet the necessity \nof the case. It implies that I must submit to God, \neither on account of his omnipotence because I \nmust ; or else because, he being the Creator, it is \nright to submit to him. But submitting to a con- \ntrolling force is very difierent from submitting to \na moral law. A man often submits to force, while \nhis moral nature protests against it. And if it be \nmaintained on the other hand that the will of God \nmakes right, because it is right that we should obey \n\n\n\n148 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe Creator, this presupposes a priDciple of right, \nupon which our obedience is based. \n\nThis theory is, however, little maintained at pres- \nent, at least by thinkers. It is more common to base \nthe moral law upon its utility to the community, or \nto the individual. If it be maintained, as it may \nvery properly be, that an action is right because it \nconduces to the common good, we are obliged to take \na step further, and ask why am I obliged to seek \nthe common good. Here we need the moral law as \nmuch as in the action itself. To escape this difficulty \nrecourse is had to my gain from the common good. \nI am a member of society. Whatever injures society \ninjures me. It is wrong for me to lie, or I feel it to \nbe so, because lying, if generally adopted, would \nstrike at the very basis of every community, and I \nshould suffer with the rest. But this would not fur- \nnish any sufficient basis for morality. You tell me \nI must not lie, because if everybody should lie I \nshould suffer. You might as well tell me not to go \nover a bridge, because if everybody should go over \nat once the bridge would break, or some would be \ncrowded off, \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps even mj^self ; or that I \nmust not drink of a fountain, because if everybody \nshould drink it would become muddy. I have not \nnoticed that general disposition to cross this partic- \nular bridge, or to drink of this particular fountain, \nthat should lead me to shun either of them. So I \nhave not noticed such a general disposition to lie as \nis implied in the prohibition, nor do I know how an \nundiscovered falsehood of mine should have any in- \nfluence to produce this disposition. In a word, if \n\n\n\nPEOPOSITIONS m REGAED TO GOODNESS. 149 \n\nundiscovered, as I suppose the lie would be, it can \nhave no effect upon the morals of society, while the \npresent gain to myself from the falsehood seems cer- \ntain. It is only a principle of honor that should lead \nme to refrain from what I would not have another \ndo. It is the principle of doing as I would be done \nby, and this involves, and thus can in no way super- \nsede, the moral sense. \n\nAnother method is, to account for the moral feel- \nings by education, according to the circumstances \nunder which it must necessarily be conducted. The \nchild is born into a world in which it finds itself at \nonce dependent upon others. These others, or, in \nother words, society will, at once, impress upon it \nthose principles which are most convenient and es- \nsential to itself. Society, being a property holder, \nwould impress upon it a regard for the rights of \nproperty. Society, depending upon the truthfulness \nof its members, would at once impress upon this \nnew-comer the duty of truthfulness. The power of \neducation is known so well that it need not be in- \nsisted upon here. This principle would account, in \na large measure, for the different degree of moral \nculture in different places and times. Many of the \nhistorical facts referred to in illustration of the prin- \nciple laid down as the true one could be explained \nequally well by this hypothesis. The more the \ninterest of one community is separate from that of \nothers, the less would its common spirit impress \nupon the new-comer regard for the rights of these \nothers. This would account for the old method, \nunfortunately not yet altogether obsolete, of treating \n\n\n\n150 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nforeigners as barbarians. As nations become more \nconnected, the common necessities of all will mould \nthe education of each, while those outside of this \ncommon bond will still be treated as barbarians ; that \nis, the new-comer will not be taught to pay the same \nregard to them as to those of other nations. The \nfortunes of the Indian or the negro in our own land, \nthe conduct of England in India and China, will \nillustrate this. \n\nIn fact, so very plausible is this theory, that we \nshould be obliged to admit its force as unan- \nswerable were it not for two considerations. The \nfirst of these is the pangs of conscience which \nfollow the violations of commands held to be based \nupon the moral law, whether they have any real con- \nnection with it or not. No other teaching or habit \nexcites a similar feeling when broken. There most, \nthen, be some distinctive element which we call that \nof the moral principle. The second consideration is, \nthat the instances of moral heroism, which we most \nhonor, are those which transcend, perhaps even \nofiend, public sentiment. \n\nWe have thus considered those theories of the \nmoral law which base it upon the abstract, arbitrary, \nand absolute will of God, or upon the selfish interest \nof men. We have now to consider that theory which \nsupposes the moral law to be written upon the heart \nof each individual. This is partially, and only par- \ntially, true. What is there is only a principle of \naction or of judgment. It does not tell what acts are \ngood and what are evil until it knows what will be \nthe history and effects of these ;.eti( ns, It would not \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO GOODNESS. 151 \n\nbe wrong for me to strike another, unless I knew \nthat the blow would give pain. \n\nIn our search for the basis upon which the propo- \nsitions affirming moral decisions rest, we have thu? \nreached a twofold foundation ; one, the moral instinct \nwhich impels us to a certain end, namely, to seek the \ngood of others as if it was our own ; the other, expe- \nrience, which tells us what acts tend towards this \nend. \n\nIt is not the purpose of this discussion to teach a \nsj\'^stem of moral science, but only its basis, and, in \nconnection with what will follow in another place, \nthe logic which should control the formation of moral \nscience. For this end, it will be sufficient to look for \na moment at the general relation in which we stand \nwith our fellow-men. This relation is twofold, \nnamely, of attraction and repulsion. The element \nof attraction we call love ; that of repulsion consti- \ntutes the element of individuality. The attraction is \nthe impulse of the reason, which feels the fundamen- \ntal unity of all life. The repulsion corresponds with \nthe understanding, which separates one life from all \nothers. This twofold instinct teaches us to seek the \ngood of others, and to leave them their freedom. \nExperience alone can teach us what is for their good, \nand how much freedom may be allowed to each, and \nat the same time the freedom of all be preserved. \nThis is sufficient here to show us how instinct and \nexperience are blended in moral science. After I \nhave found what class of acts is conformable to this \ninstinct, then I can enlarge this class without refer- \nence to this instinct. Here all those systems which \n\n\n\n152 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nare based upon utility have their place. We may \nillustrate this by an example taken from another \nsphere of thought. In the science of music, it is the \near that determines originally what sounds are har- \nmonious. The understanding, by its analysis, dis- \ncerns what relation is essential to this harmony. \nWhen this is discovered, a musical system may be \nconstructed without the aid of hearing. From this \nwe may understand more clearly the twofold founda- \ntion of a complete system of moral science. The \nnature of this science will be considered more prop- \nerly in another place. \n\nThe primary moral instinct is twofold. First, it \nis an impulse, and, secondly, it is a judgment. A \ntrue nature rejoices at the perfection of another na- \nture. In part, this rejoicing takes the form of appro- \nbation, but there remains an element which is present \nin the contemplation of all perfection, whether moral \nor otherwise. Man is so much a part of the universe, \nthat he cannot help rejoicing in all its varied perfec- \ntions. As he rejoices in seeing human nature reach \nits ideal, that is, to see the idea of human nature \nperfectly manifested, so he also rejoices at every real- \nization of every true ideal. That is, throughout \nnature, he rejoices to see the idea, which controls and \nstrives to manifest itself, wholly triumphant. As there \nis the consciousness of freedom in the soul, when \nits bondage is broken and it has reached its ideal \nform, so there is a similar, though unconscious, free- \ndom, in every triumph of the controlling idea through- \nout nature. This free idealization of the real, or this \nfree realization of the ideal, we call Beauty. As truth \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO BEAUTT. 153 \n\nrepresents to us the abstract existence of things, and \nas goodness represents to us the struggle of the spir- \nitual world to become what it should, or its volun- \ntary assumption of its true nature, so beauty gives \nus this true nature with no mark of struggle or sepa- \nration. We rejoice only in this complete perfection. \nWe have, then, finally, in considering the propositions \nof the reason, to seek a basis for those by which we \naffirm that some objects are beautiful. \n\nTHIRD CLASS OF PROPOSITIONS OF THE REASON. \xe2\x80\x94 PROPO- \nSITIONS OF BEAUTT. \n\nThe basis of propositions by which we affirm some \nobjects to be beautiful is somewhat similar to that of \nthose by which we affirm some actions to be good. \nThey differ, however, both in the qualitative nature \nof the judgment, and in the extent over which it may \nbe applied. The distinction between the moral and \nthe aesthetic judgments is a matter of consciousness. \nThe different circumstances in which they are applied \nis a matter of observation. The moral judgment \nextends to moral agents alone ; the aesthetic judgment \nis not confined to the limits of any class. The \nmoral judgment involves, as we have seen, the notion \nof obligation under pain of exclusion from the com- \nmon life. The aesthetic judgment recognizes the free \nplay, the uncontrolled spontaneity of the result which \nit contemplates. The moral sense is based upon the \nmore or less clear recognition of our own nature in \nothers, and urges us to live for them as for other selves. \nThe aasthetic sense is based upon a vague feeling \nof the oneness between our own nature and that \n\n\n\n154 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof the outward world. It docs not necessarily rise \nto the height of religious faith, to the perception \nof a conscious spirit in and through all things, though \nit may do this. More generally it consists in a sense \nof companionship in the outer world, and a sympa- \nthetic enjoyment of its perfection. The interpreters \nof the aesthetic sense are the poets ; and it is remark- \nable that the most philosophical and the most passion- \nate of our modern poets unite in the explanation of \nthe sense of beauty which I have just given. Emer- \nson, who, if he had written with a more equal hand, \nwould have ranked with the highest of our later \npoets, who unites in a marvellous manner the mystical \nobscurity of the East, with the proverbial* simplicity \nof the West, a mingling of Hafiz and Franklin, \nwrites, in his ode to Beauty : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Is it that my opulent soul \nWas mingled from the generous whole; \nSea-valleys and the deep of skies \nFurnished several supplies ; \nAnd the sands whereof I\'m made \nDraw me to them, self-betrayed?" \n\nAnd Byron, in whom the passionate sense of \nbeauty could hardly be expected to define, or account \nfor itself, yet, by the very power of this sense, saw \nthe relation between his own nature and that of the \n\n\n\n* Hardly anything could better illustrate the truth to nature, of the po- \nems of Emerson, than the fact that they are so largely quoted by TjTidaUin \nhis wonderful book on the Glaciers. AVhile litterateurs found in these poems \nonly subjects for derision, the naturalist found in them more truth and \nbeauty than ii any others. \n\n\n\nPEOPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO BEAUTY. 155 \n\noutward world, on which the feeling of beauty de- \npends, and uttered with a na\'iVe simplicity a truth \nwhich philosophy could only reach by difficult \nthought. Thus, he exclaims : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part \nOf me, and of my soul, as I of them?" \n\nWordsworth, who, to a sense of beauty as vivid \nas that of Byron, added a calm and religious con- \ntemplation, after having felt the wild rapture of \nthat kinship to nature of which Byron sings, grew at \nlast to a loftier and purer comprehension of what \nbeauty in its widest relation actually is. Or, to \nspeak more accurately, while Byron passionately, and \nEmerson reflectively, utter the secret of beauty, \ntaken by itself, Wordsworth shows \'what it is in con- \nnection with a lofty religious faith. Thus he writes : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n*\' I have felt \nA presence that disturbs me with the joy \nOf elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime \nOf something far more deeply interfused, \nWhose dwelling is the light of setting suns, \nAnd the round ocean, and the living air, \nAnd the blue sky, and in the mind of man; \nA motion and a spirit, that impels \nAll thinking things, all objects of all thought, \nAnd rolls through all things. Therefore am I still \nA lover of the meadows and the woods \nAnd mountains ; " \n\nSuch is the explanation that Wordsworth gives of \nhis love of beauty, after the first fiery passion of his \nsoul had passed away. The enjoyment which he felt \n\n\n\n156 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nin these more quiet years was not a contradiction of \nthat experienced in the days of which he exclaims : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" The sounding cataract \nHaunted me like a passion." \n\nThe " dizzy raptures " of the earlier times were \nthe enjoyment of beauty by itself. The calmer hap- \npiness of the later years was the coalescence of the \naesthetic with the religious sense, in which each lost \nnothing, but each gained completeness. Neither sur- \nrendered anything to the other ; each found itself in \nthe other. I will thus content myself, in this case, with \nthe testimony of the poets, as, in some former cases, \nwith the testimony of language ; poetry and language \nbeing each the simple expression, we might say the \nautograph, the one of the conception, the other of the \nsesthetic faculty. \n\nBut though the sense of the community of our own \nnature with that of the outward world is the basis \nof our sense of beauty by itself, it does not consti- \ntute the highest form of this. All mystics live in \nthis sense of the oneness of all things. They find, \nvaguely or distinctly, companionship everywhere. \nThe poetry and art of the Brahmins was a wild revel \nof mysticism. The same life was felt to be pervad- \ning all forms, and through this presence all were \nequal ; yet we should not select these works as exam- \nples of beauty. As the ear may be too morbidly \nsensitive to sound to distinguish and enjoy music, so \nthis mystic sense of the one presence in all things, of \nthe identity of the inner and outer, may have such \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO BEAUTY, 157 \n\nmorbid strength as to destroy the distinctions which \nare also requisite for beauty. The sense of beauty \nrecognizes and enjoys, not everything, but the per- \nfection of everything. This may be explained in \neither or both of two ways. It may be said, first, \nthat in this perfection do we first come in contact \nwith the reality of nature. Why should I enjoy all \nsound? Only in music do I come in contact with \nsound in its true nature and essence. In that, first, \ndo I feel the presence and power of that outer real- \nity, the expression of which sound is. Thus, in all \nbeauty do we first hear the voice and see the linea- \nments of nature as she is, and recognize the life that \nis akin to our own. Or, it may be said, secondly, \nthat, owing to our sympathy with the outward world, \nwe rejoice in its freedom as if in our own ; and the \nperfection of anything is its freedom. Probably \nthese two facts together form the basis of our enjoy- \nment of outward beauty, as it is controlled by the \npresence of what is called taste. It is taste which \ndiscerns this perfection, taste being the union of the \ndiscriminating power of the understanding with the \nintuitions of the reason. Thus the propositions of \nbeauty involve the culmination of the intuitions of \nthe reason, modified, as these intuitions should always \nbe, by the discriminations of the understanding. If \nit be aflirmed that the explanation of the sense of \nbeauty just given is too mystical, I answer, that the \nhard, prosaic mind, that is, the understanding by it- \nself, can make nothing of beauty and seems to have no \nsense for it ; therefore, we should expect that the basis \n\n\n\n\'5S TH2 SGIEITOE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof tlie enjoyment of beauty should lie outside the \n\'imits of the understanding. \n\nWe may illustrate this whole matter by the fac< \nthat the sense of beauty often becomes weaker in the \nraore mature years of life. The more the understand- \n."jg develops, and believes in, its sharp antitheses, \nmd the longer and the more closely the mind is \nibsorbed in personal cares and occupations, the more \ndoes life become a unit, cut off from the life about \n\'t. In youth this individuality is less tixed. The \nlife of youth, fresh from the common fountain of life, \nits limits not yet sharply marked by the understand- \ning, nor hardened by separate aims and personal \n!;ares, feels the community that there is between it- \nself and the life about it. Youth is thus the age of \nabandon. It is the period of generous impulses \nand of self-forgetfulness. It forgets itself in the po- \n\xc2\xab,tic passion of love, \xe2\x80\x94 a passion which is rather of \nthe soul than of the senses. It forgets itself in na- \nture. In forest, stream, mountain, and sky, it finds \nits other self, its completed being. The peace, the \nsublime repose, the unfettered freedom, which it \nlacks, it finds in them. In them, indeed, it finds its \nown moods and passions, but they are calmed and \ntransfigured before it. It finds sympathy, but it is a \nsympathy that leads it out of itself. Thus it is \ndrawn to them by a passion like that of love. This \nsense of the community of life is the " vision splen- \ndid " by which, according to the magnificent ode of \nWordsworth, youth is " on its way attended." As the \nunderstanding grows sharp in its discriminations, and \npreponderates over the intuitions of the reason, the \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN EEGARD TO BEAUTY. 159 \n\nmind loses this consciousness of this relationship to \nthe outward world, of which it can find no justifica- \ntion or explanation. The sense of personality, as it \npreponderates over the sense of unpersonal life, takes \naway more and more the possibility of this conscious- \nness. Thus the man perceives this vision \n\n\n\n"die away \nAnd fade into the light of common day." \n\n\n\nIn this aspect, the life of the poet and artist, as \nwell as that of many a childlike man and woman, \ngifted with insight though not with utterance, is a \nperpetual youth. Thus, also, the best age of Greece \nrepresents the youth of the world, \xe2\x80\x94 behind it, child- \nishness ; before it, the maturity of self-poised, self- \nconscious, and self-limited manhood. To sum up \nour result in general terms, I should say that the \npropositions of beauty do not affirm merely abstract \nbeing, like the propositions of truth. They do not \nrecognize an actual or possible divergence between \nwhat is and what should be, like the propositions of \ngoodness. They recognize the free and perfect man- \nifestation of that force which constitutes the nature \nof each object, and by which it is kindred to all other \nobjects. In other words, it is the idealization of the \nactual, the triumph of the idea which forms the sub- \nstance of each thing, or of all things. \n\nWe must now illustrate the view just presented, \nby a glance at the\' various spheres of beauty. I re- \ngret that the survey must be very brief, merely suffi- \ncient to show the objective basis on which these prop- \n\n\n\n160 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nositions rest, and their relation to the other proposi- \ntions of the reason. \n\nThe lowest manifestation of beauty is found in the \nmelodious and harmonious arrangement of sounds, \nand what is akin to this in the relations of colors and \nforms. We here see what is meant by the expres- \nsion just used, the free idealization of the actual. \nSounds, as they are uttered at random, are subjected \nto the conditions of the material objects by which \nthey are caused. A musical sound is a pure sound. \nIt is the result of a succession of undulations of equal \nlength. A mere unmusical noise is an impure sound. \nIt consists of musical undulations thrown together at \nrandom. It is no sound, properly so called. It is \na confused sequence of broken sounds. Harmonious \nsounds are those, the length of whose undulations \nhave a certain correspondence, so that the waves of \nthe one do not break up, but fall in with, the waves \nof the other. Harmonious sounds thus conform to \nthe principles of sound itself, and are independent \nof other conditions. Music is a stripping away from \nsound all foreign, restraining, modifying influences, \nand suflering the sounds to group themselves according \nto their own law. Our own natures are so in har- \nmony with the outward world, that we rejoice in this \nfree play and natural combination of sounds, as if we, \nalso, were made free by it. Or, as above intimated, \nin melody and in harmony do we first meet pure sound, \nthat is, sound as such. \n\nWhat is true of sounds is also true of colors, and \nother specialities of the different senses. Had we space \nit would be interestiug to see how, throughout nature- \n\n\n\nPEOPOSITIONS IN EEGARt? TO BEAUTY. 161 \n\nthis free naturalness, or harmony, is constantly strug- \ngling to manifest itself; in other words, how natu- \nrally sounds and colors flow into this harmonious \nrelation. We have now only to contemplate the rec- \nognition of this result by the reason. \n, Mere sounds and colors are in themselves, how- \never complete and harmonious, merely the form for \nthe expression of a higher beauty. Harmonious \nsounds are ideal sounds, that is, they exhibit the nat- \nural relation of sound. There are, however, higher \nideals, which are to realize themselves. Passing over \nlower forms, we shall find a good illustration in that \nof life. A living object is beautiful, first, so far as \nit is the free manifestation of life ; and, secondly, so \nfar as, at the same time, it makes use of the harmo- \nnies of form and color. What makes some living \ncreatures appear ugly and deformed is that the free \nplay of life seems obstructed in them. Life, being a \nprinciple of unity, seeks unity of form, ease of mo- \ntion, correspondence of parts. The more variety of \npart, other things being equal, the greater is the tri- \numph of this principle of life. Any creature which \nis clumsy or misshapen, in which the different ele- \nments are without subordination, or in which they \nare unduly separated from one another, excites vari- \nous degrees of disapprobation. In the human form, \nthe ideal of life is fully realized, first, on account \nof the harmony of the parts ; secondly, because \nthe mask of concealing fur, in which the lower ani- \nmals are wrapped, is cast aside, so that the free play \nof life is unconcealed ; and, thirdly, because the \nposition of man, being more opposed to the mechau- \n11 \n\n\n\n162 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nical tendencies of bodies than that of the lower ani- \nmals, every motion requires and displa3^s the pres\xc2\xab \neuce and power of life. But every human form is, \nin some way or other, imperfect. It is to art, then, \nthat we look for the full exhibition and idealization \nof life and its forms. \n\nIn man life has reached the higher form of life \nand sentiment. We have now an ideal which is con- \nscious of itself, and in the realm of art we have a \nhigher object than the mere manifestation of life, \nnamely, the embodiment of the highest thought and \nidea of man. The race seeks to make its ideal real \nbefore it. This ideal, or highest thought, will vary \nwith changing times. The race being a whole, its \nprogress being a growth, the highest thought of \nevery age will exhibit the point reached during that \nage, and when compared and brought together with \nthe highest ideal of other times, will, with them, form a \nwhole, as complete as the history of the race. Art \nis the embodiment of this ideal ; consequently in the \nstudy of aesthetics we have an element introduced which \ndid not meet us while speaking of the moral princi- \nple, namely, that of historical succession. The mor- \nals, so far as they are complete, have no dependence \nupon the past. What is right at one time is always \nright, and is complete in itself. Duties vary, it is \ntrue, with changing circumstances ; but the principle \nremains the same, and the duty of to-day is complete \nwithout that of yesterday. It is not so in art. Art \nis a historical development, the products of which \nare enduring, and are necessary to make the whole \ncomplete. The noble deeds of antiquity are re-* \n\n\n\nPROPOSITIONS IN REGARD TO BEAUTT. 163 \n\npeated, when there is call for them in our own age ; \nbut the time is gone when the Iliad could be writ- \nten, or the dramas of vEschylus and of Sophocles. \nThe time is passed when the Apollo of the Belvi- \ndere could be wrought in enduring marble, when the \nMadonnas of Raphael, or his Transfiguration, could \nbe painted ; and the gorgeous cathedrals of the mid- \ndle age were the growth of a time that is gone by. \nYet we need all of these, we need even the symbolic \ncreations of far earlier times, we need the Sphinx \nand the Pyramids, to give us the whole of artistic \nbeauty, \xe2\x80\x94 a whole in which all the parts have the \nclosest relation to one another, and to that future \nart, which will do its portion towards the comple- \ntion of the great whole. \n\nIf the various products of human art together \nmake up the completeness of artistic beauty, what \nmust be the beauty of that great whole which includes \nthe universe ! This, we must believe, is the outgrowth \nof one vast idea, one perfect ideal. Observation, \nscience, intuition, reveal to us more and more of this \ncompleteness. It involves all the relations of worlds, \nof life, and of histories. This grand idea, which \nseems to us to be infinite, revealing itself in the \nstructure and progress of the whole of creation, is \nthe perfect beauty, of which what we discern is but \na minute part. But still the thought of what beauty \nis, in its completeness, reveals to us something of the \nnature of beauty wherever it is found. It is the per- \nfect manifestation in any object, or group of objects, \nof that idea which forms their life and being, and \n\n\n\n164 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwhich is only a fragment of that infinite idea of which \nthe universe is the embodiment. \n\n0. \xe2\x80\x94 MEDIATED PEOPOSITIONS. \n\nWe have thus passed in review the various forma \nof propositions, with the bases upon which they rest. \nThe three bases, so far as our mind is concerned, are \nthe perception, the understanding, and the reason. \nThe examination has shown how distinct these are. \nBut while it has shown their distinctness, it has also \nshown their dependence upon one another. There \ncould not be a proposition, even of perception, without \nthe help of the analyzing and dividing understanding, \ntosrether with the faith of the reason. There could \nbe no proposition of the understanding, which would \namount to anything more than a generalization of \nparticular phenomena, of all of which the senses had \ntaken cognizance, without the aid of the reason, \nwhich gives authority for the enlargement of these \ngeneralizations into inductions. And the proposi- \ntions of the reason, even if they could be formulated, \nwould be abstract and barren, without the aid of the \nunderstanding. Besides this general relation, there \nis a special one between the propositions of each \nclass among themselves. Nearly all propositions of \nthe understanding involve previous propositions. \nThus we reach the idea of mediated propositions. \nIf I look at the flowing tide, and say, This move- \nment of the water is caused by the moon, the \nproposition would be without force, unless I could \ngive a reason for it, or unless my reputation for sci(\xc2\xbbn-- \n\n\n\nMEDIATED PROPOSITIONS. 165 \n\ntific knowledge would give authority to my state- \nment. In this last case it would still be supported \nby some mediation. The listener would repeat it, \nsaying, It is so, for I heard a man assert it who \nknows all about such things. If I were appealed \nto, to support the statement, I should be obliged, \nmyself, to put it into the form of a mediated propo- \nsition. The movement of this water, I should say, \nis caused by the moon, because it is the tide, and tides \nare produced by the moon. If I were still further \nquestioned in regard to this last statement, I should \nhave to put that, in turn, into the form of a mediated \nproposition. I should say. We know that tides \nare caused by the moon, because a great many obser- \nvations unite to show that there is this relation be- \ntween the tides and the moon, while theoretical sci- \nence shows that this relation must exist. \n\nThe first proposition \xe2\x80\x94 This movement of the water \nis caused by the moon, because it is a tide, and tides \nare so produced \xe2\x80\x94 gives us the simplest form of this \nmediation. It will be remembered, that the formula \nof a proposition was found to be, with some modifi- \ncations, this : The individual is the universal. Thus, \nin the proposition. This movement is caused by the \nmoon, the movement is the individual object, while \nthe influence of the moon, with its manifold efiects, \nis the universal element. In the mediated proposi- \ntion, the particular was introduced to fill up the gulf \nbetween the individual and the universal, and to bind \nthem together. The particular element in this case \nis the tide. This is a tide, and all tides are caused \nby the moon. Expressed in its fullest and clearest \n\n\n\n166 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nform, it would read thus : All tides are caused by \nthe moon. This is a tide, therefore it is caused by the \nmoon. Thus we find ourselves already having to do \nwith the syllogism. The mediated proposition is \ntechnically called an enthymeme. The syllogism is \nthe developed enthymeme. The enthymeme is the \nabbreviated syllogism. As the real relation of the \nelements of each are the same, I shall sometimes, for \nthe sake of simplicity in discussing the syllogism, use \nthe enthymeme in its place, as is commonly done in \nactual reasoning. \n\n\n\nTHIRD. -PROOF AND SYLLOGISMS. \n\n\n\nIn studying the nature of logical terms, we found \nthat, practically, each term, though called universal, \nor individual, was, in strictness, a mingling of the \ntwo elements. Every term implies a universal idea, \nlimited by a particular or individual use. Thus the \nword hrown may be called a universal, or, more \nstrictly, a particular term, expresshig, as it does, an \nabstract color. Etymologically, however, it contains \nthe general notion of burning, limited to a reference \nto the color produced by burning. For convenience, \nwe will take a term obviously compounded. Logi- \ncally speaking, the words, A happy man, form a single \n\n\n\nNATURE OF THE SYLLOGISM. 167 \n\nterm, as much as the word Wine-glass, or the word \nGlass, itself, which last is merely a modification of a \nmore general term, meaning to flow, its direct refer- \nence being to the melting process by which glass is \nformed. The words, A happy man, then, may con- \nveniently stand as an example of a logical term. The \nproposition separates the elements of these terms ; it \nleaves them standins^ over asfaiust one another, thus : \nThe man is happy. It affirms the relation, but leaves \nit as a mere affirmation. The syllogism, introducing \na third term, brings these two elements together into \na closer union than before. It changes affirmation \ninto proof, or at least shows the foundation and neces- \nsity of the relation, as when we say, The man is hap- \npy because he is virtuous. If we represent these \nthree elements, the universal, individual, and partic- \nular, by their initial letters U, I, and P, the formula \nfor the term, the proposition, and the syllogism may \nbe thus written : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTerm, I U. \nProposition, I\xe2\x80\x94 TJ \nSyllogism, I P U. \n\nThis last formula needs further analysis and expla- \nnation. Changing our example for another, we will \ntake this, which has often done service as a model \nsyllogism: All men are mortal. John is man ; there- \nfore John is mortal. Here the universal term, mor- \ntal, and the individual term, John, are brought to- \ngether, by means of the common particular term, \nman, as in the formula above written, I P U. \nThese letters, it will be seen, may stand in three \n\n\n\n168 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nrelations to one another. Each one may in turn serve \nas the middle and uniting element. Thus we may \nhave : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI P U, P I U, and I U P. These represent the \nthree forms of the syllogism. In the first the par- \nticular, in the second the individual, and in the third \nthe universal, serves as the uniting element. We \nthus see that there must be three forms, and three \nonly, of the syllogism. We see further, that the \nrelations of these forms to one another is organic. \nAn examination will show that each has its own \nplace and office. The two last are not merely to be \nchanged to the first. They are as essential as the \nfirst. We took, as an example of the first form, this \nsyllogism : All men are mortal. John is man ; \ntherefore John is mortal. The result is obvious and \ncertain, if we are sure of our premises ; but the ques- \ntion remains, how can we be sure of these? The \nfirst premise is, that all men are mortal. How do we \nknow this, and how can we prove it ? Only, certainly, \nby reference to individuals. Every man, of whom \nwe know anything, has died before he has reached a \ncertain limit. Thus, the particular term, men, and \nthe universal term, mortal, are brought together only \nby a series of individual terms. The second prem- \nise, John is man, requires similar proof. How do \nwe know that John is man ? Only by bringing to- \ngether the universal qualities that belong to humanity, \nand showing that John possesses these. John is \nman, because he has reason, etc. Thus are the indi- \nvidual and the particular united by the universal, in \nthe third form of the syllogism. The first form of \n\n\n\nFBRST FORM OF SYLLOGISM. 169 \n\nthe syllogism represents the process of deduction, \nthe second that of induction, and the third I will \ncall identification. These three together form a \ntriple cord, which cannot be broken, and each is \nneeded to complete this cord. We shall proceed \nto consider each somewhat more in detail. It will \nbe noticed that, in accordance with the arrange- \nment of Hegel, the second form of Aristotle is here \ncalled the third, and the third takes the place of the \nsecond. The organic relation of the three requires \nthis. As the forms of the syllogism were left by \nAristotle, they stood in no vital connection. Their \norder was therefore of no importance. \n\nriEST FORM OF SYLLOGISM. \nDEDUCTION. \n\nMathematical reasoning is sometimes supposed to \nbelong in a special manner to the field of deduction. \nIndeed, mathematics is sometimes regarded as the \nonly true example of deductive reasoning. This idea \nis referred to here, only that it may be removed from \nour path. The truth is, that although deduction \nplays an important part in mathematical processes, \nmathematics, as such, has no special connection with \nthis form of reasoning. What is peculiar to mathe- \nmatics is not reasoning at all, but a perception of \nequality and difierence. The equation is the formula \nof mathematics from beginning to end. The error \nof including it under the head of deduction is similar \nto that by which Sir William Hamilton maintains \nthat the only true induction results from a study of \n\n\n\n170 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nall the iDdiviclual examples iucluclecl in the generali- \nzation. This is not reasoning at all. If I say 1 \nhave examined thirty specimens of a certain snb- \nstauce, and these have all certain ingredients, this is \nnot reasoning. It is only a summing up of a certain \nnumber of instances. The result is not an induction, \nit is an equation. The equation belongs to mathe- \nmatics, and by itself has to do neither with induc- \ntion nor with deduction. Deduction is the passage \nfrom the universal to the individual, by means of the \n.particular. A certain inequality is thus present at \nevery step. \n\nThe formal elements of a deductive syllogism are \nthree propositions. Of these, two are called prem- \nises, and the third is called the conclusion. One of \nthe premises, being in its nature more general than \nthe other members of the syllogism, is called the \nMajor premise. The other, being more limited, is \ncalled the Minor premise, and the third proposition \nis called the Conclusion, and is, at least when com- \npared with the others, an individual proposition. \nThe abstract formula of the deductive s^dlogism is \nthis : The particular is the universal ; the individual \nis the particular, therefore the individual is the uni- \nversal. \n\nWe thus reach the elements which we have before \nseen to be the real and fundamental elements of the \ndeductive syllogism, namely, three terms, the first, \nrelatively a universal, the second a particular, and \nthe third an individual. These three terms are, in- \ndeed, common to all sj\'llogisms, but in deduction the \nuniversal and the individual are the extremes, con- \n\n\n\nDEDUCTION. 171 \n\nnected by the particular, according to the formula \xe2\x80\x94 \nUP I. \n\nDeduction is regarded as the most certain of all \nreasoning. Indeed, if the premises be true, and \ntheir relation to one another be complete, there can \nbe no error. It will be seen at a glance, however, \nthat these ifs are very important. They will show \nus just what we should be on our guard against in \nall cases of deduction, namely, first, that we do not \nreason from false premises : and, secondly, that we \ndo not reason from premises which have no logical \nrelation to one another. To insure the proper rela- \ntion between the two premises, it is enough that one \nbe broader than the other, that the subject of the \nfirst be the predicate of the second, and that this \ncommon term be used in both with the same mean- \ning. If the premises be true, and their relation such \nas has been described, the conclusion will take care \nof itself. There can be no rules for deduction, ex- \ncept those that regard these points, which may be \ncalled preliminary. To give rules for deduction is \nlike givino; rules for firino; a gun. You teach how to \nload the gun, and how to aim it when firing. These \ntwo points are like the premises, and their combina- \ntion in deduction. In firing, the ball will take care \nof itself. If the charge and the aim be right, it will \nhit the mark. This is like the conclusion of a deduc- \ntive syllogism. Take care of the premises, and the \nconclusion will take care of itself. Although the \nprocess of deduction is thus simple, abstractly con- \nsidered, yet it has given rise to much difierence of \nview, and many animated discussions, and is practi- \n\n\n\n172 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncally beset with certain difficulties, to which it is \nnecessary to give some preliminary attention. Espe- \ncially have thinkers differed in regard to the place \nthat should be occupied by deduction. Some have \nheld it to be the only form of reasoning. This was, \nin a special manner, the view of the elder logicians. \nBut its importance, once exaggerated, has been of \nlate underrated. It has been urs^ed asjainst the \ndeductive syllogism, that the first proposition involves \nall the rest, and that thus nothing is gained by the \nprocess. Take, as an example, the common and \ncommonplace illustration often given : All men are \nmortal. John is man; therefore John is mortal. \nNow, it is urged, when in uttering this syllogism I \nsay, All men are mortal, I have already included \nJohn in the statement. It must be admitted, that \nthis objection has a basis of truth. But, first, it \nmust be considered, that deduction is, as has been \nalready stated, only one step in reaching the final \nresult. The two premises have been already estab- \nlished by previous reasoning, according to the meth- \nod of the second and third form of syllogism. It \nwas one of the weaknesses of the old logic that it \nomitted this fact. Placing the first form of the syl- \nlogism alone, except for partial and negative uses, \nand naming it reasoning, it made it appear weak and \nbarren. \n\nBut, in the second place, we must be careful not to \nunderrate the importance of the difficult}\' of bringing \nthe two premises together, and thus making obvious \nthe conclusion that springs from them. The two \npropositions may have existed long in the world, \n\n\n\nDEDUCTION, 173 \n\nframed and recognized, yet it may be only a stroke \nof genius, or accident, that has brought the two \ntogether. Thus it was known that light would pro- \nduce changes of color in certain chemical substances, \naccording to the intensity of the light. Also it was \nknown that every object, the human face, for in- \nstance, radiates from every part light of greater or \nless intensity. In these two propositions, we now \nsee to be involved the whole theory of photography. \nYet for a long time it occurred to no one to bring \nthese two premises together, and reach this conclu- \nsion. So, also, it was long admitted in general that \nmen could look out for their own business better \nthan others could for them ; and, though it was also \nobvious that government is a part of their business, \nyet few, or none, brought the two propositions \ntogether, so as to exhibit the grand result that the \npeople can govern themselves better than others can \ngovern them. The difficulty in these cases, and in \nmultitudes that might be cited, is, that we form a \nhabit of looking at our conceptions in groups, as \nthey are commonly presented to us. Truths that, if \nbrought together, would be seen at once to be the \nmajor and minor premises, from which is evolved \nsome new discovery, being thus bound up each in a \nseparate group, are not seen in their true relation to \neach other. It requires a certain genius to disregard \nthese habitual associations of ideas, and see things in \ntheir purely logical aspect. In the first of the exam- \nples named above, the fact that light would produce \nchanges in the color of certain chemical substances \nwas considered in its relation to other chemical truths. \n\n\n\n174 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe radiation of light from all ])odies was seen in \nrelation "svith optical truths. It nec^ded either a \nlucky chance, or an iutuition of genius, to bring the \ntwo together. It is this fact that makes it so difficult \nin many cases to determine just where to put the \ncredit of a discovery. The truth seems to be in- \nvolved in statements made previous to the discovery. \nWe cannot now see those statements without per- \nceiving them to be the premises containing the whole \nsecret. Tliat is, these truths have now entered into \nnew groups, from which we cannot disentangle them, \nand it is very hard to realize that they did not sug- \ngest, from the beginning, all that they now suggest \nto us. The difficulty referred to, namely, that of \nseparating allied truths from the groups in which \nthey accidentally find themselves, is increased when \nthe prejudices or interests of persons would be \naffected by the change. Here not only the force of \nhabit but these stronger influences oppose the logi- \ncal process. Thought needs a pure medium. Even \na solution of any salt needs quiet and freedom from \noutside influence to deposit perfect crystals. Thought \nis a sort of crystallizing, and any outside and disturb- \ning influence may hinder or prevent it reaching its \nperfect and natural result. This is the reason that \nreligious, moral, and political truth makes such slow \nheadway. So many interests, and so many preju- \ndices make a thick and turbid medium, in which the \nfine elements of thought are hindered from grouping \nthemselves into the logical form, which is their crys- \ntallization. From what has been said, will be seen \nthe futility of objections made against the syllogistic \n\n\n\nDEDUCTION. 175 \n\nformulas, because the starting of each one of them \ncontains already the entire process within itself. It \nshould be remembered that the complete syllogism is \nthe completed argument. The forming syllogism is \nthe forming argument ; and we have shown the \ngenius and the good fortune which are essential to \nthis formation. \n\nThere is another difficulty that is involved in the \npractical use of the syllogism of deduction. It is \nthis : that all general truths, except those that are \nabsolutely abstract, have more than one side. More \nthan one train of reasoning can be evolved from each ; \nand these separate trains are liable to lead to different, \nand even to opposing, results. We have, also, exam- \nples of two truths, each of which is regarded as abso- \nlute, though the}^ may be opposite sides of some one \nmore comprehensive truth. These may give rise to \ndistinct lines of reasoning, each well founded in its \nstarting and guarded in its course, while some of the \nresults of each may be directly opposed to those of \nthe other. This antagonism between the results of \ndifferent lines of thought, each of which is, so far as \ncan be discovered, without flaw, is called an anti- \nnomy. It is not accidental, but is involved in \nthe very nature of deduction. It will continually \nmeet us in our study of the special forms of deduc- \ntion ; therefore, I shall not further explain or illus- \ntrate it here. \n\nWe will now consider the nature of deduction, as \naffected by the nature of the fundamental proposi- \ntion, which may serve as the major premise. This \nproposition may be one of two sorts, namely, prop- \n\n\n\n176 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nositions of the reason, and propositions of the under- \nstanding. The first class of propositions discussed \nabove, namely, propositions of perception, cannot, \nit is easy to see, serve as either major or minor prem- \nise. Propositions of perception * are, by their very \nnature, individual. Not till they have been general- \nized by the understanding are they fitted for the \npurposes of deduction. Besides premises based di- \nrectly upon the reason and upon the understand- \ning, may be reckoned those which derive no perfect \nsupport from either, but a partial support from each. \nBy these are meant hypothetical propositions, which \nhave no certain foundation, but which, if they are \nnot entirely random and foolish, must be based upon \nintimations from these two sources. The hypothesis \nalso forms the natural transition between deduction \nand induction, being an imperfect example of each. \nWe will now consider the nature of deduction based \nupon the propositions of the reason. \n\nA. DEDUCTIONS BASED UPON PROPOSITIONS OF THE \n\nREASON. \n\nIn discussing the propositions of the reason, we \nfound that they consisted of three classes : the first \n\n* In the arrangement of propositions in regard to a single \nobject, the proposition of perception stands as the universal, \nsince it gives the abstract form into which all other knowledge \nin regard to this object is to be introduced. But in reasoning to \nother objects, we can take these separate perceptions only as \nanited in a mass, as in induction. For deduction, we must take, \nas best representing the universal, the broad and all-embracing \nintuitions of the reason, \n\n\n\nTHE LOGIC OF A PEIORI THEOLOGY. 177 \n\nrelating to truth, the second relating to goodness, \nand the third, to beauty. They were based, as we \nfound, on the good faith in which we look upon the \nworld in which we live. We take it for granted, \nthat what surrounds us is real. This reality we find, \nlater, to involve a certain necessary relation be- \ntween all things. The same good faith, which, at the \nstarting-point of reasoning, requires us to believe the \nworld to be real, later, requires us to believe that it is a \nsystematic and organic whole. By our very nature, we \nrecognize a gradation in our estimate of the qualities \nof thino;s. We recognize goodness as the his^hest \nof these qualities, and the same trust and good faith, \nwhich makes us believe the universe to be one organic \nwhole, makes us also believe goodness to be the \nruling power in the universe. We feel that, without \ngoodness, our own life would be a failure, and, in \nlike manner, that, without it, the universe would be \na failure ; but this, the good faith of which we have \nspoken, will not allow us to believe. What is true \nof goodness is also true of beauty. The universe \nis perfect, and beauty is another name for. perfect- \nness. Our developed reason, then, aided, it is true, \nby the inductions of the understanding, yet superior \nto and broader than these, and furnishing their very \nbasis, recognizes truth, goodness, and beauty, as \ntogether the rulers of the world. It affirms absolute \ntruth, absolute goodness, and absolute beauty. There \ncannot be three absolutes, therefore these three, each \ntaken in its completeness, are one. From these \nall begin, and with them all end. This is the a pri- \nori proof, or recognition of God. The universe is \n\n12 \n\n\n\n178 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\none. Goodness is as absolute as truth. This prop- \nosition introduces the moral element into our thought \nof the infinite One. Beauty is absolute as goodness \nand truth. This proposition adds to our thought of \nthe infinite and good One, the brightness of glory. \nTruth, goodness, beauty, these are the beginning; \nthese, also, shall crown the close. The universe \nshall be one whole. Goodness shall have formed all, \nand the whole shall be perfect in beauty. The be- \nginning of rational existence recognizes dimly these \ntruths. The developed reason recognizes them more \nclearly. Our clearest intuitions, in our best mo- \nments, affirm them most certainly. We may argue \nagainst them, but the true mind returns to them \nagain, as we return to our faith in the senses. \n\nIn the reasoning referred to above, each of the \nterms, truth, goodness, and beauty, plays, by turn, \nthe part of the individual, the particular, and the \nuniversal. The syllogism resulting would be after \nthis form : The absolute is the perfect truth ; good- \nness is absolute, therefore goodness is the perfect \ntruth. Thus each, in turn, would be found equiva- \nlent to, and identical with, the other. \n\nThe fallacies in this form of reasoning, from one \nof the propositions of the reason to another, begin, \nwhen, instead of taking them in their broadest sweep, \nwe take them partially, and attempt to prove their \nidentity in their minute elements. This is the com- \nmon method of error in deductive reasoning, and has \ndone much to bring it into disrepute. The difficulty \nof reasoning of this kind is, that we Ml into an \nantinomy, which is, in many cases, theoretically \n\n\n\nTHE LOGIC OF A PRIORI THEOLOGT. 179 \n\ninsoluble. We may, however, make the nature of \nthis difficulty more easily comprehended, perhaps, \nby reference to the fact, that, while a picture may be \nperfectly beautiful, each part of it may not be. Each \npart may be beautiful, only when considered in rela- \ntion to all the rest. So an object, or an event, may \nbe a part of a whole that is absolutely true and \ngood and beautiful, while by itself it may partake \nof only one, or even none, of these qualities; and \nfurther, while truth, goodness, and beauty are iden- \ntical in their absolute extent, yet the divisions of the \ngreat whole may be different as regards each of these \nrelations, so that the divisions of the world in the \nrelation of beauty do not cover those in the relation \nof goodness. We will now take each proposition of \nthe reason, in turn, and show the nature of this error \nin each. \n\nThe absolutely true is the absolutely good and \nbeautiful. From this it does not follow that every- \nthing that is, is good or beautiful. Yet many reason \nin this way. There is a philosophy which recognizes \neverything as good. It sees that goodness crowns \nthe whole, and affirms that, therefore, it is present in \nevery part. It sees neither vice nor crime as really \nevil. Sin is only a necessary step in the soul\'s devel- \nopment. Thus it cannot be hated, or even dreaded. \nA little thought will show that the reasoning is false. \nThe whole may be good, yet a part may be bad. \nThe univeri=?al goodness may display itself in neutral, \nizing the bad, even in drawing ultimate good out ol \nit, and yet the bad may be simply and wholly bad \n\n\n\n180 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe propositions of the intuitive reason furnish no \nground for these partial deductions. \n\nThe same faUacy is found in some theories of beaut}\'. \nBecause the absolutely true, the grand whole, is per- \nfectly beautiful, it does not follow that each thing is \nbeautiful. Yet this fallacy leads many to teach that \nthe artist should be a simple cop3dst from nature. \nWhatever nature does is beautiful. Copy what you \nwill, it is urged, and if the picture is true to nature, \nit has reached the end of art. To see the falseness \nof this, we need only look at any picture. It may \nbe perfectly beautiful as a whole, yet there will be \nmany points in it that have no beauty, \xe2\x80\x94 dark shad- \nows, dull blotches, that help the general effect, yet \nhave no beauty in themselves. So the grandest mu- \nsical compositions have discords, which only make \nthe whole grander and more harmonious. \n\nIf we next start with the second proposition of the \nreason, that which relates to goodness, we shall find \nsimilar Mlacies to be prevalent. Because goodness \nrules the whole, many think that it may be recog- \nnized at every step. Men even sometimes base their \nfaith in providence on such reasoning as this : Such \na thing cannot happen because God is good. If there \nis a good God, that cannot be. After an escape they \nwill say that they knew they should be saved, be- \ncause they had faith in God. Now, we cannot reason \nthus minutely from the infinite goodness. All that \nwe can say is, that all will work out its gooa encla* \nThej3la]ia_ of the infinite goodness are large- -anti- \nbroad, and may include much that is different from \noui: thouohts of what c\'oodness should effect. \n\n\n\n\nTHE LOUIC OF A PRIOKI THEOLOGY. 181 \n\nspite, then, of that faith in the infinite goodness, \nwhich is inherent in the mind of man, we cannot rea- \nson from it to special events, assuming a thing to be \ntrue because it coincides with our notion of ojoodness. \nIt is only that which violates this absolute principle \nthat we can reason upon with certainty. Infinite evil \nis opposed, and must be opposed, to infinite goodness. \nFinite evil admits of being transformed by goodness. \nBut prolong evil to infinitude, and it admits of no \nsuch transformation. It is only by being temporary, \nand thus leaving opportunity for this transformation, \nthat sin and suffering are compatible with the idea of \nthe perfect good. What is true of the universe is \ntrue of our own selves. When the reason of each \naffirms that we live in a world in which, in spite of \nall appearances, the good is supreme, that this abso- \nlute goodness is working its own plans through and \nfor the whole, it affirms that we also are the objects \nand may share the results of this highest law. We \ncannot, as has been seen, argue from this principle to \nthe certainty of finite good fortune, or against the \ncertainty of pieces of finite ill-fortune ; but we can \nargue against the possibility of any event which \nclaims the power to obscure utterly this promise. \nThus men have always, even in the presence of death, \nfelt superior to it. Faith in the goodness that \nwatched over each would not allow the belief of an \nutter exclusion from the fulness of this hope. An- \nnihilation would be such an exclusion and absolute \nfailure. \n\nReasoning from the fundamental proposition of \n/9odness bears the same relation to beauty, that it \n\n\n\n182 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ndoes to truth. Because the absolute good is one \nwith the absolute beauty, it does not follow that finite \ngoodness is always beautiful, or can take the place of \nthe beautiful. The belief that it can do so is the \nfallacy of those who would make morals and religion \nthe entire substance of life, excluding the element of \nbeauty, as if goodness could do its work, or fill its \nplace, or were in any way one with it. This is a \nfallacy which has lost much of its hold upon the \nminds of men ; but there have been times and com- \nmunities whose whole manner of life was aifected by \nit. Our own Puritan Fathers furnish an example, \nthat shows that the fallacy of which we are speaking \nis one that has had influence in the world. Goodness \nwas all the beauty that they recognized, and thus \ntheir goodness, however noble, lacked the charm of \ngrace and freedom. This notion was no less a fal- \nlacy, because, in their case, it was the result of a \nreaction against a depraved popular sentiment that \nmistook beauty for goodness, or which, having beauty, \nwas content to let goodness go. \n\nWe have thus considered the fallacy of reasoning \nfrom the idea of truth or of goodness to either of the \nother ideas of the reason, except where these all \ntouch in their full and unlimited being. The first \nfallacy, that of reasoning from truth to goodness or \nbeauty, is mostly that of philosophers. That of \nreasoning from the idea of goodness to finite truth \nor beauty, is the fallacy for the most part of theolo- \nofians. We now come to the mistake of reasonins^, \nunder the same finite conditions, from beauty to \ntruth or goodness. This is strictly the Mlacy of \n\n\n\nTHE LOGIC OF A PRIORI THEOLOGY. 183 \n\nart, but more generally it is the fallacy of the merely \nworldly life. It is often unconscious of itself, or of \nthe method of its reasoning. Yet none the less it is \nthis reasoning that gives its strongest power to temp- \ntation. \n\nThe reasoning from beauty to truth deserves per- \nhaps less harsh language. It is the mistake of the \ndreamers, who are deceived by the beauty of their \nvisions to the extent that they accept them for truth. \nWhat glitters answers for them as well as gold. Out \nof this mistake there springs sometimes a second, \nwhich is of graver moment. When the dreamer, or \nthe enthusiast, discovers that his beautiful vision had \nno foundation, he sometimes gives up all trust in the \nabsolute beauty, which is the mould and the result \nof all things. His private disappointment changes \nthe world into a desolate waste. The reasoning \nfrom the beautiful to the good is the logic of sin \nand temptation. The heart of the young looks upon \nevil as the unlovely and dreadful ; but when this evil \ncomes to it in the form of beauty, when elegance and \ntaste preside over and conceal the wrong, when talent \nlends the seduction of its charms, it cannot believe \nthat there is anything bad under so fair a show. \n\nThis short review will show the power and the ex- \ntent of these three forms of false deductive reason- \ning, \xe2\x80\x94 the first, the fallacy of philosophizers, the \nsecond, of religionists, and the third, of art and life. \nWe will recapitulate in very few words the result of \nthis examination of the relation of these fundamental \npropositions of the reason to one another. Truth, \ngoodness, and beauty, in their absolute sweep, are \n\n\n\n184 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nharmonious and identical. Any reasoning from either \nof these, that shall lead to a result opposing, neces- \nsarily, the absoluteness of either of the others is \nfalse, and reasoning from one to finite results, that \nproperly belong in the department of either of the \nothers, is fallacious. Equally fallacious is reasoning \nfrom what is comprehended under any one of these \nideas, to what is comprehended under either of the \nothers. \n\nThe three propositions of the reason, taken together, \nfurnish, as has been intimated, the basis of theology, \nas the first of these propositions, that of truth, fur- \nnishes the ground of belief in that induction which \nis the method and groundAvork of science. The \nterms faith and science are used often, as if they \nreferred to difierent objects, and occupied different \nfields of thought. From what has been said, it will \nappear that faith and science are simply elements, \nalike present, though in varying proportions, in all \nknowledge. Faith is only another name for the in- \ntuitions of the reason ; science is only another name \nfor the formulating and systematizing work of the \nunderstanding. Faith is thus the basis of all science ; \nscience is the accurate developing and formularizing \nof all faith. Faith is the unformed nebula ; science \nthe completed worlds constructed out of it. Astron- \nomy rests as much upon faith as theology ; for, as we \nhave seen, all induction rests upon faith. Science is \nthe reducing all the material of faith to conformity \nwith the fundamental principles of it. Thus, the \nfaith that inspires induction is, in its final and com- \npletely self-conscious utterance, the belief that the \n\n\n\nTHE LOGIC OF A PRIORI TBTEOLOGY. 185 \n\nworld is a complete and systematic whole. Science, \nthen, takes nothing by itself, but brings each fact to \nthe explanation of all others, and all to the explana- \ntion of each. Science, commonly so called, then, \nmakes all that it receives as truth harmonize with the \nfirst proposition of the reason. Theology will be a \nscience only when all of its material is thus reduced to \nconnection with its fundamental propositions. Simply \nand practically, the basis of theology is the faith that \nabsolute goodness is one with absolute truth and abso- \nlute beauty. Theology will, then, be a science, so far \nas it adopts whatever results of necessity from this \nfundamental idea of absolute goodness, in this double \nrelation, and excludes all that conflicts with this idea \nof absolute goodness. It cannot deny known facts in \nthe material world. It must, then, seek an explana- \ntion of them that shall make them conform with its fun- \ndamental principle, just as ordinary science forms hy- \npotheses and theories to unite facts into its one system. \nFrom the whole statement it would appear that \nscientific theology can never be otherwise than large \nand general. The more it goes into minuteness, the \nmore it endangers itself. It consists in its absolute \naffirmations, and in a few great truths that depend \nby necessity upon these. So fiir as these are accu- \nrately wrought out, and their connection with their \nstarting-point and with one another shown, so far it \nis science. But, in many respects, it must long, if \nnot always, remain mere faith, \xe2\x80\x94 a luminous ether \nbeautifying the night. There are many facts in the \nface of which we can only affirm that all is for the \nbest. When we attempt to show liow all is for the \n\n\n\n186 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nbest we shall fall into uncertain guesses, and our \nscience degenerate into a similarity to the fantastic \nworld-systems of the ancients. \n\nAfter this general discussion, we will now consider \nthe reasoning which is proper to deduction from each \none of the fundamental propositions of the reason, \ntaken by itself. \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 OF DEDUCTION FROM THE FIRST PROPOSITION OF THE \nREASON. \xe2\x80\x94 THE LOGIC OP PHILOSOPHY. \n\nThe first proposition of the reason, fully stated, is, \nas we have seen, this, that the universe is a complete \nand systematic whole. We will not spend any further \ntime in explaining the nature of this proposition, or \nshowing how it is involved in the instinct of generali- \nzation, but will proceed at once to speak of it as a \nbasis for deductive reasoning. \n\nIts first use is negative. It forbids us to believe \nwhatever is contrary to this. The syllogism which \nexhibits the form of this reasoning would be of this \nnature : In an organic whole nothing disorderly can \nexist ; the alleged fact would be contrary to order, \ntherefore it cannot exist. The most common way of \npresenting this canon of reasoning is this : What is \ninconceivable cannot be believed. This proposition \nhas been the occasion of much discussion and mis- \nunderstanding. It cannot be taken as true in its \nabsolute form. Much misunderstanding has arisen \nfrom the lack of attention to the different classes of \nalleged truths contained under the general term. \nInconceivable, and the various forms of this incou- \nceivableness. To conceive of anything is to bring \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 187 \n\nthe elements of it together in our thought, or to bring \nitself into conjunction with other objects of thought. \nTc conceive, is thus, \xe2\x80\x94 what the very composition of \nthe word would imply, \xe2\x80\x94 to bring together. It bears \nthe same relation to the intellect that the imagination \ndoes to the perception. There are three ways in \nwhich an object may be inconceivable. The first \nis, when the elements of the object are too vast to \nbe grasped, and thus cannot be combined. This does \nnot prevent us from believing in its reality. Thus, \nwe believe that the universe is an organic whole ; yet \nwe cannot conceive of this whole. It is too vast. \nEven if we knew all its elements, we could not bring \nthem together in our thought. \n\nThe second form of inconceivableness occurs when \nthe alleged fact is contrary to our experience, or will \nnot fit in with the habitual associationof our thoughts. \nThus, we cannot conceive of color as separate from \nsome object. We cannot look at a rose, and think of \nthe rose as colorless, and the redness of it as existing \nmerely in our senses. We cannot conceive of it, \nbecause all the association of our thoughts of color \nis in connection with outward objects. Indeed, no \nabstraction can be conceived, because concex3tiou is a \nuniting, that is, a making concrete. The fact, then, \nthat anything is inconceivable, because it is contrary \nto the common association of our thought, does not \nnecessarily force us to affirm its absolute impossi- \nbility. \n\nThe third form of the inconceivable is that which \nresists the fundamental proposition of the reason, the \nabsolute law of truth. Since to conceive is to bring \n\n\n\n188 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntogether, we cannot conceive of anything standing \noutside of the absolute order, for standing there it \nstands alone. And, as we cannot conceive of this, \nso, also, our reason forbids us to believe it. \n\nWe may illustrate this principle by the questions \nthat have been raised in regard to the miraculous. \nCan we believe in a miracle ? If a miracle be a vio- \nlation of the order of the universe, we cannot believe \nit. The enlightened reason cannot conceive of such \na thing, and rejects it as impossible, not because it is \ncontrary to our experience, but because it is contrary \nto the very foundation principle of belief. It should \nbe noticed, however, that the inconceivability lies \nnot in the fact alleged, but in the explanation that is \ngiven of it. A man may tell us that he saw this or \nthat occurrence. His story is strange, but we say \nwe will look into the matter, and see whether it was \nso or not. But, if he adds that the event was con- \ntrary to all principles of law, we answer without \nthought or investigation, " That is impossible." We \nfirst see whether the event did or did not occur. In \nother words, we apply to it the principles and methods \nof induction. If it took place, we affirm that it must \nhave been the result of some law, known or unknown. \nA miracle, properly so called, is the manifestation of \nsome hig-lier law on a plane where only lower ones \nhad been at work. If the laws of chemistry, of \nrnechanics, of vegetable and animal life, were freely \nactive on the world before the appearance of man, \nthen the first human act would be a miracle on that \nplane. So the first appearance of vegetation, when \nthe burninof mass of the earth had orown cool and \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 189 \n\nsolid enough to admit of it, was miraculous. So, if \nthere is a sphere of spiritual life above us, it has its \nlaws as fixed as those of our own life ; and any \nmanifestation of them in our life would be miraculous ^ \n^ut not lawless. This may illustrate how the negative \nreasoning from the proposition under consideration \ndoes not apply to an alleged fact, but only to the \nsuggested explanation of that fact. \n\nHaving thus considered the merely negative use \nof deduction from the first proposition of the reason, \nnamely, that the universe is one perfect whole, we \nturn to the consideration of its positive use. As the \nreasoning from the three fundamental propositions of \ntruth, goodness, and beauty, forms the a priori part \nof theology, so the reasoning from the first proposi- \ntion, that of truth, forms philosophy. Philosophy is \nmade up of this deductive reasoning from the start- \ning-point of absolute truth, just as science we shall \nfind to be the mass of inductive reasoning from ob- \nserved and collated facts. This is the present and \nhistorical use of the terms. There is, doubtless, \ncoming, indeed, a time when these two opposite and \noften opposing systems shall be one. Whether this \nfinal result will be termed philosophy, or science, we \ncannot tell. For the present, we shall use the words \nin their distinctive meaning. \n\nWe have, then, to inquire whether philosophy is \npossible, and what are the logical principles that \nmust guide it. We will notice, at the outset, two \ndifiiculties with which philosophy has to contend. \nThe first of these is to find some starting-point. \nThat the universe is a connected whole, is a vast and \n\n\n\n190 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nvague statement. It rouses the thinker to construct \nan ideal system, that shall conform to, and be identi- \ncal with, this great ideal. But while it thus stimu- \nlates, it also balks. It furnishes no point on which \nthe thinker may lay hold, and from which he may \nstart in the course of his deduction. The first diffi- \nculty, then, is, to find an available starting-point. \nThe second difficulty is, that, supposing the beginning \nto be made, the very nature of deduction is to con- \nfine itself to abstractions. Deduction is from the \nuniversal, through the particular, to the individual or \nsingle. In other words, it is from the broader to \never narrower truth. Every universal contains many \nparticulars included under it. Deduction, by its very \nnature, can take only one of these. This selected \nparticular includes many others. Of these, the line \nof our deduction can take but one. Thus, deduction \nmust be more or less abstract. It can never reach \nthe real, full, concrete individuality. The individu- \nality that it reaches will be that of a single abstract \ntruth. A second result will follow from this, namely, \nthat each universal may furnish, and by its very \nnature must furnish, more than one line of deductive \nreasoning. We have seen that the first course of \nthought must take one particular, leaving others. \nEach of these that is left may furnish the starting- \npoint for another line of reasoning. Thus, we have \ntwo courses of thought, each resting on a sound \nbasis, and conducted according to logical rule ; but \nthe two have by necessity a certain antagonism. \nThis phenomenon is of universal occurrence. We \nshall meet it in every separate department of deduc- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 191 \n\ntion. The opposition of these two or more courses \nof thought is called an antinomy. \n\nThe fact of the continual presence of this antino- \nmy, shows the fallacy of that reasoning, which affirms, \nthat of two opposite statements, one must be true, \nand the other false. This form of reasoning is very \ncommonly recognized, even by logicians, as reliable. \nFrom what has been said, it will be seen, however, \nthat the presence of this contradiction does not \ninvolve the absolute truth or falsehood of either side. \nEach may be true, and yet each in a certain sense \nfalse, because it is only partial. It will be seen, also, \nthat it is only by this varied and often opposing sys- \ntem of reasoning, that any universal principle can be \nfully developed. Each deduction being partial, it is \nonly in the whole that perfect truth is found. We \nshall meet this fact of necessary opposition and con- \ntradiction so often, that this abstract statement of it \nmust be sufficient here. \n\nWe have found, then, at the very foundation of \nphilosophy, two difficulties ; one, that of finding a \nstarting-point. This difficulty, however, may be \nmerely an obstacle, that, after it is passed, will give \nno further trouble. The other is the necessity that \nconfines philosophy, to a certain extent, in the region \nof abstraction. This is a difficulty that can never be \nwholly mastered by philosophy alone, but will always \nhamper and restrain it until it is relieved by some \npower outside of itself. \n\nIn order to make clear these principles, and the \ngeneral laws of philosophy, we must look at its \nhistory. A hasty glance at this will show us its na- \n\n\n\n102 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nture, and will reveal, and illustrate, the laws and the \nnature, the strength and the weakness, of pure deduc- \ntion. \n\nFrom what has been said of the necessity of the \nantinomy in philosophy, we shall expect to find op- \nposing systems, and from the difficulty of obtaining \na starting-point, we shall expect to find that some of \nthese systems have an unreliable foundation. But it \nshould be observed, first of all, and remembered \nthrough all, that from the beginning to the end of \nphilosophy, taking in systems the most frivolous and \nthe most opposed, they all have this in common, that \nthey affirm the absolute unity of the world and of the \nuniverse. They all are alike searching for the prin- \nciple of unity. And if any affirm, tliat, being diverse, \nthey have been fruitless, we can at starting insist \nthat it is a great thing that this absolute unity has \nbeen recognized and insisted upon, even if philoso- \nphy have done nothing more than keep this before \nthe minds of men, until science should discover what \nthis principle of unity is. For our present purpose, \nit is enough that the first proposition of the reason \nhas been the basis of every system of philosophy \nthat the world has seen, and that philosophy upheld \nthe truth of this, in opposition to the unthinking \nmany, who looked upon all things as the result of \nseparate chances or diverse principles. \n\nIn looking at the Grecian philosophy, three things \nmust be kept in mind. First, that it rests upon \nthe intuitive perception of the absolute unity of the \nuniverse, a perception which experience had, as yet, \nby no means confirmed. Secondly, that the reason \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 193 \n\naccompanying this philosophy was designed rather to \nillustrate, than to prove, the truth of its fundamental \nprinciple. Thirdly, that the various systems were each \nan attempt to construct something that should corre- \nspond with the conception of the ideal unity. The \nauthors of these systems saw, on the one side, by the \npower of their reason, the grand vision of the abso- \nlute unity. On the other hand, they were by their \nsenses brought into contact with a world of manifold \nrealities. These opposing principles, of unity on the \none side and manifoldness on the other, were to be \nreconciled, or else one must give way to the other. \nThis antinomy of arguments, springing from the rea- \nson on the one side and from the senses on the other, \nis the central element of Grecian philosophy. This \nantinomy finds its most complete expression in the \nParmenides of Plato, a discussion which Hegel called \nthe fairest flower of Grecian philosophy. This praise \nis only due to it as the complete expression of this \nantinomy, which meets us at every step in our study \nof these systems. The following quotation from Pla- \nto\'s Timaeus will illustrate the relation which the ar- \nguments and special modes of presentation connected \nwith these systems had to the grand truth which was \nthe basis of them all : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" When we speak of that which is stable and firm \nand mentally intelligible, our language should be in \nlike manner stable and immutable, and, as far as pos- \nsible, unrefutable and immovable, having in this re- \nspect no deficiency; whereas, in speaking concerning \nits image only, and as compared to it, we should use \n13 \n\n\n\n194 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nprobable arguments that are in strict analogy there- \nto."* \n\nThose, therefore, to whom the ancient philosophiz- \ning appears weak, should keep in mind the distinction \nbetween the object of absolute intuition, on the one \nside, and the attempt to make this clear and tangible \non the other; \xe2\x80\x94 an attempt the success of which was \nrendered impossible by the imperfection or non-exist- \nence of science. \n\nTo illustrate what has been said more minutely, we \nwill glance at a few of the principal systems of Gre- \ncian philosophy. We first meet those which seek \nsome material basis for their philosophical intuition. \nThus, Thales affirmed the principle of all things to be \nwater. Anaximenes affirmed it to be air. We can- \nnot be surprised at such divergence. The universe \nis a circle that might as well begin in one point of its \ncircumference as another. These early reasoners, \nconfining themselves to the circumference, put, one a \nfinger here, and another a finger there, each claiming \nthat its own point was the beginning. In other Avords, \nif all the substances in the world have a common \nbasis, and may pass into one another without funda- \nmental change, one of these substances may as well \nrepresent the whole as another. Such discussion is \nlike that which might arise in regard to ice, water, \nand vapor. One might maintain that ice was frozen \nwater ; another that water was melted ice. There \ncan be no settlement of the dispute, except by affirm- \ning that neither ice nor water nor vapor is the basis \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 The translation is taken from that in Bohn\'s Plato. \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 195 \n\nof the others, but that some common principle, tvhicL \nis neither, but which may talve form as either, is the \nbasis of each and all. This was done in Grecian phi- \nlosophy by Anaximander, of Miletus. He affirmed \nthat the Infinite, or what we may better translate the \nUndetermined, was the principle of all things. This \nabstraction meant to him, probably, what our word \nmatter does to us. Matter is the undetermined sub- \nstance that forms the basis of all material substances. \nThe absolute principle, then, is not fire or air, or any \nother element, but the substance which underlies \neverything. \n\nWhile the philosophers that we have been consid- \nering saw only the circumference of the circle, but \ndeserve the highest praise for discerning that it was \na circle, and not a mere mass of disconnected points, \nXenophanes and the Eleatic school plunged at once \nto the very centre. They made no attempt to recon- \ncile the absolute unity with the apparent manifold- \nness. They contented themselves with affirming the \nabsolute One, and denying everything besides. Man, \nthey say, is blinded by the senses. He takes their \nvaried presentation for reality ; but nothing is real \nsave the One. Xenophanes looked up into the blue \nof the heaven, and cried, "The One is God." Zeno, \nthe Eleatic, carried these doctrines to their extreme, \nby proving with subtle arguments that there could be \nno such thing as change or motion. The paradoxes \nby which he maintained this result spring from that \nantinomy which wo have seen to lie at the very basis \nof deductive reasoning. Matter, in one aspect, is \ninfinitely divisible. In another aspect, it consists of \n\n\n\n196 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nfinite elements. The results reached by these abstract \narguments do not hold good in regard to the concrete \nsubstances. The paradoxes of Zeuo, though com- \nmonly viewed as something special, are only examples \nof that constantly recurring antinomy which has so \noften confused the minds of men. They only brought \nto a sharp contrast that divergence between the reason \nand the sense which we have found to be the funda- \nmental principle of the various systems of the Gre- \ncian philosophers. \n\nThe reason had thus announced its fundamental \nproposition, and had set at open defiance all the \npower of the senses. Those who believe that the \nproposition of the absolute unity of the universe is a \nbroad generalization from facts, would do well to \nobserve, in addition to the arguments which have \nbeen already adduced, this fact, that its first distinct \nenunciation was made in defiance, and as a defiance, \nof the force of external facts and the results of obser- \nvation. But, in this way, the reason defeated and \ncontradicted itself. It began by an affirmation of \nabsolute unity, and ended by reproaching the whole \napparent confirmation of things as false, and as in \nopposition to this unity. The next step was to bring \nabout an actual harmony between these two elements. \nThe means first at hand to accomplish this was th6 \nestablishment of some general law. To Pythagoras, \nthis harmonizing law was that of number ; to Em- \npedocles, it was the law of attraction or love ; to \nHeraclitus, it was the law of change, the very per- \nmanence of succession and difference being made a \nprinciple of unity. \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 197 \n\nAlthough the theories that have been mentioned, \nand others which might be added to them, may seem \nat first sight to anticipate some of the results of \nmodern science, they were at the time valueless, ex- \ncept as illustrations of the great principle which un- \nderlies them all. They showed that the absolute \nunity was possible. They made it conceivable ; but \nas they rested on no basis, and sought no verification \nof induction, they remained mere floating theories. \n\nSocrates first found any solid support for the next \nstep in the history of philosophy. The early philoso- \nphers, and in particular Xenophanes, had uttered the \nfirst proposition of the reason, that of absolute truth. \nSocrates reached the second, that of an absolute \ngoodness, independent of law or custom. As Xenoph- \nanes, however, had no system of truth, but only \nsought to impress upon the world the knowledge and \nthe conception of a truth actually existing, so Socrates \nconstructed no system of morals. He sought simply \nto awaken the moral sense in the minds and hearts of \nhis hearers. He would make them feel, by scattered \ninstances, that there was a moral law, which was su- \npreme above all things. \n\nPlato completed the foundation of all absolute de- \nductive reasoning. He enunciated the third funda- \nmental proposition of the reason, that of beauty. \nAs Xenophanes affirmed the absolute truth, and \nSocrates, the absolute goodness, so Plato affirmed \nthe absolute beauty. "If the world, then, is beauti- \nful, and its artificer good, he evidently looked to an \neternal pattern, but if it be without beauty . \nhe must have looked to one that is generated. It ia \n\n\n\n198 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nevident, however, to every one, that he looked to \none that was eternal, for the universe is the most \nbeautiful of generated things, and its artificer the \nbest of causes."* Not only was beauty the end of \nthe universe, it was even the basis and end of virtue \nitself. Goodness is a power that draws towards it- \nself, by the attraction of its beauty, which kindles au \nimperishable love for it. The morality of Plato, as \nhas been well remarked, is not so much an outward \nrule, as the aspiration after perfection. \n\nWhile one side of the antithesis that lay at the \nfoundation of Grecian thought led to the grand re- \nsults which we have thus contemplated, the other \nled, by equal necessity, to very different issues. \nThe reason and the senses, cried the Eleatics, are at \nvariance, consequently the senses are false. The \nopposite deduction would be the truer one for those \nwho put their faith in the senses, and would as natu- \nrally result from the premise ; while at the same time \nthe result would not lie far off, that if the very foun- \ndations of belief are at variance, there can be no reli- \nance upon anything. The senses and the reason con- \ntradict one another. Even the senses contradict each \nother. This contradiction might as well destroy all \ngrounds of belief, as elevate any one at the expense \nof the others. Thus there arose, first, sophistry. \nThis played with the differences and difficulties of \nbelief, and settled down to the conviction that ex- \npediency is the only criterion of truth. To the soph- \nists, however, belongs the credit of opening that \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Bohn\'s Plato. \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 199 \n\npractical path, by which Socrates reached the thought \nof the absohite good. He changed the practicality \nof expediency to that of morality. Afterwards, came \na school of absolute scepticism. Each side of the \nantithesis overthrew the other. Nothing was fixed or \ncertain. Still, however, men longed to reach the \nclear heights of certainty which they saw rise before \nthem, separated by an impassable gulf. The Stoics \nsought, by the sternness of self-reliance and complete \nsubjugation of the lower nature, to fight their way to \nthese regions of calm repose. The Epicureans were \ncontent to contemplate them from the pleasantness of \ntheir indolent ease. The new Platonists brought the \npower of imagination to accomplish what reasoning \ncould not. Visions and trances brought the distant \nheights near. They fell asleep, and dreamed them- \nselves in the presence of the perfect truth, and when \nthey awoke, their dream seemed to have been a re- \nality. \n\nOn looking back upon the Grecian philosophy we \nsee, then, rising in grand sublimity, the three truths \nof the reason, like three mountain summits, which \nspring up from a common base. These heights are \noften obscured by doubts and misapprehension, but \nthey still stand, the only starting-point or basis of \ntrue knowledge. The great problem was to find a \nmeans of connection between these and our common \nlife. The special systems were attempts, and unsuc- \ncessful ones, to accomplish this. In what has been \nsaid, I have made no reference to Aristotle. This \nomission has been intentional, for with him we see the \nbeginning of a new order. Aristotle perfected the \n\n\n\n200 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsystem of cledactive reasoning, so far as to give it a \nperfect form, and to guard it against mistake. It was \na bridge, over which one could pass between the \nideal and the actual. All that was needed was to \nhave some point on either side on which it could rest. \nThis was lacking. Aristotle, in maintaining the ne- \ncessity of induction, did not develop and perfect its \nprinciples as he did those of deduction. His theory \nof induction, as so often happens with theories in the \nhistory of thought, was in advance of his practice. \nHe thus had reached by induction no general truths \non which his syllogistic apparatus could rest. And \non the other side, the absolute truth of the organic \nunity of the universe, rising smooth and unbroken, \noffered no place on which a deductive syllogism could \nbe based. We have thus in the case of Aristotle, and \nstill more in that of the school men who professed to \nfollow him, a constant practice, or we might even \nsay play, with the deductive formula. This, how- \never, degenerated more and more into mere formalism. \nIt was very much like what the practice of engineers \nin iiiaking bridges would become, if for a long time \nthey occupied themselves in constructing and recon- \nstructing their works along the side of a chasm, while \nthey were unable to find any means of stretching \ntheir structures across it. \n\nWe may illustrate this position by reference to the \nfirst proposition of the reason, which furnishes the basis \nand sphere of philosophy. This suggests and author- \nizes such a sjdlogism as this : A perfect and syste- \nmatic whole must contain whatever is essential to this \ncompleteness ; the universe is such a perfect and sys- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 201 \n\ntematic whole ; therefore, it must contain whatever is \nessential to its completeness. In this, all philosophies \nagreed. Each constructed its system, the only proof \nof which was its perfection. But to construct such \na system with accuracy there was needed some certain \nelement in the real world, some special /\xc2\xabc^, which was \nundoubtedly based upon truth. If this were found, \nthere would a definite starting-point for the work. \n\nThus the naturalists of the present age knew that \nall the creatures of the pre-adamite world were per- \nfect organizations, containing all the elements neces- \nsary for their existence ; but yet they could not, on \nthis basis alone, construct the plan of anyone of these \norganizations, the remains of which had not been dis- \ncovered. So soon, however, as a single bone was \nfound that belonged to one of these hitherto unknown \norganizations, the conditions of the problem were \nchanged. The naturalist felt authorized to assume \nthe special elements necessary to the perfection of \nan organism of which this bone was a part ; and the \nresult showed that the assumption was well grounded. \nSo philosophy needed not only its abstract starting- \npoint, the affirmation of absolute truth ; it needed, \nalso, some particular truth for the free working of its \nprocesses of reasoning. Its systems had been fair \nand rounded worlds, indeed, but worlds floating ia \nthe air, reflecting only the beauty of the absolute \ntruth. Not till the starting-point just described \nshould be given, would its system be a real world, \none with the absolute truth. \n\nWith the awakening of modern science, however, \nmen began to rear out of solid facts foundations for \n\n\n\n202 THE SCIENCE OE THOUGHT. \n\nlegitimate deduction ; while, on the other hand, Des- \ncartes at length succeeded in finding a solid foothold \nand secure resting-place on the side of abstract truth, \nwhich had so long set at defiance all attempts to scale \nits difficult heights. \n\nThis sure resting-place, that was discovered by \nDescartes, is expressed in his famous sentence, "/ \nthink; therefore lam." \'^Cogito; ergo sum.^\' Here, \nat last, was found a certain truth, a special starting- \npoint for deductive philosophy. To realize the im- \nportance of this starting-point which was furnished \nby Descartes, we must have clearly in our thought \nthe difficulty which it was designed to meet. Phi- \nlosophy believed in its great ideas ; the constant \nsearch to realize them showed its faith in them. But \nat the same time its results threw a haze of scepti- \ncism over the individual facts of the world. You \nsay, "I see the world about me." \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' Nay," answers \nphilosophy, *^you have only an impression on your \nsenses." You sa}\'\', "I run," "I leap." \xe2\x80\x94 "Nay," \nanswers philosophy, "you think you run and leap." \n"At least, then," you answer, "at least, I think;" \nand philosophy recognizes, with joy, something that \nadmits of no doubt. The starting-point for construct- \ning the system, which it believed could be construct- \ned, is at last found. Real existence is reached. \nThe gulf that separated it from pure thought is \nspanned. ^"^ I think; therefore I exist.\'" Descartes \ndid not, however, make the fullest use of his discov- \nery. He did not construct a system of deductive \nphilosoph} from this basis. He simply asked, "How \ndo I k law that this proposition is true?" and having \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 203 \n\ndetermiued this, he sought to find other propositions \nto which the same test of truth might be applied. \nThe undertaking, by its very nature, could, however, \nresult in nothing definite, because the assumption at \nstarting was, that this proposition stood out, distinct \nfrom all others, in absolute certainty. It was, thus, \nby its very nature, fitted to be a germ out of which \nother propositions could be developed, not a pattern \nto furnish a test of their reliabilit3^ \n\nThe formula, Cogito; ergo sum, strictly carried out, \nwould lead into a narrow egotism. Personality and \npersonal relations would be the criterions of truth. \nIt would lead, in its common use, merely to theo- \nlogical results. These, theology on the one side, \nand egotism on the other, would be the two sides \nof the antinomy that would spring from this founda- \ntion. \n\nLooking at the basis established by Descartes, we \nsee that he has only half stated it. Not only may \nwe say, Cogito; ergo sum, but also, with equal truth, \nCogito; ergo cogitatio est. " I think ; therefore thought \nis." Whether anything else is, or is not, thought is ; \nand in thought we have a real, manifold, and organ- \nized world. While the first path leads to personal \nrelations, and must, necessarily, have more or less \nsubjective results, the other leads out into the unlim- \nited realm of thought, and brings us into contact \nwith realities outside of us. For thought is not ray \nthought merely ; it is independent of me. IMy exist- \nence or non-existence has little to do with it. It \nis a force which controls me, but it is vaster than I. \nAll I know of any existence is what this tells me. \n\n\n\n204 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\n/ tJiink; therefore tliouglit is. By this formula ia \nreached something actual and external. \n\nHegel is the first who developed this side of the \nCartesian principle. I do not remeralDer, indeed, \nthat he anywhere recognizes this relationship ; but it \nis none the less true that this is the foundation of \nhis philosophy, the source of his power, and also the \noccasion of whatever is defective in his system. \nHegel first enunciated, and consciously realized, what \nhas lain at the foundation of all speculation and study, \nnamely, that the laws of thought and of being are \nidentical. In other words, he simply affirmed the \nreality of thought. Thought is real, and thus when I \nhave to do with thought I ^ve to do with a real \nworld. He also saw that thi ^ is all the reality with \nwhich we can ever come in contact, that the world \ncan never exist to us except as taught. At the same \ntime he had that faith in thou"^ht, without which \nthere could be no thought. He therefore affirmed, \nnot merely that the world of thougH is real, but that \nit is the real world ; in other words, that thought and \nbeing are one. \n\nI have said that this lies at the fo ndation of all \nscientific thought. Philosophy and science are the \nattempts to express the relations of common thing? \nin the relations of thought. Now, if the laws of \nthese two are not identical, the whole struggle of sci- \nence as well as of philosophy is unnaturai and delu- \nsive. If the laws of nature are not the laws o thought, \nthen the scientific treatment of nature is a forcing and \ndistortion. It is easy to ridicule this assumption, but \nno one can really think, who does not have faith ^\xc2\xabi his \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 205 \n\nthought, and faith in thought is simply this confi Jence \nthat it is essentially one with the objects of thought. \nIt is impossible to prove it, for proof would be an ap- \npeal to thought, and would thus assume the faith sup- \nposed to be proved. It is as impossible to disprove \nit, for confidence in the negative argument would in- \nvolve confidence in thought. It is further impossible to \nrest in a state of scepticism, and to regard the whole \nquestion as one of impossible solution. Our faith in \nour thou\xc2\xa3i:ht is the strons^est instinct of our nature. \nTo disturb this confidence requires the most subtile \nargument. It requires us to surrender the foundation \nof our consciousness at the demand of the intellect. \nThus even to doubt the reliability of thought, at \nthe demand of thought, would imply more faith in it \nthan to believe anything else at its bidding. We can \nonly inquire into the nature and extent of this corre- \nspondence between thought and the outward reality ; \nand this problem will meet us in the last general \ndivision of this work. Faith in thought, it will be \nobserved, does not involve faith in the completeness \nof my individual thought, but of absolute thought. \nThe laws of the world are no less real that I often \ndisobey them. The laws of thought are no less reli- \nable, because my thought may be narrow and weak. \nThis expression of the identity of the laws of \nthought with those of all reality is simply the utter- \nance of what has all along been the moving power of \nscience. \n\nHegel only uttered openly and consciously what \nevery thinker, whether philosopher or day laborer, \nhad unconsciously taken for granted. He simply dis- \n\n\n\n206 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nclosed the principle which is involved in the instinct \nof thought, that most universal of all the instincts of \nhumanity. \n\nBut the clear comprehension of this principle gave \nto Hegel a wonderful power, and its enunciation \nmarks one of the epochs of the history of philoso- \nphy. \n\nTo what has been said must be added that Hegel \nlirst saw the true nature of thought itself, and com \nprehended its m^anner of growth. He gives to Kant \nthe honor of first discovering that the antinomy of \nthought is a necessary element in its progress ; but \nto Hegel himself belongs the honor of first incorpo- \nrating this essential antinomy into a system. To \nhim also belons^s the honor of recognizing the finite- \nness of this antinomy. With Kant, this opposition \nof results, based on apparently irrefragable deduction, \nimposed an impassable barrier to the advance of \nabsolute knowledge. Hegel saw that this division \nand opposition was merely a single stage in the de- \nvelopment of thought. He saw that this antinomy \nwas only the preparation of a higher and more per- \n^ct unity, which from this process of development \nhad lost its abstractness, and become concrete, the \n\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2ast stage involving all the elements of the preceding \nnnes. \n\nThus recognizing the fundamental nature of thought, \nand the identity of the laws of thought w^ith those of \null being, Hegel was provided with an instrument of \ngreat power, if not for the discovery, at least for the \norganization and systemization of truth. His philos- \nophy is, it must be remembered, a method, not a \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF PHILOSOPHY. 207 \n\nresult This highest development of philosophy \nonly illustrates and confirms that one of the funda- \nmental maxims with which we started, which asserts \nthat deduction by itself cannot reach finite or individ- \nual facts. It can give the great form which these \nfacts must assume, the absolute law which they must \nfollow ; the facts being given, it can discover their \nnecessity and fundamental relation ; but by itself it \ncan never get beyond these fundamental princi- \nples. \n\nFrom what has been said, also, will be seen a still \nfurther limitation of the Hegelian philosophy. "We \nhave seen that the fundamental starting-point, which \nis thought, may give rise to two different systems of \ndeductive truth. One of these starts with the formu- \nla, cogito ; ergo sum ; the other starts practically with \nthis, cogito; ergo cogitatio est. The one leads to the \nemphasis of personality, the other to the emphasis \nof law. Hegel, taking the second path, leads us \ninto the realm of absolute causes and relationships. \nThe tendency of his method has been recognized all \nalong to lead to the practical neglect of personality \nand free agency. All things are seen to be the prod- ,\' \nnet of an endless and resistless development, of \nabsolute forces, working often by an inevitable oppo- \nsition to each other, but thereby preparing a more \nperfect consummation. This view of things brings \nout truth that otherwise would be hidden. It is \nessential to the fundamental and scientific view of \nthe world and of history. With other elements of \nthe same system, it has given an immense start to \nthe sciences, from the lowest to the highest, yet it is \n\n\n\n208 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nQone the less imperfect. The other directiou is still \nopen. The cogito; ergo sum, is as true as the cogito; \nirgo cogitatio est. The system of Schopenhauer, \nincleecl, which affirms, instead of thought, the ivill \nto be the reality of all things, represents the antithe- \nses to the system of Hegel. These two magnificent \nsystems stand over against one another, the halves of \na divided world. They stand, it must be noticed, in \nantithesis, not in opposition, to each other. Their \nrelation is polar. Each is at heart the other. The \nwill is the undeveloped thought. Thought is the \nexpanded will. Thus thought is not, as, Schopenhauer \nintimates, the accident of will. It is its other side, \nits rounded and completed self. Each of these \ngreat systems is thus imperfect. The system of \nHegel needs the grand motive power of the will ; \nthat of Schopenhauer the expansive power of thought. \nIt is less a system than an affirmation. The loill of \nSchopenhauer, indeed, is not free will, for there \ncan be no freedom without thought. Thought and \nwill are only in perfection even in idea, when \nunited, as doubtless they will be in the future, by \nsome system grander than anj\'- that the world has \nseen. \n\nThe fundamental antinomy of speculative philoso- \nphy has long been felt to be that between freedom \nand personality on the one side, and necessity and \nlaw on the other. This antinomy admits, as yet, \nonly a practical solution. Reason has not yet been \nable fully to unite its elements. Yet they are united \nin every conscious act of our lives. Their onlj\'\' per- \nfect union is found, however, in virtue. This unites \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 209 \n\nthe absoluteness of law with the absoluteness of \nfreedom. In this, the will and the intellect are in \nharmony. Thus the course of our thought has \nbrought us to the consideration of deduction from \nthe second of the propositions of the reason, namely, \nthat which affirms the absolute good. \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 DEDUCTION FKOM THE SECOND PROPOSITION OF THE \nREASON. \xe2\x80\x94 THE LOGIC OF MORAL SCIENCE. \n\nWe have already seen the basis on which moral \njudgments rest. Without repeating what has been \nsaid, it will be sufficient to refer generally to the fact \nthat the moral sense branches in three directions, \nrecognizing the duties towards one\'s own nature, \nespecially that of integrity, the duties towards one\'s \nfellow-men, and those towards God. We thus see \nthe fundamental principle dividing itself; and it is \nthe business of moral science to trace out each of \nthese divisions in its reference to the others, and in \nits own ramifications. It is simply the duty of logic, \nin relation to moral science, to show how far it is a \nsystem of deduction, and the special difficulties under \nwhich this deduction labors, and to guard against the \nmistakes into which it is apt to fall. Our business \nis, then, by no means to construct a system of moral \nscience, nor the outlines of one, but simpl}^ to show \nthe conditions of the science, and to criticise its \nmethods. \n\nIn taking the first step we discern that the simple \ndivision already proposed is in some respects arti- \nficial. It is impossible to make a clean division in the \n14 \n\n\n\n210 TBDE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT- \n\nmaiiiier prescribed. For, first, our duties to v.Jod \ninvolve those to ourselves and towards others. It is \nhis will that we should serve our fellow-men, and \npreserve the integrity of our own nature. Secondly, \nour duties towards ourselves include, besides integ- \nrity, those to God and to man. One who lives sel- \nfishly corrupts and degrades his own nature. And, \nin the third place, our duty towards others includes \nour duty towards God and to ourselves. One who \ncorrupts his own nature is a power of corruption in \nsociety. He who lives an absolutely irreligious life \nhelps to lower the standard of social life about him. \nWe might, then, construct a system of moral science \nupon any one of these bases. But yet, such a system \nwould not be perfect. Though my duty to my \nneighbor is involved in my duty to God, yet I should \nnot fulfil the duty if I did it merely from this second- \nary motive. If I gave help to another, simply be- \ncause it was God\'s will, with no feeling of love or \nsympathy, the act would be cold and heartless. So, \nalso, my duty to myself requires me to exercise \ncharity towards others ; but if I should assist others \nmerely to perfect my own nature, as an act of moral \ngymnastics, the act would have little beauty. It is \nin this way that much benevolence fails of its end, by \nbeing mechanical, either from a desire to obey God \nor to perfect one\'s self. At the same time it must be \nadmitted that the act is also imperfect if done without \nthese other considerations. An act of benevolence \nhas its true dignity only when all three of these ele- \nments enter into it. One must have a feeling of \nsympathy, an aspiration after completeness, and a \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 211 \n\nsense of the infinite love of God, of which one is the \ninstrument, in order to give to a deed of kindness \nthe full perfection of its beauty. \n\nThis, then, is the first difficulty that moral science \nhas to contend with, that each heading, though dis- \ntinct from the others, yet includes the others ; and \nthat thus all its principles are involved at every step. \nWe might then expect a freedom from that antago- \nnism which we have found elsewhere. Principles that \nare so involved ought, one v/ould think, to be at least \nharmonious. The contrary result springs from these \nconditions. The elements that when combined flow \ntogether naturally, when separated are apt to stand \nover against one another in stiff and harsh opposition \nIn other words, we find here, more strongly than in \nany other form of deduction, that antinomy which is \ninseparable from all deduction. \n\nFor, first, each of these principles, when carried \nout, falls itself into division, often into stern oppo- \nsition. Thus our relation towards God involves \nworship and obedience. Taking the first of these, \nworship, by itself, we find that it involves, also, two \nelements, first, that of the spirit; and, secondly, that \nof the form. This last, the element of form in \nworship, is a necessity of our human constitution ; \nfirst, in order that many may unite in a common \nservice ; secondly, that the thought of the worshipper \nmay be confined and directed. Now, when we have \nenumerated these distinct elements that spring out \nof the central idea of our relation to God, we have \nnamed the causes which, perhaps, more than any \nothers, have served to convulse the world. The \n\n\n\n212 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nquestions of religious form and religious liberty, \nthe question of faith and works, these have brought \ndivisions into the church, the effects of which have \nextended far outside of it, and have shaken the whole \netructure of society. What has given the promi- \nnence and the violence to these controversies is the \nfact that each partisan could reach his position by \nwhat seemed to be a faultless deduction from a \nstarting-point that was unquestioned. Religion does \nneed faith, and without faith works are nothing. It \ndoes need works, and without works faith is nothing. \nEach argument is legitimate. The church does need \nunity. It does need liberty. Here, too, each \ndeduction is legitimate. Yet either carried to its \nextreme may be false, because it is partial. \n\nIn our relations to others there is the same diver- \nsity of elements. We are to respect their liberty, \nand, at the same time, to work out their welfare. \nHere we find at first glance the foundations of politi- \ncal revolution, and, to a great extent, of political \nparties. The conservative and the radical appeal \neach to one of these principles. The one pictures \nthe danger of a disorganized society, and shows how \nevery change in the direction of reform is in the di- \nrection of the general removal of all the old safe- \nguards. The other insists upon the rights of the \nindividual, and shows the danger which results to \nthese rights from an excess of authority. In practical \nbenevolence we find the same difference. One will \nsee what is absolutely best for another, and wilt seek \nto briuo: it about without res-ard to the other\'s wish \nor will. Another will respect the individuality of the \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 213 \n\nperson that is suffering, and allow him to ruin him- \nself if he will. Hence arises, also, the discussion \nin regard to the best means of assisting the poor, \nsuch as that in regard to poor-rates and the like. \nOne will picture the suffering of the poor and the \nneed of alleviating this. Another will insist upon \nthe virtue of foresight, and urge that the poor-rates, \nby making men improvident, increase the evil they \nwere designed to prevent. \n\nOur duties to ourselves involve similar divergence. \nWe have many needs and mauy relations. It is the \nduty of a man to provide for his own material wel- \nfare. Also, it is his duty to preserve his integrity \nand to develop his spiritual nature. These duties \nmay come into collision, and one of them may have \nto be sacrificed to another, and it often causes grave \ndifficulty to know where the line shall be drawn. \n\nWe meet, if possible, graver difficulties when we \nconsider the collisions that may arise between duties \nthat grow out of one of these spheres of morality as \nopposed to those which spring from another. Such, for \ninstance, is the law of truth and integrity on the one \nside, and the law of benevolence on the other. Sup- \npose that, by speaking the truth, I shall cause another \nto suffer an unjust death ; is it my duty to tell the \ntruth or a felsehood? If we look at examples we \nshall find that our applause is bestowed almost equally \nupon the obedience to either one of these principles \nin defiance of the other. Though abstractly we should, \nperhaps, say that the law of truth is the highest, yet \nwe honor a falsehood, especially a self-sacrificing one, \nwhich saves the life or honor of another. Lucilius \n\n\n\n214 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncried out to the enemies of Brutus, ^^ I am Brutus,^ \naud received the stroke that was meaut for his friend. \nDesdemona, with her dying breath, denied the guilt \nof Othello. We feel in these falsehoods the presence \nof a magnanimous virtue. On the other hand, if a \nman, by steadfastness to what is just and honorable, \nplunges his family into poverty aud suffering, w^e \nhonor him. We honor Jeannic Deans for her truth- \nfulness. In the novel of Victor Hugo, "Xes Mis- \nerables" we honor the nun who saves the life of Jean \nValjeau by a lie ; and we honor Jean Valjean, who, \nrather than abstain from tellinsf the truth, brous-ht \nmisery upon himself and others. The long line of \nmartyrs is made up of those who would speak the \niruth in spite of all things. \n\nMoralists have been much puzzled to know what to \ndo with these cases of extreme conflict. Thus, Whe- \nwell hardly ventures to intimate what is right in such \ncases. He shrinks from saying that a lie is ever ex- \ncusable, for fear of disturbing the foundations of mor- \nals ; and, on the other hand, he shrinks from saying \nthat a lie is never right. He abstains from giving \nany opinion, because, as he says, such cases lie out- \nside of common morality, aud, further, because, in \nsuch cases, a man is surprised and thrown off his bal- \nance, so that if a moral rule were given it would have \nno effect. This is very much as if a work on navi- \ngation should lay down all the rules for calm weather, \nbut none for the time of storm, giving as a reason, \nthat in a storm there is so much excitement that no \none would remember the rules if they were given. \nThe fact is, that one of the grand uses of any sort ot \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 215 \n\nrule is, that it helps ODe to preserve his composure \naud self-command in time of excitement and peril. \n\nThe great error of the moral philosophers is in sup- \nposing that this collision is confined to these marked \ncases. They go on the assumption that a man\'s only \ndifficulty is to distinguish between right and wrong, \nand to follow the right forsaking the wrong. On the \ncontrary, it is probable that few persons who are \nmoderately conscientious have to choose, often, be- \ntween what they recognize as right and what they \nrecognize as wrong. The great conflict of the moral \nlife is a conflict of duties. What do I owe to myself, \nwhat to my family, what to the world at large ? Of \ntwo actions, which will be most likely to do good? \nA myriad questions of this kind are those which the \nperson trying to lead the best life has to answer ; and \nthose questions of necessity, which have been referred \nto, are only extreme and startling instances of this \nantinomy. \n\nThe Greek dramatists, with their deeper intuition, \nsaw that these collisions of duty are the real tragic \nelements of life. In the ancient tragedy you do not \nfind vice and virtue pitted against each other. You \nfind antagonistic duties, each insisting on its observ- \nance, and bringing retribution for its neglect. Thus \nthe claims of the family and of the state are very often \nbrought into this tragic antagonism. Thus, the state \ndemanded the death of Iphigenia, the daughter of \nAgamemnon, for otherwise, said the oracle, Troy \ncould not fall. Agamemnon slays, in sacrifice, his \ndaughter, thus violating the tenderest law of the \nfamily. The family, in the person of Clytemnestra, \n\n\n\n216 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\navenges itself by his death. By this act, however, \nClj\'temnestra falls into twofold crime, slaying at once \nher husband and her king. Orestes avenges the death \nof his father and his king by slaying his mother. The \ndeed is urged by the gods, yet none the less is he fol- \nlowed by his mother\'s furies. Such is the spirit of \nGreek tragedy. It is a swing from a crime against \none law, through its retribution, into a crime against \nanother law, in a succession that might be endless. \n\nWe have thus growing out of the moral law the \ngravest possible antagonism, because each side claims \nfor itself the dread authority of conscience. Let us \nnow glance at one or two of the general rules that \nhave been given for settling these controversies. \nThe first of these rules which we will notice is that \nwhich was proposed by Kant, and adopted with \napplause by Cousin, as a final settlement of the whole \nquestion. It is this, namely, that in case of doubt \nwe should ask ourselves what would be the absolute \nduty of all men under the circumstances. We should \nappeal from a single case to all similar cases. This \nrule contains, or suggests, one grand attribute of \nmorality. In many cases it would be of service in \nrecalling one who is carried away by temptation to \nhimself. But as a universal criterion it fails. For, \nfirst, we have already seen that there are cases in \nwhich the moralist himself, in all the calmness of his \nquiet thought, cannot determine what would be the \nabsolute rule for all persons. And, secondly, this \nappeal to universal propriety is just that which cannot \nbe made fairly in times of excitement. Indeed, it is \nby reference to this very principle that wrong invari- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 217 \n\nably justifies itself. Every mood defends itself by \nsuch a reference to the general duty of all men. The \nman who is revenging an insult insists that every man \nof spirit would and should do what he is doing. The \nmean man will tell you that he is a fool who will not \nlook out for himself. Thus, this rule, though it does \nmuch to clear up our general atmosphere, is power- \nless where it is most needed. What is called the \ngolden rule is the nearest possible approximation to a \nperfect criterion of duty. One must do as he would \nbe done by. It rests upon the fundamental intuition \nof the moral sense. But even this is more useful to \ncultivate the general spirit of benevolence than to \ndetermine the nature of any individual act ; for, in \nthe first place, its appjicatiou presupposes a certain \namount of imagination, by means of which one can \nput himself in the position of another ; and, in the \nsecond place, the rule relaxes its requirements where \nit is most likely to be obeyed. If a selfish man \nwould do to others as he would be done by, he would \nbe a marvel of generosity ; while, on the other hand, \nif the self-forgetful man did no more for others \nthan he would have done for himself, his self-sacri- \nfice would be comparatively slight. At the same \ntime this rule does nothing towards settling the rival \nclaims, in any case, between integrity and benevo- \nlence. \n\nAll the possibility that remains to be considered is \nthat of forming a hierarchy of duties, with the under- \nstanding that, in every case of conflict, the lower \nshould give way to the higher. This, however \nplausible it may appear, would be very far from \n\n\n\n218 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsettling the difficulty. We have ah-eady seen that \nantagonisms arise between duties that stand on the \nsame plane, as, for instance, between what we owe \nto a man\'s independence, and what we owe to his \nwelfare ; or in regard to the division of our assistance \nbetween different claimants. But even between \nthose duties that stand on different planes this \nmethod would fail. For instance, a small violation \nof one law might be required to prevent a vast \nbreach of another. A falsehood is equally false \nwhether spoken, acted, hinted, or implied. Even \nthe law of truthfulness may be carried to an absurd \nextent. I knew of a daguerrean artist who refused \nto fix the attention of a child by imitating the voice \nof a cat, on the ground that he never deceived \nchildren. There is, also, an immense difference \nbetween a generous falsehood, spoken by a sudden \nimpulse, and one spoken by premeditation. If there \nis this difficulty in laying down abstract principles \nand rules for the most fixed of human obligations, \nthe difficulty is infinitely increased when we descend \nto more complex relations. There are two poles of \nduty. One is the abstract law, the other is the result \nwhich will flow from any act. An injustice may be \nrectified in such a way that the remedy shall do more \ninjury than the wrong. We thus reach the absolute \nunderlying antinomy of morals. If we look merely \nat abstractions, we fall into a harsh, mechanical \nformalism. If we look only at results, we fiill into \nJesuitism. The relation of these two, and all the \nminor relations included under them, cannot be \ndetermined beforehand by any system of laws, how- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ETHICS. 219 \n\never simple or however complicated. It is the moral \nsense that must make the decision for itself, according \nto the special circumstances of each case. What is \nremarkable is, that in ordinary cases a right-meaning \nmoral sense can determine in such a way as to avoid \ngrave error. If, in those startling cases that have \nbeen referred to, it is more at fault, it is because they \noccur so rarely that the moral sense, which is used to \njudging familiar cases by common intuitions, has had \nno practical culture that will enable it to meet these \nexceptional complications. It can, therefore, only \napplaud an excess of any one virtue, even though it \nbe at the expense of another. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will be seen that a per- \nfect deductive moral science is impossible. Moral \nscience can show the foundation of virtue and its \ngrandeur. It can develop special virtues into their \nbranches and fruit. It can even give some clumsy \napproaches towards an establishment of a hierarchy of \nvirtues. But life does not follow exclusively anyone \nlaw. Every action is mingled ; and moral science, \nin attempting to establish minute regulations for life, \neither degenerates into a barren prolixity of casuistry, \nor else concentrates itself in no less barren common- \nplaces. \n\nThis difficulty of forming a perfect system of \nmorals does not at all conflict with the idea of the \nunity of the moral law. It simply recognizes its \ncomplex concreteness. Yet the moral law, even in \nitself, is an abstraction, and is only transitional. No \naction is complete so long as it is performed merely \nfrom a sense of duty. Moral obligation is not the \n\n\n\n220 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhighest principle of action, neither is a, merely con- \nscientious man the highest type of manhood. If a \nman provides for his family, is faithful to his conjugal \nrelations, is kind to the poor, merely because he \nrecognizes all of these as duties and is trying to act \nconscientiously, the development of his character is \nas yet very imperfect. That religious service which \nis paid as a matter oj conscientious duty is not the \nhighest worship. All of these relations to man and \nto God should be fulfilled, if performed rightly, \nbecause one\'s heart is in them. There is a principle \nof love which is higher than the principle of duty. \nThis is recognized on a large scale in the history of \nreligion. Judaism was a religion of law. Chris- \ntianity is a religion of love. Judaism sought to \ncontrol the life by a system of external rules. Chris- \ntianity seeks to control the life by an inward prin- \nciple of love. Every duty is susceptible of being \nperformed on either of these planes ; but none is \ncomplete until it has been translated from law to \nlove, until, instead of being the result of a principle \nof duty acting upon one from the outside, it flows out \nof the inmost and essential nature of the person who \nperforms the act. Thus, though the moral law is \nnecessary for those who have not reached the higher \nplane, as it is necessary also for those who have \nreached this complete development only in the case \nof one or more virtues, or who are liable \xe2\x80\x94 as who is \nnot ? \xe2\x80\x94 to variations in the spiritual life, j^et it is by its \nvery nature transitional. Its imperfection results \nfrom this transitional nature. The best acts cannot \nbe produced by any system of rule. The way to \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF AESTHETICS. 221 \n\nproduce morality in a man is to infuse the best spirit \ninto bim, and let bim act bimself. This free devel- \nopment and manifestation of the best life corresponds \nto the definition that has been given of beauty. \nBeauty is this free manifestation of the highest ideal \nin any sphere or plane of being, natural or spiritual. \nThe imperfection of moral science thus introduces us \ninto the study of deduction from the third proposi- \ntion of the reason, namely, that of beauty. \n\nDEDUCTION FROM THE THIRD PROPOSITION OF THE REASON. \n\xe2\x80\x94 THE LOGIC OF ESTHETICS. \n\nThe study of aesthetics would naturally divide itself \ninto three parts, which might be called scientific, crit- \nical, and creative. The first would have to do with \nthe absolute science of sesthetics, deducing the whole \nfrom the fundamental principle of beauty. The sec- \nond would have to do with the criticism of objects \nwith reference to their beauty. The third would have \nto do with the production of beautiful objects. If the \nscience were perfect, all of these, it is evident, would \nbe united under one head. The principles of the sci- \nence would furnish the rules of criticism and of crea- \ntion. Whether such a result is possible, and the \nprinciples according to which this result must be \nsought are the questions with which logic, as such, \nhas to do. It should be further remarked, that the \nsame division woidd, abstractly considered, be possi- \nble in the study of ethics. The difierence between \nthe two studies is that moral actions are transient, \nwhile cesthetic results are permanent : and, further, \n\n\n\n222 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthat moral actions are for the most part the result of \na single volition, and artistic creations of manifoid \nand prolonged activities, and therefore the elements \nof criticism and creation form a much more subordi- \nnate part of ethics than of aesthetics. \n\nThe usual method of forming systems of aesthetics \nhas been to take some common element of beauty as \na basis, to show how this occurs in beautiful objects, \nto proceed triumphantly, at first, by the enumeration \nof cases in which this seems predominant, then to \ntwist less conformable instances into harmony with \nthis principle, \xe2\x80\x94 a process that becomes less satisfac- \ntory the longer it is pursued, \xe2\x80\x94 and, finally, to deny \nthe name of beauty to whatever stubbornly resists \nthis process. Perhaps the most ingenious of these \nattempts is that which would reduce beauty to asso- \nciation. This has afforded opportunity for very ele- \ngant and, to a great extent, plausible treatises, which, \nhowever, by the very nature of the attempt must be \nfound wanting in the end. The attempt was some- \nwhat similar to one which might be made to reduce \nlight to reflection. \n\nWithout enumerating more of these attempts to \nreduce beauty to a single principle, the futility and \npartialness of them all will be seen by comparing \nthem with the definition given above, namely, that \nbeauty is the free manifestation of its real or ideal \nnature by the universe at large, or by any of the ele- \nments of the universe. \n\nThe words real and ideal are here used as funda- \nmentally identical. A perfect plant of any genus or \nspecies is the ideal of this genus or species, while at \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ESTHETICS. 223 \n\nthe same time it is the real exemplification of it. It \nis its nature uninterfered with by any external force. \nSo a pure sound may be called an ideal sound, be- \ncause it gives the true nature, that is the reality, of \nthe sound. With this explanation we may use the \nword ideal and idea, and define beauty to be the free \nplay and manifestation of the idea. This opens, it \nwill be seen, a field as wide and as varied as the uni- \nverse itself. It recognizes beauty in matter, in sound, \nin life, and in spirit. The variations are infinite, yet \nthe absolute principle is everywhere the same. It is \nthe free play, the unhindered manifestation of any \nof the forces of the world, or of all of them together \nin their grand unity. The ocean and the heavens are \nbeautiful, showing the free play of the mechanical \nforces of nature in their stupendous power. The \nspringing flower is beautiful, showing the free play \nof life. And thus we may find, through all the \nspheres of nature and art, beauty meeting us at every \nturn. \n\nAs we are not writing a treatise on aesthetics, but \non the logic of aesthetics, it would be out of place here \nto pursue farther this tempting theme, to define the \nrespective spheres of beauty and of sublimity, or to \nillustrate at any length the mutual play, the help, \nwhether by harmony or contrast, of the forces of na- \nture and life among themselves. The tree by the sea- \nside or on the mountain side, by its own twisted and \nstunted shape showing the might of the forces of the \nelements that drive their wild play about it, may fur- \nnish the hint for the explanation of such combinations. \nFor the present, we have only to consider the manner \n\n\n\n224 THE SCIENCE OE THOUGHT. \n\nin which an sesthetical system may be evolved from \nthis principle. \n\nAs has been already stated, the fundamental method \nof such a system, after the first laying down and es- \ntablishing the principle on which it rests, must be his- \ntorical. The system will be a priori, in so far as it \nestablishes beforehand in general terms what is to be \nexpected. It will be deductive, in so far as the na- \nture of beauty in general, and every department of it \nin particular, will be deduced from the principle which \nlies at the root of this whole or of this department ; \nyet it will be historical, and thus a posteriori, so far \nas its business will be to take things as they are, and \nto unravel in life, in nature, and in art, the course of \nthe development of this fundamental idea. In such a \nsystem all the partial elements of beauty will have \ntheir place. Association, harmony, unity, adaptation, \nand whatever else has sought to set itself up as the \nhead, will here find its true position. Thus, for in- \nstance, adaptation of means to an end will find itself \nrecognized as one of the implements or elements of \nbeauty. But it will not be the manifestation of means \nto any end or service outside of themselves, as a ma- \nchine is adapted to do a certain work ; it will be rather \nthe adaptation of means to an end within themselves, \nas life manifests itself by the structure and activity \nof the living body. The more perfectly this body is \nfitted to manifest its life, the more beautiful will it \nbe. The life it manifests will be its own. It is its \nown end, and its beauty results from its adaptation \nto develop and manifest itself. Such a system of \naesthetics, being to a certain extent deductive, will \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ESTHETICS. 225 \n\ninvolve somethiug of that antinomy which we have \nfound to be inseparable from deductive reasoning. The \nunderlying idea will divide itself, and its branches \nwill divide themselves afresh. We shall have dilFering \nstyles of art and schools of art. We shall have art and \nnature over against each other. But as in beauty the \nstruggle of a thing to be what it should be is ended, \nthe beautiful thing already being what it should be, \nso the strife of this antinomy is solved. Each of \nthese results being permanent, they all have their \nplace. Though men may contend about them, they \ndo not contend with each other. The schools of art \nmay wrangle, but the science of art adopts all their \nproducts, so far as they have been true to themselves, \ninto its great whole. It includes all extremes, how- \never much they may be separated from each other. \nIt has a place, however lowly, for the red beads which \nsatisfy the SBsthetic requirements of the savage, for \nthey have the beauty that results from pure color, \nbesides contrasting harmoniously and naturally with \nthe green leafage in the midst of which the savas^e \nlife is passed. Yet it reaches high enough to include \nthe most magnificent results of human art. On the \nother hand, this catholicity does not exclude the re- \njecting from the system of \xc2\xa3esthetics some things \nwhich may have been considered beautiful at some \nlimes or places, but which cause in us only disgucst. \nIt explains, rather, the reason of this disgust, and jus- \ntifies it. The tattooing of the face and form, the com- \npression of the feet, the extravagance of dress, all of \nthese mar and disfigure the pure ideal of life. The \nscience of 8esthetics must thus recognize a false, as well \n\n15 \n\n\n\n226 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nas a true, taste. This introduces us to the second di- \nvision of Ecsthetical study, namely, that of criticism. \n\nCriticism has been said to be one of the lost arts. \nPerhaps it might be better said to be one of the un- \ndiscovered arts. There is at present no uniformity \nnor any standard of criticism. Each attempt depends \nupon the caprice of the critic. One will say that \nPope was no poet. Another will say that the poetry \nof the present day is weak and hardly worthy of the \nname, because it is deficient in objective delineation. \nAnother will say that the poetry of the present day \nstands higher than any that preceded it, because it \nfirst develops, on a grand and free scale, the spirit- \nual elements of our nature. This extra vao^a nee of \nvariation results, in part, from the very vague notions \nwhich exist in regard to the science of aesthetics. If \nthis had been developed among us according to the \nlogical principles just laid down, there would be less \ndivergence of result, because there would be, to some \nextent, a common standard. Before, however, illus- \ntrating the style of criticism which would spring from \na perfected science of beauty, we must admit that, \nat best, a great deal must be left to individual judg- \nment. The first and the last appeal is to individual \ntaste. Thus artistic and literary criticism must al- \nways be, to a greater or less extent, dogmatic. A \nmusical composition may be in precise accordance \nwith the laws of music ; yet this does not determine \nwhether an air or a theme is beautiful or not. A \npoem may be in a sense faultless, and yet lack the \nJe ne sais quoi, which would make it beautiful. The \ncritic, with natiu\'al and cultivated taste, must intui- \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ESTHETICS. 227 \n\ntively recognize the presence or the absence of beauty. \nThis intuition is his starting-point, and upon this he \nmust insist, whether with or without reason, whether \nin accordance with, or in opposition to, the opinion \nof others. Thus the starting-point of criticism is \ndogmatic. This, however, is only the starting-point. \nIts correctness depends upon correctness of taste. The \nscience of criticism teaches how to justify the verdict \nof taste. The critic, not content Avith saying that an \nobject is beautiful, goes on to explain why it is beau- \ntiful. The method and the science of this constitute \ncriticism. The method of this may be gathered from \nwhat has been said above in regard to the nature of \nsesthetics. The critic must not stand on the outside, \nand apply external and foreign measures. He must \npenetrate to the very heart of what he is examining, \nmust discover the ideal, or the idea, which is its heart, \nmust see how, and how perfectly, it has developed it- \nself, and thus judge every work by a standard of its \nown. This principle admits of a broad and general, \nas well as of a special, application. Every period of \nthe history of art has had its own ideal, and thus also \nits own methods. Each, thus, must be judged by its \nown principle. It would be unjust to apply the same \nrule to the Egyptian Sphinx, and to the Apollo of \nthe Belvidere. It would be unjust to decide upon \nthe merits of an antique Venus by the same standard \nwhich we apply to a Madonna of Raphael. The \nParthenon at Athens and the Cathedral of Cologne \nare both examples of architecture, but each springs \nout of the life of the period in which it was wrought. \nEach has its own ideal after which it was imaged, and \n\n\n\n228 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe measurements of neither can be applied in judg- \nment to the other. A whole epoch is represented \nby each. Each is beautiful, but each has its own \nbeauty. \n\nThis principle of judgment admits of narrower and \nnarrower application, according as we look upon a \nwork of art in its relation to one of the grand divis- \nions of history, or to a shorter and more restricted \nperiod, or to the individuality of its author, or even \nto the special purpose or end of the work. The \nspirit of a man undergoes a development as regular \nas that of the world itself. The deeper, the grander, \nthe spiritual nature, the more regular and complete is \nthis development. Especially in the present age \nof subjective literature, though more or less in all \nages, the development of the inner nature of the \nauthor, or the creator, will appear in his works. \nThese works, wrought out at different periods of this \nhistory, or rather the products of these changing \nperiods, must, of necessity, if they spring out of the \nlife of the author, have a common life running through \nthem. If these works be poems, they must be in \nsome sort one grand poem, just as the artistic results \nof all history together form a complete whole. The \n"/w Ilemoriam " of Tennyson diflfers from his " Prin- \ncess" as the Gothic cathedral differs from the Grecian \ntemple, though the difference is less broad. It not \nonly differs from it, but it stands in a certain definite \nrelation to it. No one can thus properly criticise the \nworks of Tennyson, taken as a whole, unless he has \npenetrated to the inner life that binds the whole to- \ngether. What is true of the works of Tennyson is \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF ESTHETICS. 229 \n\nequally true of the works of every writer who has \npower of life enough to assert itself in this way, and \nthe same principle of criticism should be applied to \nthem. \n\nThe criticism of any single work in art or litera- \nture should be conducted in a like sympathetic and \npenetrating method. It is the mere simulation of \ncriticism to stand on the outside of a work, and \npoint to one part and to another, and say, "This is \npretty, and that is grand, and this is imperfect." \n"We want the critic to go to the heart of the work , to \ndiscover the central power of its life. He must have \nsympathj^ enough with it to know why it was pro- \nduced, how it took hold of the author\'s mind, what \nhe was trying to do, or to what he was unconsciously \nimpelled. In other words, he must find out what \nthe work was produced for, the idea out of which it \nsprang, the ideal towards which it aspires. Every \ntrue work of art has such a central idea, and criti- \ncism is imperfect till this idea has been reached and \nexhibited, and we have been made to see how per- \nfectly the means have been used to reach this end. \n\nThe disregard of this principle of criticism has \nbeen the cause of many of the false judgments that \nhave been pronounced. The French applied to \nShakespeare the rules of the Greek drama, or rather \nthe rules of the Greek drama Gallicised, and found \nhim ridiculous. The English critics applied to the \nearlier poems of Wordsworth and Tennyson the \nrules of the preceding school of literature, and \nfound them absurd. It should be remarked, how- \never, in extenuation, that it is sometimes almost \n\n\n\n230 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nimpossible to apply this true method of criticism to \nthe earlier works of a writer of true genius. He \nhas an ideal of his own, at which these earliest works \nhint, though it is not fully exhibited till his later \nworks have shown what is the common end of all of \nthem. Till then, we have no perfect criterion by \nwhich to judge them. \n\nThe works of John Ruskin exhibit much of the \ntrue spirit of criticism. They are dogmatic ; but we \nhave seen that dogmatism is a necessary element of \naesthetic criticism. But they are, in many cases at \nleast, sympathetic also. Especially is this the case \nwith his unfolding the various elements of natural \nbeauty. The sky, the grass, the clouds, and the trees \nseem to have opened their hearts to him. He is in \nsympathy with them, and puts his readers into the \nsame sympathetic relation. Thus, haviug reached \ntheir heart, we enjoy them as we had never done \nbefore. \n\nThe third division of aesthetic science has already \nbeen stated to be that which refers to practical artistic \ncreation. This, however, can by its nature have \nlittle place in a treatise on logic. For its rules are \neither technical on the one side, or, on the other, \nthey are as a general thing secret, not to be laid \ndown beforehand, and not present to consciousness, \neven at the moment of the creative act. The first of \nthese two forms of law, that which we have called \nthe technical, has reference to the peculiar character- \nistics of the material with which the special art has \nto do. Thus, for instance, the art of painting in- \nvolves, first, a knowledge of the coloring elements, \n\n\n\nLOGIC OF AESTHETICS. 231 \n\nand of the manner of imitating solid objects upon a \nflat sm\'face, or the laws of perspective. Secondly, \nit involves a knowledge of the relation of colors to \neach other, their harmonies and their contrasts, so \nthat the picture produced maybe pleasing to the eye, \neven without regard to the objects represented. \nThe same is true of the relation of forms. These \nmust be understood, so that the mere massing of the \nobjects in the picture may have a pleasing effect. \nThis involves the knowledge and the study of com- \nposition. All of such laws are in a great measure \ntechnical, and to a great extent inductive rather than \ndeductive. On the other side, we have the act of \ncreation, the originating power, all that marks and \nconstitutes what we call genius. This is, in its most \nperfect operations, the spontaneous action of the \nmind itself, unconscious of rules, working merely by \nits autocratic power. Some writers, indeed, tell us \nthe process by which their works have been designed, \nas Edgar Poe has done, in the case of his "Raven." \nBut such statements are to be received with great \ncaution. They are often mere after-thoughts, and, \nat best, the essential element of the process has es- \ncaped them. If any one doubts this, let him try to \ncreate a similar work by the same recipe, and he will \nfind that the most important part has not been told \nhim. Such a grand, original work, formed without \nrule, often in defiance of pre-existing rules, becomes \nitself the source of rules that are derived from it, as \nthe laws of the drama were derived from the Greek \ntragedy. Such laws hold good, until some new, \ngrand, original work has set them at naught, des- \n\n\n\n232 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntined itself to become the authority for a new code \nof laws. This act of creation is, although uncon- \nscious of itself, a deduction from the inherent aesthetic \nsense, which determines the material to be used, and \nthe end to be sought. Esthetics can only recognize \nthis power, but cannot control, or, to any further \nextent, explain it. \n\nCONCLUSION. \n\nWe have thus examined, as far as has been neces- \nsary for the purposes of this work, the principles of \ndeduction from the fundamental propositions of the \nreason, namely, those of truth, goodness, and beauty. \nIf it be objected that in what has been said there has \nbeen much reference to deduction from the proposi- \ntions of the understanding also, and that many of \nthe processes described are simply those of induction, \nthis is freely admitted. In explanation it may be \nstated, first, that these diverse elements are so \nmingled that one cannot be considered wholly apart \nfrom the others ; and, secondly, that the object of \nthis discussion has been in part critical. The object \nwas to determine, not merely the method of this \nform of deduction, but the limit of its use. Having \naccomplished this, so far as is possible within our \npresent limits, we will now proceed to examine the \nnature and methods of the deduction that is based \nupon the propositions of the understanding, or, in \nother words, upon the results of previous inductions. \nWe have no longer vast outlooks into absolute truth, \nbut hardly less serviceable surveys from each fresh \n\n\n\nSCIENTiriC DEDUCTION. 233 \n\npoint which the understanding has reached in its \ntoilsome ascent. \n\n\n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 DEDUCTIONS FROM PROPOSITIONS OF THE UNDER- \nSTANDING. \n\nEach new generalization of human thought be- \ncomes, by degrees, the source of numberless deduc- \ntions. These first prove the new generalization, and \nthen make it useful in its application to all possible \nrelations. In these two operations consists the im- \nportance of this form of deduction. The first is that \nof proof; the second is that of application. For in- \nstance, the stupendous generalization of Newton, by \nwhich the motions of the heavenly bodies were \nbrought into the same category with those of falling \nbodies upon the earth, became the source of deductive \nreasoning applied to the movements of the heavenly \nbodies. The result of this reasoning was compared \nwith the actual movement and position of these bodies. \nThe coincidence of the two results proved the truth of \nthe generalization. After such experiments had set- \ntled beyond a question the truth of the grand principle, \nthen it became a centre of light which radiated in all \ndirections. It gave the law to the planetary move- \nments. It disclosed new planets. It was established \nas the unquestioned ruler of the heavenly spaces. In \nlike manner, every discovery is fruitless until it has \nthus been made the origin of other discoveries, and \nhas submitted to this manifold application. Thus it \nis, that each new, grand discovery introduces a change \ninto all departments of science. It will thus be seen \n\n\n\n234 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhow deductive reasoning fills a very large and neces- \nsary place, even in the sciences which we call induc- \ntive. The broadest generalizations of induction would \nbe barren, if it were not for the multitude of new \ntruths which deduction draws from them. \n\nBut while deduction is thus a vital element, even \nin the inductive sciences, yet it becomes a hostile ele- \nment, a clog and a dead weight to science, when it is \nin excess. Deduction binds the generalizations of \nthe past, as by innumerable cords, to the familiar \nobjects of life. The growth of science consists in \nthe pushing forward of its generalizations. No point \nreached is a final point. We have, thus, two antag- \nonistic forces, \xe2\x80\x94 induction pushing forward a generali- \nzation, and deduction holding it back by these bonds \nof attachment to known and familiar facts. Thus every \nnew generalization breaks up habits of thought, de- \nstro3^s the applicability of terms, and disturbs the \nwhole system that rested upon the generalization \nwhich it supplants. Thus any mind in which the de- \nductive faculty or habit is in excess dreads anything \nthat shall make uncertain the premises which have \nbeen the source of its reasoning. Especially will \nthe deductive habit oppose the new generalization \nwhen it concerns any religious or political belief, any- \nthing on which not merely systems, but institutions, \ndepend. It will be noticed that it is the same ele- \nment which is most hostile to the fresh results of \ninduction that clings most tenaciously to the same \nresults after they have been long established, being in \nall cases simply a conservative force. From what \nhas been said it will be seen that any epoch or peo- \n\n\n\nSCIENTIFIC DEDUCTION. 235 \n\npie, in whose thought the deductive element is in ex- \ncess, will be barren, to a great degree, of new results. \nIts foundation premises will be held immovable by \nthe complicated structure that is reared upon them. \n"While at the same time, as the sweep of deduction \nbecomes larger and more unbroken, the same diffi- \nculty that we found in deductive philosophy will \nmanifest itself. The results will, namely, become \nmore and more abstract and valueless the further they \nare removed from their source. Thus the mediasval \nage, in which the scholastic system ruled, was to a \ngreat extent barren of new and valuable discoveries. \n\nAnother evil of an excess of deduction in science \nhas been well shown by Mr. Buckle, in his admirable \nthough merely incidental discussion of the subject, to \nbe that it lessens its popularity. The common mind \ncannot grasp its results. This is true in propor- \ntion as the premises are removed from the common \nthought or knowledge. Inductive science builds up \nits results in the very sight of all men. Its materi- \nals are such as the mass of people can understand. \nIts facts lie very near to them ; while, on the other \nhand, deduction, taking its start from some inacces- \nsible height, follows a path which to the popular \napprehension is vague and unreal. \n\nA true, fruitful, and progressive science depends, \nthen, upon a certain relation of induction and deduc- \ntion. Too little deduction would deprive the fairest \ndiscoveries of their best use and beauty. When, \nhowever, the deductive element is in excess, it takes \nfrom science its elastic and progressive force, and at \nthe same time deprives it of its legitimate influence \n\n\n\n236 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nfor the instruction and elevation of the popular \nmind. \n\nWe have now to consider the different kinds of de- \nduction, varying according to the nature of the prem- \nise, and make some suggestions in regard to their \nvalue, their use, and misuse. \n\nIn the first division of this work, we saw that the \nuniversal may stand to its subordinates in one of \nthree general relations, namely, statical, dynamical, \nor organic. As deduction proceeds from the univer- \nsal to its subordinates we shall have to contemplate it \nunder these three aspects. In the first of these rela- \ntions, namely, that of the statical universal, all that \nwill concern us here is the category of quantity, or \nnumerical wholeness. Quality here only concerns us \nas cause, and its relation thus becomes dynamical. \nWe have, then, these three forms under which the \npremises of our syllogism may be comprehended, \nnamely, of quantity, of causation, and of organic \nwholeness. \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 STATIC. \n\nThe proposition, already so often referred to, All \nmen are mortal, furnishes a type of the quantitative \nuniversal. From this, provided it be accurate, re- \nsults of absolute certainty may be drawn. What- \never is true of all units of a certain class is true of \neach one of them taken by itself, or of any number \nof them taken together. It is this absolute certainty \nthat has given its distinguishing glory to the sjdlo- \ngism. All that is necessary is, first, that the premises \nbe true, with which, however, the deductive process \n\n\n\nSTATIC DEDUCTION. 237 \n\nitself is not concerned, it being left to induction to \nestablish the truth or the falsehood of them ; and, \nsecondly, that words be used in the same sense and \nwith corresponding limitation in the different prem- \nises. When these two points are established, we \nhave in the result absolute and indubitable truth. \n\nIt will be obvious that it is only the most general \npropositions that admit of this use, and herein con- \nsists the barrenness that has been ascribed to this form \nof reasoning. As it is a fundamental truth of mechan- \nics that force and velocity are antagonistic, what is \ngained in force being lost in velocity, and the reverse, \nso it is a fundamental truth of logic, that we have \nfound already exemplified in mathematics, that abso- \nlute certainty stands in a direct ratio to abstractness. \nAbsolute certainty and concreteness stand in an in- \nverse and antagonistic relation. This quantitative \ndeduction is, however, useful, even when it does not \nreach the point of completeness in the first proposi- \ntion, and of certainty in the result. In this case the \nresult will be a probability, great or small, in propor- \ntion as the premise does, or does not, approach an \nabsolutely universal statement. Thus, if almost all \nwarm-blooded creatures are land animals, there would \nbe an immense a priori probability that any particu- \nlar warm-blooded creature lived on the land. On \nthe other hand, if nearly all sea-creatures are cold- \nblooded, there would be a similar probability in favor \nof any particular sea-creature being cold-blooded. \nNeither of these probabilities, however, would ap- \nproach the certainty with which we could argue from \nthe premise that no warm-blooded creature could \n\n\n\n238 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nlive wholly under the water, to the result that this \nparticular warm-blooded creature could uot. As a \nmajor premise which is almost universal leads to a \nprobable result, so one that is merely indefinite leads \nto a possible result. A child says she has seen a cow \nwithout horns. The other children do uot believe it, \nand appeal to you. You say. Some cows have no \nhorns ; therefore the one she saw may not have had \nany. Strictly speaking, if we know the exact degree \nof universalness that there is in the first proposition, \nwe have the proportion for the probability of the \nresult. Thus, if nine-tenths of the units compre- \nhended under the class B belong to the higher class \nA, there is a probability of nine to ten that any one \nindividual b of the class B belongs also to the higher \nclass A. This general statement must content us \nhere without tracing out its possible and obvious \ncomplications. \n\nThe probability and possibility which we have \nfound to spring from the greater or less universality \nof the major quantitative premise furnishes a basis of \naction, though not of scientific truth. The truth of \nthe statement. Some men are sharpers ; therefore \nthis man may be, puts every one on his guard in \ndealing with a perfect stranger. The almost infini- \ntesimal probability reached by the statement, A very \nfew houses are burnt in a year; therefore mine may \nbe, leads the cautious householder to obtain an in- \nsurance policy. We are, however, approaching al- \nready the subject of the universal as cause, to which \nwe will now fully turn ourselves. \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC DEDUCTION. 239 \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 DYNAMIC. \n\nEvery object is practically au assemblage of quali- \nties. These qualities are simply the methods by \nwhich it acts and reacts on surrounding objects. \nThese, which we may loosely call primary qualities, \nproducing certain effects upon surrounding bodies, \ngive rise to what we may call secondary qualities. \nThus, sugar is sweet, and thereby pleasant. Gun- \npowder is explosive, and thereby dangerous. Thus, \nfrom these which we have called the primary quali- \nties branch out others, and through these others, in \nan almost endless progression. Deduction, in its rela- \ntion to the dynamical aspect of bodies, consists in \ntracing out this chain of cause and effect. From the \nprimary or secondary qualities of any object or ac- \ntion we prove its utility or its efficiency, its fitness \nor unfitness, for any special relation. These primary \nand other qualities occur in groups. Thus the process \nof deduction is not a simple one. If a thing had but \none quality, and thus produced only a single effect, \nthe work would be an easy one. But as it is, it must \nalways happen that, for any particular purpose or re- \nlation, these chains of cause and effect interfere with \neach other. One quality will tend to fit the object for \nthis end ; the other will tend to unfit it. Thus we \nhave open to us opposing lines of deductive reason- \ning. We are confronted by that antinomy which we \nhave already found so liable to meet us in deductive \nreasoning. In fact, in deduction from the proposi- \ntions of the understanding only those which involve \npurely quantitative relations are free from this. Though \n\n\n\n240 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthis peculiarity of deductive reasoning has been often \noverlooked, it is the great hindrance to its absolute \nreliability. It is this element in reasoning that puts \nit in the power of religious, political, and other char- \nlatans to deceive and mislead the people. It is this, \nalso, which is the occasion of the very common one- \nsidedness of thought. Take, for instance, the matter \nof a protective tariff. Such a tariff has two aspects : \none towards the manufacturing interests of a country, \nthe other towards its commercial interests. Thus we \nhave an opportunity for two utterly antagonistic ar- \nguments. One adopts this form : The development \nof manufactures is essential to the interests of a na- \ntion ; a protective tariff helps the manufacturing in- \nterest ; therefore a protective tariff contributes to the \nnational prosperity. The other argument is in this \nwise : Commerce is essential to the prosperity of a \ncountry ; a protective tariff obstructs commerce ; con- \nsequently a protective tariff is injurious to the pros- \nperity of a country. I have put these argumenis \nloosely together, as I have done in the case of othei \nillustrations, not affecting the precise syllogistic accu- \nracy. \n\nThis full form can easily be constructed by any \nreader who cares for verbal strictness. From what \nhas been said, it will be seen how each of these ar- \nguments is in itself satisfactory, and could easily \npass itself off for the entire truth. A person listen- \ning, for the first time, to either would feel it con- \nvincing, and those in the constant habit of hearing or \nusing either would feel it unanswerable. Each is in \nfact not answered, but rebutted, by the other. This \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC DEDUCTION. 241 \n\nantagonism is not peculiar to this case, but makes its \nappearance in almost every other similar one. In \nany projected undertaking, one person will urge the \nadvantages of it ; another its difficulties. Perhaps it \nis a case of proposed war. One person, or party, \nwill paint the injured honor of the nation, or its re- \nstricted interests. The other person, or party, will \npaint the horrors of war, its suffering, and its cost. \nSuch illustrations might be accumulated endlessly. \nIn fact, this partialness forms the staple of the great \nmass of argument. Arguments do not so often con- \nfute each other, as, starting from different premises, \nundertake to overthrow each other by their momen- \ntum. Rhetoric, or at least the rhetoric of oratory \nand persuasion, consists in the effort to make the \nquality selected as the basis of the argument so at- \ntractive that it will be stronger than any antagonistic \none. It seeks, in fact, to emphasize this quality so \nthat every other shall be forgotten. In the case of \nthe tariff, the rhetoric of the one party will paint the \nadvantage which will come to the country from the \nprosperity of the manufacturing interest, and the evils \nthat would spring from interference with this. The \nother party will spend the same rhetoric in painting \nthe glory of the maritime interest. In case the quali- \nties lie on different planes, the effort is to make the \nlistener rise or sink to the same plane as that on \nwhich the speaker stands. It may be that one side \nobjects to the moral quality of an action. The other \nside urges its practical advantage. The two cannot \nmeet. The one seeks to lift the hearer up to the high \nplane of moral sentiment ; the other to drag him down \n16 \n\n\n\n242 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto the lower one of self-interest. This antinomy is \nin some degree recognized. The proverb says that \nevery story has two sides. But yet it is far from \nbeing generally perceived that it springs from the \nvery nature of deductive reasoning. The recogni- \ntion of this fact would do very much to make men \nindependent of one-sided reasoners, and fit them to \napproach impartially the questions that rack the pop- \nular thought. \n\nWhat has been said would seem to leave this form of \nreasoning and its results in hopeless confusion. Yet it \nis precisely on this dynamic deduction that the great \npractical interests of life depend, and every act is the \nfruit of one or another such train of reasoning. Per- \nsons are so constituted that one quality of an object \ntakes hold of them more strongly than another ; or \nthey may have been educated into a certain relation \nwith one form of qualities, rather than another, so \nthat arguments drawn from these especially move \nthem. Men are more or less one-sided. Each rep- \nresents, more or less, a partial idea. It may seem, \nthen, as if such reasoning were useless ; as if there \nwere no absolute criterion of truth. But, first, it is \nby the means of this partialness that the whole nature \nof an object, or institution, or truth, becomes brought \ninto play. One man bases his reasoning and his actions \nupon one interest, another upon another, and thus each \nhas justice done it. Secondly, so far as these diverse \nqualities are upon difierent planes, as, for instance, \none on the moral and the other upon the selfish, the \nproperly constituted and educated man is adapted to \nthese, so that each class makes its due emphasis, and \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC DEDUCTION, 243 \n\nhas its due weight with him. And, thirdly, so far \nas these diflferent qualities are on the same plane, \ndeduction cannot, indeed, solve the difference between \nthem. But she has a powerful ally, namely, induc- \ntion, which she can call to her aid. Induction, which \nis but another name for experience, corrects the \nerrors, balances the partialness, and solves the antag- \nonism of deduction. Deduction shows the effects \nthat qualities tend to produce. Induction, taking \nthe hint, shows what effect they actually do produce. \nFrom the nature of a protective tariff, for instance, \nwe can paint beforehand certain effects, so far as \ncommerce and manufactures are concerned. Experi- \nence alone can show just what tariff, if any, is best \nsuited for the common interests of any given people, at \nany particular period of their history. The more ab- \nstract the reasoning, the less does deduction need this \ncorrection. The more complex the relations with which \nit has to do, the more does it need it. This last prin- \nciple needs emphasis ; for it is often in the most compli- \ncated matters that men are most inclined to trust to \nmere a priori reasoning. Thus it would be impossi- \nble to number the theories of political economy that \nhave been based on deduction from some one princi- \nple, and taken as real, and worthy of complete trust, \nbecause they were in harmony with, and result from, \nthis principle. Thus the wise Plato, believing the \n\xe2\x80\xa2state to be the one central and all-important element \nof society, deduced from this starting-point his ideal \nrepublic, \xe2\x80\x94 a scheme which excludes what is best and \nmost essential to human life, breaks up the family, \nand runs into all extravagance. In these days, it is \n\n\n\n244 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nmore common to deduce our theories of social life \nfrom the principle of the absolute individualitj^ and \nindependence of all men. Relief of the poor, com- \nmon schools, and public improvement, are, in these \ntheories, excluded from the sphere of governmental \njurisdiction. The first point named, the relief of the \npoor, illustrates very well the nature of such reason- \ning. Poverty, it is said, is the natural punishment \nof improvidence. To alleviate it is to encourage \nimprovidence, consequently to increase the evil it \nis designed to lessen. Those w^ho reason thus rep- \nresent some of the best thought of the time ; yet, \nsingularly enough, they fall into the same extrava- \ngance that the fanatics did, who objected to inocula- \ntion for the small-pox, because it interfered with the \npains and penalties ordained by God. Every natural \nevil is a penalty for some broken law. If one is \ncareless on the water, drowning is the extreme pen- \nalty. To save a drowning man is to encourage care- \nlessness. Ill-health is the penalty for breaking the \nlaws of health. The doctors are rendering nature\'s \nlaws of none effect. Plato already turned them out \nof his republic, because they kept along in life those \nwho by good right ought to die off. The reasoning \nreferred to, which is so common in regard to the \npoor, is simply another instance of the same sort. \nDoubtless injudicious help does more harm than \ngood. jLxperience shows us how best we may alle- \nviate the sufferings of povert}^, while at the same \ntimj3 we diminish, instead of increasing, its cause. \nTItujs ail social theories, whether those which look to \nthe government to control everything, to find work \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC DEDUCTIOlSr. 245 \n\nfjr the worker and food for the eater, or those which \nexcUide from the sphere of government all such inter- \nference and help, all systems based on the selfishness \nof man, or upon his desire of gain, or any other single \nprinciple, need the correction of experience. Politi- \ncal economy cannot, indeed, be a purely inductive \nscience, for the perfect society has had, thus far, no \nexistence. It cannot be a purely deductive science, \nfor, as we have seen, deduction by itself runs into \nextravagance. It is probably impossible to form a \ncomplete system of political economy, till society \nitself is perfect. But deduction and induction, by \ntheir mutual help, can continually advance the science, \nand cause it to approximate nearer and nearer to per- \nfection. This illustration has been dwelt upon to \nshow how, as the subject of reasoning becomes com- \nplex, pure deduction becomes less and less able to \nsustain itself by its own force, and how it needs the \ncorrection of experience, the organization of which \nin induction we are presently to consider. \n\nIt may, however, be objected to what has here \nbeen said in regard to the illustration used, that it is \npossible to form by deduction, if not a perfect system \nof political economy, yet one practically sufficient. \nFor instance, although selfishness is not the only \nhuman trait, and a system based upon it is incom- \nplete, yet, if we look upon government as an institu- \ntion for mutual protection, we need no other recog- \nnized principle. Machiavelli long ago reduced this \nto its simplest expression, when he said that the \nprince shoull rather trust to the fear, than to the \nlove, of his people ; for the fear was in his own \n\n\n\n246 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\npower, while the love was not. But even in the \npunishment of criminals, which is the most common \nexample of this relation of government to the safety \nof society, there is more than one thing to be con- \nsidered. The rights of the criminal are to be re- \nspected, as well as those of the public. That is, he \nis to be punished just as much as the public safety \nrequires, and no more. Experience, alone, can bal- \nance these two interests. Thus, in all similar cases, \ndeduction is, to a very great extent, the moving prin- \nciple, but it needs, at every step, the correction of \ninduction. \n\nWe have considered static and dynamic deduction. \nIt now remains only to glance at deduction from a \nwhole to its parts, or what may be called organic \ndeduction. \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 ORGANIC. \n\nPurely organic deduction can hardly be said to \nhave any real existence, for an organism consists of \ntwo elements, one static, the other dynamic, and \ndeduction has to do with a single principle alone. \nYet none the less do we often meet with reasoning \nof this kind, which appears plausible, and may be \neither misleading or confusmg. The fallacy which \ntakes this form is that of reasoning from the nature \nof an organic whole to that of its parts. We have \nalready come into contact with this fallacy, in discus- \nsing deduction from the propositions of the reason in \ngeneral. All the fallacies there considered might \nbe regarded as examples of false organic deduction. \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 247 \n\nwhich may be further specially illustrated by suppos- \ning some one to reason from the fact that a picture is \nbeautiful, that, therefore, each part of it must be \nbeautiful. \n\nIt is in regard to the final cause, that organic \ndeduction has its most important place, though here \nit cannot stand alone. One must unite with deduc- \ntion from the final cause, as to w^hat is required for \nits accomplishment, induction to determine what ob- \njects and means would efiect these requirements. \nAnd such reasoning from the final cause is in danger \nof proving fallacious, since difierent means may pro- \nduce the same end. We meet a fine example of this \nform of deduction in its real power, in the way in \nwhich a general, or a chess-player, knowing the end \nwhich his adversary has in view, deduces from that \nthe means he will take to reach it, and thus is able \nto break up the organization of his plans, before they \nhave begun to execute themselves. \n\nFrom what has been said, however, it will be seen \nthat organic deduction, in its general uncertainty, and \nin the fact that it unites the elements of induction \nand deduction, partakes already of the nature of \nhypothesis, which forms the natural transition be- \ntween these two forms of reasoning. \n\nC\xe2\x80\x94 DEDUCTION FEOM MIXED PROPOSITIONS. \nHTPOTHESIS. \n\nIt has been stated that hypothesis licis between de- \nduction and induction, connected with both, yet be- \n\n\n\n248 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nlonging exclusively to neither. An hypothesis is the \nresult of a superficial glance at the facts to be ex- \nplained, and at the general principles by which it \nseems possible to explain them. It is thus an \nimperfect, hasty, and superficial induction, and in \nlike manner a hasty and superficial deduction. One \ncan hardly make an hypothesis, which shall be any- \nthing more than a random guess, without regarding \nboth the nature of the facts, and also the general \nlaws already established. The words hypothesis and \ntheory have often a similar, though rarely, if ever, a \nquite identical meaning. An hypothesis is a more or \nless probable conjecture in regard to the cause of \nany phenomenon. A theory refers to the method or \nlaw of the working of any cause known or imagined. \nThus the luminiferous ether that is supposed to fill \nthe interstellar spaces is, until its existence is proved, \nan hypothesis. The method of its undulations is a \ntheory. The word theory further difiers from the \nword hypothesis, in that it is used with less reference \nto its absolute and certain truth. We speak, for \ninstance, of "Wells\' theory of dew," or more gener- \nally, of the \'Hheory of dew," although its truth has \nbeen established beyond a doubt. Although the \nwords are thus distinct in their meaning, they may \noften be used interchangeably, as an hypothesis al- \nways involves a theory, and a theory often involves \nan hypothesis. The use of the word hypothesis is \nsometimes a little doubtful. It is difficult, for in- \nstance, to determine the exact point of time when an \nhypothesis becomes a fact. And further, in speaking \nof what was once believed to be a reality, but now \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 249 \n\nknown to have been a mere hj^pothesis, or of what is \nnow known to be a reality, bnt which was once held \nmerely as an hypothesis, it is doubtful which term to \nuse. Something may be subjectively an hypothesis, \nand objectively a fact, or the reverse. In what 1 \nhave to say, I shall use the word very generally, and \nwithout any attempt at absolute precision, which is \nfor our present purpose unnecessary. \n\nWe have, first, to speak of the use and place of \nhypothesis, and, next, to give some general sugges- \ntions in regard to the formation of them, in the differ- \nent departments into which they divide themselves. \n\nHypothesis has been at times considered the bane \nof reasoning. We now know it to be a necessary \nadjunct of reasoning. Whether the hypothesis be \ntrue or false, it helps to crystallize the formless mass \nof materials which awaits generalization. It gives \nan impetus to observation. It gives direction and point \nto examination. It helps to remember, as well as \nto see, facts. Isaac Taylor very well compares hy- \npotheses to drawers labelled, "Ready for the recep- \ntion of facts." Take, for instance, the two theories \nformerly held and defended in regard to electricity, \nnamely, that of the one fluid, and that of the two \nfluids ; how much have these contributed to the \nobservation and generalization of phenomena. They \nstood over against each other, like the leaders in the \nchild\'s game of thread-the-needle, making each ap- \nprehended fact decide for one or the other, take its \nplace behind the selected one, and add its strength \nto the struggle that was to determine its superiority. \nAnd though both theories now rest side by side, alike \n\n\n\n250 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nrejected, yet none the less did they contribute to tho \nprogress of the science. Thus do even false theories \nhelp on true knowledge. The alchemists were pur- \nsuing a phantom, yet none the less did they create \nchemistry. Columbus was mistaken in some of his \ntheories, yet none the less did he discover America. \nThus we might go through the history of science, and \nshow how it has been helped at every step by hypoth- \neses that have been without basis, though not with- \nout fruit. \n\nIf false hypotheses have done so much for science, \nhow shall we estimate the value of true hypotheses? \nMany have a notion that in any induction, the rea- \nsoner, step by step, approaches the grand result at \nwhich he at last arrives. This is rarel}^ if ever, the \ncase. The reasouer throws himself forward upon \nsome hypothesis from which he may look back upon \nhis facts, and marshal them, This is his -ud (jtco \noutside of the world, from which he moves the \nworld. This hypothesis is rarely an entirely fresh \ncreation. It is in general a simple or modified form \nof some already recognized principle, unless it be, \nindeed, a mere x, or unknown term, supposed as the \nsupporter of certain phenomena. Since hypothesis \nholds this prominent place in reasoning, it is natural \nand important to have, so far as possible, rules for \nguidance in their formation, yet as an hypothesis is, \nby its very nature, in part, an original and fresh sug- \ngestion, no rules can very precisely determine the \nmethod of its formation, or fix restrictions in the \nsearch for it. We shall, however, proceed to bring \ntogether certain of these rules, as they have been \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 251 \n\nsuggested by distinguished thinker3, illustrate and \ncriticise them, and add to them whatever may seem \nnecessary to present a complete view of this topic, \nso far as fits in with the plan and limits of this work. \nTo do this it will be necessary to divide possible hy- \npotheses into certain distinct classes. An hypothesis \nis simply a possible universal from which we can \nreason as if it were real. We have already seen that \nthe universal may stand to its subordinate in either \nof three relations, namely, static, dynamic, and or- \nganic. We have thus already made the division that \nwe need. It is very easy to see the importance of \nthis division. The process of arriving at some pos- \nsible ground of classification common to many dis- \ntinct objects is very difierent from that required to \ndevise some possible cause for any number of results. \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 STATIC. \n\nAs in deduction we found the static universal to be \nquantitative, that is, to be the expression of a gen- \neralization which includes all the units of a certain \nclass, as any number might include them, so the search \nfor an hypothesis on which to base such a generaliza- \ntion will be the attempt to find a quality which may \nserve as the basis of such a quantitative universal, \nthat is, some quality which may be made a common \nterm for all the units under consideration. \n\nHerbert Spencer makes a very important sugges- \ntion in regard to hypotheses, which is, however, appli- \ncable mainly, if not wholly, to that class of hypothe- \nses we are now considering. The suggestion is this, \n\n\n\n252 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthat to reach such an hypothesis you take terms as \nwidely distinct as possible, standing at different ex- \ntremities of the series, and what is common to these \nis very likely to be common to all intermediate ones. \nHe proceeds on this principle to develop a very in- \no\'enious and valuable definition of life, takins: as his \nextremes the lowest type of vegetation and the high- \nest of human thought. It will readily be seen how \nimportant this principle is in such a process. If the \nattention were confined merely to vegetable life, \ngrowth would probably be the first hypothesis sug- \ngested, while so soon as we reach the higher types \nwe find that growth is merely a subordinate element, \nwhich, so soon as an animal reaches its maturity, \nceases to manifest itself. Looking merely at the \nhigher types, we might perhaps hit upon locomotion \nas the common term, which, however, fails us when \nwe consider the lower. If, however, we take both \nextremes, what is common to these will, most proba- \nbly, be common to all the rest. By proceeding in \nthis manner, Spencer reaches this as a definition of \nlife, namely, that it is the continuous adjustment of \ninternal to external relations. \n\nIt is obvious that an hypothesis thus reached can \nbe only very general and abstract. It must often \nleave out what is most characteristic in the class of \nbodies, facts, and operations considered. For in- \nstance, if I wished to distinguish the plays of Shake- \nspeare from other similar works, or, in other words, \nif I wished to characterize the genius of Shakespeare, \nI should not seek what is common between the "Ham- \nlet," on the one side, and the " Troilus and Cressida," \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 253 \n\non the other, for, by so doing, I shoulcl exchide what \nI was seeking. For a formal, abstract, quantitative \ndefinition, which shall include all members of the \nclass considered, the suggestion of Spencer is a very \nvaluable one. But by putting the lowest examples \non an equality with the highest, it reduces all to a \nlevel with the lowest ; and this, it may be remarked \nin passing, is a danger to which the science of the \ntime is exposed. \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 DTNAMIC. \n\nThe second kind of hypothesis in our division is \nthe dynamic. A dynamic hypothesis is one which is \nput forward to furnish a conjectural cause to certain \neffects. Here, also, have been devised certain rules \nor principles to guide and control the search. \n\nAnd, first, Newton, the great master of inductive \nthought, lays down as one canon that the cause as- \nsigned shall be a true cause, vera causa. This can- \nnot mean that it should be the true cause ; for that \nconflicts with the very nature of hypothesis, this being \na step in the discovery of the true cause. Neither \ncan it mean that it should be some already recognized \nand established principle ; for this would be to limit \nour knowledge to the causes already known, and thus \nrestrict the grand march of science. The rule may \nbe taken in this last sense, however, so far as to imply \nthat, if possible, the hypothesis should be that of \nsome already recognized force. Such was Newton\'s \nhypothesis of the cause of the planetary movements. \nGravitation was a known force, and the reducing the \nplanetary movements to this was to explain them by \n\n\n\n254 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\na known cause. Yet, even in this sense, the rule is \nnot universally binding. There are times when an \nentirely new force has to be devised to explain some \nnew class of effects. Thus, the suggestion of the \nelectric fluid to explain electrical phenomena was the \nintroducing into the scientific world an entirely new \nand unheard-of agent. To find any absolute value to \nthis rule of Newton, we must take a step further. \nThe scholastic habit was to assign, as the cause of an \neffect, a certain quiddity, which was merely another \nname for the same thing. Thus we might say that \na man is virtuous through the possession of virtue. \nAn object is heavy, gravis, through its gravity. \nNow this is to assign no cause in any true sense of \nthe term. The rule of Newton forbids an hypothesis \nto be a mere play upon words. Gravity is such a \nmerely verbal explanation applied to weight ; it be- \ncome a true cause when applied to the motions of the \nheavenly bodies. \n\nComte, who, with all the imperfections of his re- \nsults, must be regarded as one of the great organizers \nof modern science, suggests a rule for the formation \nof hypotheses, namely, that every hypothesis must \nbe one that admits of decisive proof or negation. \nThat is to say, an hypothesis is only valuable as a \nstep in the discovery of truth, and must therefore be \none that admits of final settlement. This rule over- \nlooks the advantage already spoken of, namely, that \nan hypothesis, true or false, helps to organize crude \nmaterial. It has also the further difficulty, that one \ncannot say at first what does admit of proof and what \ndoes not. The electric fluid seemed an hypothesis \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 255 \n\nthat must be always a doubtful one, yet now we know \npositively that there is no such substance. The \nnegative proof is complete ; while, so far as positive \nproof is concerned, we can hardly conceive it possible \nthat the grand hypothesis of the interstellar ether \nshould ever admit of any proof more strong than its \ncomplete adaptation to explain all the phenomena \nconcerned. It was, probably, in reference to such \nhypotheses as these that the rule was first given. \nScience has, however, gained so much from such \nhypotheses that the impropriety of the rule has been \ndemonstrated. It is, indeed, impossible to confine \nscience within the narrow limits which Comte thought \nfitting. He would restrict it to the mere observation \nof the sequence and correlation of phenomena. The \nhuman mind, however, seeks constantly to place a \ncause behind every appearance, and the gain which \nscience has made thereby shows that, though this \ntendency is to be kept within due bounds, it is not \nto be utterly forbidden. \n\nThe third and last rule which I shall cite, for the \nformation of hypotheses in regard to the causes of \nphenomena, is stated by Whewell in his very valua- \nble and most interesting work on the history and the \nphilosophy of the inductive sciences. Whewell takes \nthe position that we have certain previously formed, \nor, as he would maintain, innate ideas, relating to \ntime, space, force, etc. His theory of hypothesis is \nthat from these ideas is taken one which is conjectu- \nrally applied to the facts under consideration. If it \nfits in with them, furnishing an explanation of the \nknown, and foretelling the unknown, then it is a true \n\n\n\n256 THE SCISNCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhypothesis. The principle he insists upon is, that \nthe idea taken for this purpose should be of the Idnd \nwhich is befitting the circumstances of the case. As \nan illustration of the disregard of this principle, we \nhave the fact that the ancients, age after age, failed \nin explaining the course and relation of the heavenly \nbodies, because they sought to do this by applyhigto \nthem ideas of space instead of those of force. That \nis, they sought to explain them by relations of space \ninstead of by those of force. This rule is, certainly, \na very good one. The trouble is that the question is \nvery often just this : From what kind of relations \nshall the hypothesis be taken? The rule is thus \nbetter fitted to criticise mistakes after the truth has \nbeen discovered, than to prevent these mistakes in \nthe first instance. Thus, in the present stage of \nscience, it is easy to say that for the explanation of \nthe digestive process the hypothetical cause should \nhave been suggested by chemistry, rather than by \nany fancied theory of a vital principle. But, certain- \nly, to the first reason ers on the subject this vital \nprinciple was much more naturally suggested than \nany chemical agencies. So, to the ancients, the move- \nments of the heavenly bodies naturally suggested \nideas of space rather than those of force. The appli- \ncation of force to the explanation, not ovAj of these, \nbut finally to that of all other phenomena, is a grand \nera in scientific investigation. But no such rule as \nhas been referred to could have wrought this advance. \nThe great mistiness of ancient thouo-ht in regard to \nscientific matters, and, indeed, the mistiness of much \npopular thought at all times in the same direction, \n\n\n\nHYPOTHESIS. 257 \n\nresults from the confounding of static, djnamic, and \norganic relations ; either a static relation or a final \ncause being often taken instead of a dynamic or effi- \ncient cause. Our modern science has practically \ncleared up this confusion, but logical and speculative \nthought has been slow to perceive the importance of \nthis accomplishment, or to appropriate its results. \nAnd it may be repeated, that while these results may \nserve to classify and explain the mistakes of ancient \nscience, they cannot be us-ed to condemn it. It is to \nthe efforts of the ancient students of nature, as well \nas to those of the modern, that we are indebted for \nthis clearing up of the confusion that mingled and \nobscured these distinct departments. \n\nThe three rules just considered have been dwelt \nupon, more as helps in illustrating the nature of hy- \npothesis, than for any absolute value of their own. \nFrom what has been said it is obvious that science is \nhelped by a reasonable hypothesis of any sort, so long \nas it is held loosely merely as an hypothesis, till its \ntruth has been ultimately settled. Yet as the primary \nobject of an hypothesis is to reach the true cause of \nan effect, it is almost needless to say that an hypothe- \nsis should be something more than a mere guess. \nSomething should point to this particular hypothesis \nrather than to another. The question here meets \nus afresh. What is the guide in this search? The \nanswer is. Analogy. The reasoner first asks himself, \nWhat class of phenomena do those under consideration \nmost resemble, and what sort of cause is therefore \nlikely to be the true one? Thus, glancing over \nknown facts and causes, he gains from tliis principle \n\n17 \n\n\n\n258 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof analog}\' some hint as to the direction in which he \nis to look for the required agent. The analogy re- \nquired for making an hypothesis is, of course, much \nweaker and more general than that required to prove \nan hypothesis. The whole subject of analog}^ will be \nmore properly treated later. It is enough that we \nnow feel our need of this method of reasoning. \n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 ORGANIC. \xe2\x80\x94 FINAL CAUSE. \n\nLooking forward, then, for a fuller treatment of \nanalogy, which is the foundation not merely of hy- \npothesis, but of induction itself, we will leave the con- \nsideration of dynamic hypotheses, or those which \nrelate to causes, and will proceed at once to the \nconsideration of those which we have classed under \nthe head of organic. These hypotheses relate, not to \nthe active forces which cause certain phenomena, but \nto the general relations and result of them. They \nmay be best summed up under the general head of \nhypotheses in regard to the final cause. \n\nThere has been of late much question whether the \nfinal cause should ever suggest an hypothesis or \ntheory, or should in any way enter into a scientific \ndiscussion. There have been periods when this form \nof hypothesis ran into all extravagance ; it is there- \nfore hardly to be wondered at that the reaction should \nseek to exclude it altogether. It is important to \ninquire, then, how far the idea of final cause is to \nenter into our reasoning. \n\nTh^re can be no hesitation in admitting hypotheses \nbased upon the consideration of final causes wherever \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 259 \n\nthe works of man are concerued. Man, we know, is \nforward looking as well as backward looking. He \nacts for an object. We thus are not merely allowed, \nbut forced, to recognize this whenever we find traces \nof his presence and activity. We find, for instance, \npieces of flint imbedded in the earth. We at first \nknow not whether they are the work of nature or of \nman. If they are produced by nature, we have only \nto consider the force by which they were made to \nassume their present shape. So soon as they are \nrecognized as the work of man, we take into considera- \ntion, also, the end for which they were made. By \nsuch reasoning we may discover, or by such hypothe- \nses guess, to some extent even the preceding con- \nditions of the outward world. Thus, Inveresk,* a \nfew miles below Edinburgh, is the site of an ancient \nRoman port. It is at present situated upou what is \nmerely a shoaling estuary, utterly unfitted to be used \nas a harbor. The fact that it was selected for a har- \nbor shows that its former surroundings must have \nbeen difierent from its present. We see that the land \nmust actually have risen since the town was founded ; \nthat when it was chosen to be a port, the sea, at high \nwater, must have washed the foot of the heights on \nwhich the town stands. Thus every track of human \nlife gives occasion to guesses, more or less plausible, \nto hypotheses more or less certain in regard to their \nfinal cnuse, and whatever may have been connected \nwith this. It is by such hypotheses, mainly, that we \nbuild up the history of the past. \n\n* See LyelTs " Antiquity of Man." \n\n\n\n260 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nIf we turn from the history of man to the lower \nnature, Ave find that there even the most radical \ntheories of science leave a place for this mode of \nresearch. These assume that all organic forms \nreached their present structure through the influence \nof surrounding circumstances. It is the peculiarity \nof life that it sustains itself through all such varia- \ntions, changing itself in order to adapt itself to new \nsurroundings. Individuals, and even genera, may \nperish when these changes are too sudden or too great, \nbut up to a certain point individuals and genera \nchange to meet outward changes, and through all \nthese transitions organic life endures. When, then, \nwe find in any animal organization any element that \nfits it for certain surroundings, we know that these \nsurroundings must have existed ; and when we find \nin such an organization any element, the use of which \nwe do not understand, we have a right to make \nhypotheses in regard to its utility in the general \nsystem. It may be urged, indeed, that such reason- \ning relates to efficient causes rather than to final \ncauses. If, for instance, the medium in which an \nanimal exists has called out any peculiarities in its \norganization, this medium is the cause, rather than \nthe object, of the change. But it must be noticed \nthat, allowing the theory of which we have spoken \nfull sweep, the causes referred to can act only indi- \nrectly. These changes take place in order that the \nlife may be preserved in its new surrounding. Thus, \nit is the final cause that we are first to consider \xe2\x80\xa2 \nafterward we will discover, if possible, the efficient \ncause which produced the change. It is by means of \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 261 \n\nsuch reasoning that the greatest steps in physiological \nscience have been made. Thus, the valves in the \narteries suggested the theorj^ of the circulation of \nthe blood, before it had been discovered by actual \nobservation. These peculiarities in the structure of \nthe vessels, it was thought, could not be without \nobject ; and the hypothesis based upon this reasoning \nwas found to be correct. This result was very differ- \nent from that which would be reached by reasoning \nas to the course of a stream now dry, from the posi- \ntion of the stones in the deserted channel and the \ndirection of the bed of its old tributaries. In this \ncase we reason to the direction in which the water \nflowed, by going backward from the effect to its \nactive cause. We know of no object for this flowing, \n\xe2\x80\x94 we only see the trace of it. In regard to the cir- \nculation of the blood, we cannot say but that its \nmovements may somehow have contributed to the \nformation of these valves. Any hypothesis looking \nin that direction is certainly within the limits of \nscience, and may lead to interesting results. But at \npresent there is, and at the time when the discovery \nwas made there was, no basis for such an hypothesis. \nThe only mode of reasoning in the case was then, as \nit would be now, that in regard to the final cause. \nThis brilliant result shows what a distinguished place \nthis sort of reasoning has in the development of \nscience. \n\nIf from the consideration of individual organiza- \ntions we pass to that of species or genera in relation \nto each other, we find still a field for the considera- \ntion of final causes. Much may be gained, indeed, \n\n\n\n262 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nby explaining the liigher organization by the lower, \nthe function, for instance, of different parts of the \nhuman brain by the gradual development of the brain \nin the lower orders of animal life ; but much is to \nbe gained, also, by explaining the lower by the \nhigher. \n\nThe organic world is seen more and more to be a \nvast and complete system. The lower looks forward \nto the higher, as well as the higher backward to the \nlower. The influence of such a relation may be seen \nin the light which is thrown by embryology upon \nclassification. Of this. Prof. Agassiz has given a \nfine example, to which a general reference has already \nbeen made. There are three orders of insects, name- \nly, that of the centipedes, that of the spiders, and \nthat of the winged insects. What is the relation of \npre-eminence in the rank of these orders? The but- \nterfly, as well as every other complete winged insect, \npasses through three stages of existence, correspond- \ning to the three orders just referred to. It first \ncreeps the ground with the structure of a worm. It \nthen, in its chrysalis state, assumes the structure of \nthe spider, and, finally, appears in its proper form as \na winged insect. It is correct to reason from the one \nseries to the other. The separate orders referred to \nmust take rank in the order of their development in \nthe single life of the butterfly. Such reasoning is \nvalid, and hypotheses based upon this form of final \ncause are helpful. \n\nIf we now look beyond the boundary of single and \nrelated organisms, the question meets us whether we \nshould still be justified in assuming, even hypotheti- \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 263 \n\ncally, a final cause as the basis of t*eal or conjectural \nreasoning. The final cause we fouiid to be originall\\\', \nand most obviously, connected with matters under \nthe dh\'ection of human reason, although we have \nfound a place for it in organic forms without looking \nHt their origin. In contemplating the world at large \nthb question is, Do we find in it the traces of a reason \nand a wisdom so similar to the best human wisdom \nthat we may assume the influence of final causes as \nwe can in the operations of men? We have not now \nto decide whether we are iustified in affirminsf the \npresence and the influence of such a controlling wis- \ndom ; but whether there is enough resemblance to \nthis to justify us in hypothetically assuming such \nwisdom. The answer is obvious, that there is. \nWhether the hypothesis be true or not, it is yet near \nenough to the truth to assist us in our investigations \nand our generalizations. The theory of the electric \nfluid, though not perfectly answering the conditions \nof the case, yet did this so nearly that the conclusions \nreached by it remain valid, though that has fallen. \nSo all that we say now, and all that it belongs to our \npresent object to say, is that the hypothesis of a di- \nrecting wisdom, similar to a perfect human wisdom \nenlarged to omniscience, is near enough the truth to \nbe a basis of reasoning and a guide in investigation. \n\nIn forming minor hypotheses on this foundation, \nwe must be very careful that we make them broad \nenough and not too confidently. A form of these hy- \npotheses very common is that which assumes all \nthings to have been created for the pleasure or the \nprofit of man. This assumption is apt to check, \n\n\n\n264 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nrather than to advance, science. Man is the organic \nhead of the lower world. In him we see, in their \nproper grace and relation, the bodily members, which \nin the lower grade of animals are apt to be confused \nand distorted, or at least imperfect. In this sense, \nman may be held to be the final cause of the creation, \njust as the perfect statue is the final cause of the pre- \nvious imperfect forms of it. Man stands at the head \nof the lower forms of life as their final cause, just as \nthe individual man stands at the head of the embryonic \nand immature forms that preceded his maturity. But \nwhen we look abroad over creation, and attempt to \nexplain, even hypothetical ly, the existence of every- \nthing, from its ability to contribute to the welfare of \nthe human race, we fall into fruitless fimcies, and nar- \nrow the range of thought and investigation. Es- \npecially is this the case when we extend this reasoning \nfrom objects in the world to the world itself. It was \nthis overweening consciousness of the supremacy of \nman that stood in the way of the acceptance of the \nCopernican system of astronomy, as it also stood in \nthe way of the belief that other worlds beside ours \nare inhabited. It does not concern us here whether \nthis latter belief be true or false. We are interested \nin it only so far as it furnishes an example of the ap- \nplication of this perverted and extravagant notion of \nour own race as being the head of the physical uni- \nverse. \n\nAfter having thus established the propriety of reason- \ning upon the hypothesis of final causes, and having, \nalso, explained the limits beyond which such hypothe- \nses become a hindrance instead of a help, it remains \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 265 \n\nonly to suggest the principle that shall guide to the \nformation of such hypotheses. This principle is, that \nwhile to obtain mere statical or quantitive hypotheses, \nthat is, mere generalizations, that shall include all \nrelated phenomena, we have to compare and examine \nspecimens most widely sundered, attending often \nmost carefully to those lowest in the scale ; to form \nhypotheses of final causation, or of organic com- \npleteness, we have to look not at the lowest but at the \nmost perfect examples of a given class. In discus- \nsing the subject of static hypothesis, we had occasion \nto observe the result which the former rule, exclu- \nsively followed, tends to produce. We saw that by \ngiving the lowest object of a class the same impor- \ntance that we give to the highest, our science tends to \nbecome barren and abstract, and the whole perspec- \ntive of our thought to be destroyed. This is referred \nto here to illustrate the entirely different principle we \nmust follow so far as the fundamental and organic re- \nlations are concerned. Here we must lay our great \nstress upon the higher forms and the most perfect \nexamples. By these we can first understand the \nlower, because it is to these that the lower are in \nsome way or other tending. We need, indeed, all \nkinds of hypothesis, \xe2\x80\x94 the static, the dynamic, and \nthe organic. As without the last our science tends \nto become a barren and dead level ; so without the \ntwo former it would become fantastic and visionary. \nOf all these, the organic hypothesis needs to be \nmanaged with the most care and delicacy ; yet none \nthe less is it essential to the rio:ht understanding\' of \nthe world. If the world is an organic whole, nothing \n\n\n\n266 TE*? SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncan be imde/t^\'ood when looked at in its isolation. If \nit is an o/gi\xc2\xbbiic whole, then each object in it has its \npeculiar j/iace and significance, yet none the less do the \n\'elatiorM and principles common to all come out more \nplainly in the most highly developed, and, in this \njenp^, most complete forms of its common life. You \n:^:j l^arn something of man by studying his erabry- \nm\'.c structure and development ; but you can obtain \nnore light on the nature of the embryo from your \nknowledge of the full-grown man, than you can in \nregard to the nature of man from the study of \nthe embryo. A flower-seed is like a riddle, of \nwhich the plant is the solution. Whatever our \ntheories of creation or development may be, for- \nmally, that is, as parts of one common system, the \nlower forms of creation bear the same relation to \nthe human type that the embryo bears to the full- \ngrown man. The studies in embryology, by which \nit appears that every human being passes through \nforms more or less analogous to the difierent types of \nlife upon the earth, may not prove any outward law \nof development, \xe2\x80\x94 may not prove that the human \nrace actually emerged from these lower types ; but \nthey do prove that the formal relation of all is the \nsame as if it did. You can obtain additional knowl- \nedge in regard to the human hand and arm by \nstudying the bones of a fish ; but you can get more \nknowledge of the bones of the fish by comparing \nthem with the corresponding structure of man. The \ndiscovery of the nervous filament in the lowest forms \nof animal life in which it exists throws much light on \nthe human brain and the complicated sj\'stem to which \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 267 \n\nit belougs, but not so much as it receives from the \nstudy of these. Comte observed that our whole idea \nof the world depends upon this, whether we look \nupon it from the stand-point of man or from that of \nthe lower creation ; and from what has been said it \nwill appear that while statically and dynamically man \nis only a unit among myriad other units, or is \nmerely a congeries of a myriad units, organically^ \nman is the head and completion of all ; organically , he \nis the solution of the world\'s riddle. While thus to \nform a static hypothesis, that is, a guide in a mere \nquantitative generalization, we seek for what is com- \nmon in the most widely sundered extremes of the \ndepartment under survey, to form an organic hypoth- \nesis, that is, one that shall guide us in the study of \nthe fundamental and organic relations of things, we \nmust use the higher forms as the key and explanation \nof the lower. \n\nIn addition to the rule just suggested for the for- \nmation of organic hypotheses, there is another special \nguide that must not be overlooked, the same that we \nfound most reliable in the formation of merely dy- \nnamic hypotheses, namely, analogy. Having now \ndiscussed, so far as our limits admit and our purpose \nrequires, the nature and the formation of hypotheses, \nwe will at once enter upon the field to which they form \nthe transition. \n\nSECOND FORM OF SYLLOGISM. \nANALOGY AND INDUCTION. \n\nIt will be remembered that the syllogism has always \nthree terms, which, with reference to their difference \n\n\n\n268 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof general izatioD and subordination, may be styled, \nuniversal, particular, and individual. The different \nforms of syllogism depend upon the mutual relation \nof these three terms. In the first form of syllogism \nwe have the universal connected with the individual \nby means of the particular. Thus the structure of \nthe syllogism by which John\'s mortality is so often \nproved may be illustrated : -- \n\n\n\nUniversal. \nMortal. \n\n\n\nParticular. \nMan. \n\n\n\nIndividual. \nJohn. \n\n\n\nWe know that John is mortal, because he is man, \nand all men are mortal. This may be more simply \nsymbolized, as before, by the initial letters U P I. \n\nIn the second form of syllogism the individual \nterm becomes the connecting link. This form may \nbe symbolized thus, U I P. With reference to the \nexample before referred to, instead of reasoning \nfrom the mortality of all men down to that of John, \nwe reason from the mortality of John up to the com- \nmon mortality of the race. This form of reasoning, \nit will be seen at a glance, is, as thus stated, much \nless reliable than the other. In that, when the prem- \nises are true, the result is certain. In this the \npremises may be true, and the result false. Because \nthis rose has thorns, it does not follow that all roses \nhave thorns, any more than because this rose is red, \nit follows that all roses are red. It would seem at \nfirst sight, then, that this form of the syllogism might \nbe thrown away as useless. This would be, however, \nto throw away the great engine of modern discovery. \n\n\n\nSECOND FORM OF SYLLOGISM. 2fi9 \n\nFor though a single syllogism of this form is, in \ngeneral, powerless, yet when they are multiplied they \nbecome a source of undoubted knowledge. As, \nhowever, in this rjultiplication the extreme terms re- \nmain the same, it will be simply necessary to multi- \nply the mean term. Thus, observation of many \nindividuals gives a final and accurate result. Eepre- \nsenting, then, these different individuals by different \nsmall letters, we may symbolize this process as fol- \nlows : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nu. I. p. \n\na \nb \nc \nd \n\n\n\nIn this enumeration of observed individuals, all of \nwhich possess the same universal quality united with \nthe same particular attribute, we at last reach a point \nwhere we conclude, without doubt, that the two \nalways coexist in the same individual. We have not \ndirect or indirect knowledge of the mortality of all \nmen. The world is full of individuals, of whose \nmortality we have no observed proof; yet we have \nknown and read of ao many individual instances of \nmen that were mortal, that we do not hesitate to \nascribe the same quality to all. This method of \nreasoning from individuals is called analogy, or induc- \ntion, according as it is from one or more. \n\n\n\n270 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nThe study of analog}\' and induction is the study of \nthe methods and safeguards of this reasoning. \n\nThough induction is thus, apparently, the opposite \nof deduction, yet there is a point where the one \npasses into the other. Herbert Spencer suggests, \nvery ingeniously, that the difference is only in the \nnumber of individuals that have been observed ; and \nthis suggestion is true so far as deduction from the \npropositions of the understanding is concerned. Up \nto a certain number we reason by induction. When \nthe induction is complete we reason from that result \nto other examples by deduction. This may be illus- \ntrated as follows : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nV. I. p. \n\na \nb \nc \n\n\n\nX \n\ny \n\nz \n\nThe above represents the case in which all known \nexamples are used to connect the extreme term, and \nprove that all P is U ; yet it will happen in general \nthat somewhere between c and x this certainty is al- \nready reached. We then argue to the remaining \nexamples, instead of from them. If any individual, \nI, has a certain particular quality, P, we take it for \ngranted that it has also the more general quality, U ; \nor, in other words, if it belong to the sub-class P, \nthat it belongs to the class U. This transfer may be \n\n\n\nSECOND FORM OF SYLLOGISM. \n\n\n\n271 \n\n\n\nthus illustrated. It will be noticed, in the following \nscheme, that at a certain stage P and I change \nplaces, showing that the particular, instead of the \nindividual, is thenceforth the connecting term : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nu. \n\n\n\np. \n\n\n\nu. \n\n\n\nPutting a concrete meaning to these symbols, we \nmay write thus : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nu. \n\n\nI. \n\n\nP. \n\n\nMortal. \n\n\nJohn. \n\nCaesar. \n\nPompey. \n\n\nMan, \n\n\n\nU. \n\n\np. \n\n\nI. \n\n\nMortal. \n\n\nMan. \n\n\nJames. \nPeter. \n\n\n\nThis shows bow at first we reason from individuals. \n\n\n\n272 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nafterward to them, and thus how the second form of \nthe syllogism passes into the first. \n\nChanging now our method of presentation for the \nmoment, we see that in induction the individual is not \nonly the connecting term, but, also, practically the \nstarting-point. In deduction, the particular is practi- \ncally the starting-point, as well as theoretically the \nconnecting link. By the one form we reason from \nindividuals, by the other to them. If we symbolize, \nnow, the actual course of reasoning, as before we \nsymbolized its theoretical relation, we have the fol- \nlowing : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n/. \n\n\n\nXT, \nP. \n\n\n\n..\\ \n\n\n\nWe start with individuals, and reason up to uni- \nversals ; then from universals we reason down to indi- \nviduals. On putting, as before, concrete realities in \nthe place of mere symbols we have : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\nU. \xe2\x80\x94 Mortal. \nP. \xe2\x80\x94 Man. P. \xe2\x80\x94 Man. \n\nI. ~ Casar, Pompey, etc. I. \xe2\x80\x94 John, James, Myself, etc. \n\n\n\nThe question now meets us, whether it is possi- \nble to reason directly from individual to individual \nwithout this intervening ascent and descent; in \nother words, whether it is possible to reason without \nthe aid of the syllogism. Certainly, we do often \n\n\n\nSECOND FORM OF SYLLOGISM. 273 \n\nreason from oue iDcliviclual case to another without \nany consciousness of intermediate steps. A child \nburns himself by a fire. He makes no conscious \ninduction in regard to fires in general, but the next \nfire that he sees, he is afraid of. Thus do we continu- \nally judge a case, or an object, simply by referring to \nsome single experience of the past, without extending \nour thought beyond the two individual objects or \ncases. This being so, it has been urged that the syl- \nlogism, though useful for reasoning, is not indispen- \nsable to it. This objection holds good in regard to \nthe syllogism as it is commonly defined, namely, as a \nseries of propositions, standing in certain external \nrelations ; but it cannot be applied to the syllogism as \nit is regarded in this work. " The burnt child dreads \nthe fire." Why ? Because he burnt himself at a fire, \nand this is also a fire. He does not dread the fire \nbecause it is this or that fire, but simply because it is \nJire. That is, from his single experience he has con- \nnected the idea of burning with the idea of fire \nwherever he meets it ; and from this general connec- \ntion in his mind between fire and burning, he dreads \nevery individual fire that he meets. The relations are \nprecisely the same as those illustrated above. These \nrelations come to consciousness as soon as we under- \ntake to defend or to explain the result reached by any \nrapid and unconscious process like that just described. \nThen we bring prominently into view the universal \nterm, and its relation to the particular and the indi- \nvidual, by the processes of induction and deduction. \n\nIt has been said above, that induction is based \nupon the observation of many individuals. Before \n18 \n\n\n\n274 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nconsidering this, we have to notice the application ol \nthe second form of syllogism to a result reached \nby observation of a single case. It is certain that \nreliable results may thus be reached which have only \na single observed instance as their basis. This \nreasoning from a single individual observation is \ncalled reasoning from analogy. \n\nA. ANALOGY. \n\nAnalogy differs from induction only in this, that \nit is based upon a single instance, while induction re- \nquires many facts for its foundation. If a child, in \nthe case just referred to, dreads every fire it sees, \nsimply because it has been burnt by one, this ex- \ntended result is a case of analogical reasoning. It \nwill be seen at a glance that this form of reasoning is \nexposed to immense abuse. Because two objects are \nalike in one particular, or in many particulars, it \ndoes not follow, except for some definite reason, that \nthey are alike in any other, or in all particulars. The \nquestion then meets us, How shall we find any relia- \nble basis or safeguard for analogical reasoning ? We \ncan answer this question satisfactorily, only by \ntaking into account, as before, the difference between \nstatic and dynamic relations. By the reasoning from \nstatic analogy is meant the assurance that one quality \nor fact will always be found in connection with a cer- \ntain group of qualities or facts, although we can give \nno reason for this association, except that it has been \nfound to exist once. This is the common and popu- \nlar form of analoo-ical reasoning. We do not know \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 275 \n\nwhy certain phenomena are associated together ; we \ndo not know which are the essential and which are the \naccidental elements of the group ; we only know that we \nhave seen them associated, and for this reason, when \nwe see several of them united, we expect to find \nthe rest united with them. In such a case as this, \naccording to the numerical proportion of the mem- \nbers of the group known to be present to the rest, is \nour confidence that the others are present also. The \ncase of the child once burnt, whv^ dreads the next fire \nhe sees, afibrds a striking example of this reasoning. \nThis fire is in all perceptible respects like the other. \nIts color, form, and motion are the same. There is no \nconnection between these peculiarities and the power \nto burn, yet from the presence of these former, he \nbelieves that the latter is also present. This is a \nstrong case, yet even this analogy can deceive, as we \nsee in the case of phosphorescent eflPects, in which \nthere is the appearance of fire without the power to \nburn. So in other cases there may be some change, \nsome operation, not known to us, by which the force \nwhich bound the group together has been removed. \n\nTo make static analogical reasoning absolutely reli- \nable, the terms of it must be precluded by the form \nof the reasoning from the possibility of any change. \nWe rarely find this fully accomplished except in \nmathematics. \n\nIt will, perhaps, occasion surprise if we speak of \nmathematical reasoning as being a perfect example of \nreasoning from analogy. It has been already shown \nthat mathematical reasoning difiers from ordinary \nlogical reasoning in this, that its propop\'tions are \n\n\n\n276 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nidentical, that is to say, both terms are absolutely \nequal and alike. It has been also shown that the \ngreat certainty of mathematics results from its ab- \nstractness, which excludes all possibility that any \nforeis^n element shall chan2:e the observed relations. \nA mathematician determines the relation of certain \nparts of a circle to one another and to the circle it- \nself He does not need to observe more than one ex- \nample. From this he is as certain of the universality \nof his result as if he had observed hundreds of simi- \nlar cases. The reason of this is, that by the terms of \nhis supposition the statement of his general principle \nexcludes all possible disturbing circumstances. His \nreasoning is based upon the most abstract definition \nof a circle. This definition is, by the very terms of \nits statement, applicable to all circles. Any form to \nwhich this definition cannot be applied is not a circle. \nAny other relation, then, that he sees to be neces- \nsarilj\'\' connected ^vith these in any one case, he knows \nmust be connected with them in all cases ; because, \nby the very supposition, the fundamental relations are \nunchanged. This example shows the absolute per- \nfection and certainty of which analogy is capable. \nInduction itself is only the attempt to replace, by the \nrude and gross force of accumulation of instances, by \nthe mere power of number, the fine and certain con- \nnection which, when once discovered, makes a single \nobservation more conclusive than a thousand would be \nwithout it. It is, however, rare that static analogy \ncan reach this absolute certainty. The cases where \nit can are of necessity abstract. In the world of \ns)hysical agents and of concrete and complicated re- \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 277 \n\nlatious, we need a closer analysis than static analogy \ncan furnish us. We need to discover on which mem- \nber of any group of phenomena the presence of any \nother member depends. When we have discovered \nthis, we know that iu every case where the former is \npresent, the latter will be present also. This form of \nanalogy may be called dynamic. In analogical \nreasoning, a single direct dynamic relation of this \nkind will outweigh a multitude of mere resemblances, \nhowever close. Let us look at a familiar example. \nA gardener may, by some accident, apply salt freely \nto his asparagus bed. The plants grow larger and \nthriftier. It is an obvious result from analogy that \nthe same application will profit, in the same degree, \nother plants. He makes the experiment, and kills \nthem. All the general resemblance between the \nasparagus and other plants profits nothing, so long as \nthere is this fundamental difference, that the aspara- \ngus is naturally a sea-side plant, and thus accustomed \nto, and dependent upon, salt ; while the others are not. \nSo soon as another plant is found which has this \npeculiarity, no matter how widely it differs in other \nrespects from the asparagus, he may be sure that the \nsame treatment will benefit it. We see, thus, the \ndifference between popular and scientific reasoning \nand analogy. The one is struck by outward resem- \nblance, and certainly in this way stumbles upon many \nvaluable discoveries. The other seeks the inner rela- \ntion, the dependence, under one form or another, \nof cause and effect, and thus moves, not by guess, \nbut by the fair exercise of trustworthy reason. \n\nThe discussion ui regard to the population of the \n\n\n\n278 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nplanets and other worlds furnishes a fine example of \nthe nature, the difficulties, and the safeguards of \nanalogical reasoning. We only know one world to \nbe inhabited. Our reasoning in regard to the others \nmust be based on what we know of this one ; conse- \nquently, the argument must remain one of pure \nanalogy. The first point is to reckon up the similari- \nties which the other worlds have to this, and the dissim- \nilarities which ofiiset these resemblances. This planet \nis round ; it has a moon ; it moves about the sun ; it is \ninhabited. The other planets, as a general thing, \nresemble it in the three first points ; therefore it is \nurged they must also in the last. On the other hand, \nthe other worlds difier from this in density, in tem- \nperature, and in light. Here we have three points of \nsimilarity, and three of difference. Numerically, they \nbalance each other. Let us apply the principle just \nlaid down, and see which set of qualities has most \ndirect connection with the fact of inhabitants. The \nthree first, it must be confessed, have very little. \nThe motion round the sun and the relation to it must \nhave very little weight, so far, for instance, as \nUranus is concerned. The sun at that distant planet \nis very little like our sun. The moon has very little \nto do with life ; and, finally, it is as easy to imagine \ninhabitants upon a flat surface as on a sphere. In- \ndeed, the natural thought of man finds it much easier \nto do this, and long rebelled against the notion of a \nspherical inhabited world. On the other hand, the \ndifferences found to exist between this planet and the \nothers are in matters that directly concern life. Vi- \ntality is independent of the moon, but it does depend \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 279 \n\nupon the density of any medium or foundation, and, \nalso, upon light and temperature. Thus fir, then, anal- \nogy has urged little in favor of the population of other \nplanets. The argument, however, becomes more plau- \nsible, as it brings into the discussion the thought of a \nfinal cause. The world was created for man. The \nother worlds must have been created for some end. \nThey are of very little service to us. We cannot \nconceive of any worthy end except as connected with \nintellectual life ; consequently, since we cannot con- \nceive of their having been created in vain, they must \nhave inhabitants more or less similar to ours. On the \nother hand, it is urged that this argument assumes \nmore than we are at liberty to assert in regard to the \ndivine plan of creation. If we, as before, apply our \ndetermining principle to decide between these oppos- \ning arguments, we perceive that the nature of the \ndivine plan in regard to man is the important matter \nto be settled before making it the basis of analogical \nreasoning. If man be created for a special end ; if \nhe have no relation with the lower forms of life ; if \nhis whole history is special ; if the existence of man \nbe designed to furnish the theatre and the occasion for \nthe grand and tragic drama of the universe, which, by \nits very nature, forbids repetition elsewhere, then the \nexistence of man upon the earth for such a purpose \nas this furnishes no argument of analogy drawn from \nfinal causes to prove the population of other worlds. \nOn the other hand, if there is not present such a \nspecial element and object in his history ; if he stand \nin simply natur&l relations to the world about him and \nto the creative power above him, then the fact that \n\n\n\n280 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthis world is crowned by intelligent life suggests a \nprobability that some, at least, of the other worlds \nhave a similar completion. If you pick some un- \nknown fruit from a tree, and find some excrescence \nupon the outside, you will at once conjecture that \nthis is an accident which you cannot, with any cer- \ntainty, expect to find repeated in other specimens. \nWhatever, on the other hand, you find to be the \nnature and appearance of the seed or stone of the \nfruit, you expect to find repeated in every specimen \nyou examine. In the argument of analogy suggested \nby the final cause, the question is, whether man is a \nspecial addition to the world for a special purpose, or \nwhether he is connected with its being, as world? \nThis will depend, as has been said, upon our views \nof the object for which God created man, and must \nbe always limited by our ignorance of the actual and \npossible purposes of creation. \n\nWe have thus seen that the analogy of final causa- \ntion gives a much stronger argument for the popula- \ntion of the other worlds, than that from the mere \njuxtaposition of qualities, yet this argument is af- \nfected by our notion of what is the final cause of \nman\'s existence, and is weakened by our ignorance \nof the complete plan of the universe. Let us now \napply to the same question the analogy of causation. \nWe find, looking over the whole history of the \nworld, that there has always been a production of \ncreatures of higher and higher grade so fast as there \nwas opportunity for them to obtain the means of life. \nThe water was filled with sea-creatures. As the \nwater subsided, the slimy mud was filled with am- \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 281 \n\nphibious beings, small or monstrous. Thus at every \nstep the world has brought forth creatures higher and \nhigher, until, when man had a place ready for him, \nwhen the conditions of his existence were fulfilled, \nhe took his place, and closed the vast procession. \nWhat was the power or the method of this produc- \ntion of life, how the divine agency co-operated with, \nor made use of, these lower elements, we are not forced \nat present to consider. It is enough for our purpose \nthat in the outward chain of visible causation life al- \nways sprang from the conditions of life. We have \nhere an analogy which may be applied to other worlds, \nwhich varies with their variations, which adapts itself \nto their conditions, which has to do with obvious re- \nlations, and is bound to a definite course of progress \nand of causation. Since the divine power, the crea- \ntive energy, works with such uniformity of method \nupon this world, we may reason, with very strong \nassurance of the truth of (mr argument, that so far \nas the condition of other worlds adapts itself to the \nproduction of life, so far are they inhabited. The \nsun, being a mass of flame, cannot be the home of any \nform of life. If the moon is an arid and volcanic \nwaste, we do not expect to find inhabitants there. \nIf the more distant planets are of thin and watery \nsubstance, we should expect to find upon them only \naquatic creatures. If Mars resembles very much our \nearth in its substance and condition, we should expect \nto find upon it inhabitants more or less similar to \nthe population of our world. And as fast as the \nwatery globes assume consistency, a separate struc- \nture of continent and sea, we should expect to find \n\n\n\n282 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthem occupied by a higher grade of existence. And \nas the physical history of our world is to some extent \nnecessarily that of other worlds similarly situated, \nwe may expect to find a similar progress in the na- \nture of their population. \n\nThis illustration has been dwelt upon at some \nlength, both on account of its fitness to exhibit the \nnature of analogical reasoning, and also because, in \nthe works entitled respectively, "Plurality of Worlds," \nand "More Worlds than One," the reader will find \nthe most elaborate examples of sustained analogica\'. \nreasoning that I am familiar with, at least in the \nrealm of physical knowledge. The first-named of \nthese especially, though not free from fault of method \nand of result, is yet a very powerful and instructive \nexample. Both present a grand compendium of true \nand false analogies, which the student of this branch of \nreasoning may study critically and with great benefit. \n\nA passage from the work of Taylor, entitled " The \nPhysical Theory of Another Life," furnishes a strik- \ning example of the application of analogy based upon \nfinal causation to the question we have been consider- \ning. \n\nIf we entered, he says in efiect, some vast palace, \nwe should expect to find the variety in its apartments \nand their uses commensurate with the size of the \nbuilding ; so we may to some extent reason from the \nvastness of the universe to the variety in the appear- \nance and occupation of the worlds. This analogy \nfrom vastness to dignity and variety often fails, how- \never. " It is absurd," says the same writer, \'\' to admit \nthe supposition, that the sun is the mere lamp and \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 283 \n\nhearth of the planetary system, or only the swivel of \nits revolutions. This were much the same thing, as \nif, viewing from a mountain side the distant metropo- \nlis of an empire, the gilded domes of which are reful- \ngent in the beams of noon, one were to imagine that \nthe great world is not in that metropolis, but in the \ndozen of shepherds\' huts among which one stands." \nWe now know, however, that the sun is the mere \nswivel or hearth, and that the vulgar rustics, who \nwere once ridiculed for believing it a mere mass of \nred-hot iron or stone, were nearer right than those \nwho, looking at its vastness and its glory, believed it \na world far more beautiful and spiritual than ours. \nThis example shows that the analogy of causation is \nmore reliable in particular cases than that of final \ncausation. \n\nIt will have been seen, from the discussion just \npassed through, that while analogy may in some \ncases reach the most absolute certainty, and in others \na very strong presumption of truth, yet the range of \nits power to establish perfect knowledge is limited. \nIt must not, however, be supposed that this limit \ncomprehends the entire range of its usefulness as an \ninstrument of thought. Where it cannot be used to \nestablish truth, it may often be used to answer objec- \ntions against anything held as true. The objector \nbrings up certain difficulties. The objection is rebut- \nted by showing that the same difficulties exist in mat- \nters the truth of which is accepted by the objector. \nIn this use of analogy we find the same conditions \nwhich have been just insisted upon. If the objector \ncan show that the difficulties bear a different relation \n\n\n\n284 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto the truth which he holds, from that which they \nbear to the belief which he opposes, then his objec- \ntion remains with its first force. It will thus be seen \nthat this, which may be called the apologetic form of \nanalogy, is, strictly speaking, only an argumentum \nad hominem. It concerns only the person addressed, \nor those who hold the same opinion that he holds. \nAnd, further, it will be seen that the result of this \napologetic or defensive reasoning would work in two \ndirections, and it would depend upon circumstances \nwhether, provided it had any effect at all, it would \nmake the objector accede to the truth defended, or \ngive up the opinion which he previously held, finding \nthat there were the same difficulties about it as about \nthat which he rejected. \n\nThe classic example of this defensive analogy is, of \ncourse, the great work of Bishop Butler, by which he \ndefends doctrines which he believes to be those of \nrevelation, by showing that the objections brought \nagainst them would apply to any form of natural \nreligion. From what has been said it will be obvious \nthat this work is simply an argumentum ad hominem. \nIt adds nothing to the actual credibility of revelation, \nbut is of the nature of a retort, throwing back the \nobjections against it into the face of the objector. Its \ntendency is in two opposite directions. It is like an \nentering wedge that presses both waj^s, but produces \nits visible efliect on the side where there is least resist- \nance. If the theist\'s feith in his theism forms a larger \nelement of his character than his rejection of revealed \ntruth, this unbelief will be removed by such an argu- \nment, supposing it to be unanswerable. If, on the \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 285 \n\nother hand, his unbelief in revealed truth be more in \naccordance with his general habits of thought and \nfeeling than his belief in theism, then it will be this \nbelief which will be the sufferer. In the merely apolo- \ngetic or defensive form of analogical reasoning we have \nthus an antinomy similar to that found so generally in \ndeductive reasoning. The work of Bishop Butler not \nonly furnishes a fine example of this twofold and an- \ntagonistic tendency of the form of reasoning to which \nit belongs ; it also forms a fine study in regard to the \nother relations of the same form of argument. It has \nbeen said above that the force of such an argument \nfrom analogy may be destroyed, provided it can be \nshown that the relation between the difficulties and \nthe thing believed are different in the two cases con- \nsidered. Thus, if in the subject treated so very ably \nby Bishop Butler the difficulties cited by him have a \ndifferent relation to natural religion from that in \nwhich they stand to revealed religion, then the anal- \nogy proves nothing. For instance, suppose it to be \naffirmed that revealed religion should be the solu- \ntion of the difficulties which meet us in our present \nand actual life, and which make faith in any religion \noften so difficult, then it is no argument in favor of \nany system of truth, claimed to be the product of a \ndirect revelation from God, to urge that this system \ncontains the same difficulties which had harassed our \nsimple, natural faith, only more intense and insur- \nmountable. When these difficulties press upon us, \nwe point, for their answer, " behind the veil." But \nif, when the veil is lifted, we find the same difficul- \nties vaster and more formidable than before, what \n\n\n\n286 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nresource is left? This example may show how too \ngreat resemblauce may sometimes defeat the very \nargument which the analogy was designed to sup- \nport. \n\nIn cases where the facts and the belief which are \nmade the basis of analoo;ical reasoninsr are fixed and \nuniversally recognized, one element of the twofold \naction of the argument has, of course, no efiective and \nperceptible influence. Of this nature is the analogy, \nso often drawn, between the passage of the caterpillar \nthrough the chrysalis to the butterfly state. Here \ncertainly the facts in the one case are unquestionable. \nNo use that can possibly be made of them, no em- \nphasis of the strangeness of them, of the previous \nincredibility of them, can destroy the belief in them. \nIf it be urged that the analogy proves nothing, the \ncases and the results are so difierent, this must be \nfreely admitted. All that such an analogy can do is \nto lessen the objection drawn from the difficulty of \nbelief in the possibility of such great transformations \nin the course of an individual history. The analogy \nproves nothing. It merely lessens the force of oppo- \nsition. \n\nThis example introduces us into a new division, to \nwhich it in part belongs, namely, to analogies which \nsimply aid the imagination. This use of analogy has \nbeen already referred to in treating of the Greek phi- \nlosophy, where it was said that the arguments of \nPlato, for instance, were more commonly designed to \nbe helps to the imagination than proofs to the under- \nstanding. In this department belong the analogies \nand comparisons of poetry. The consideration of \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 287 \n\nthese is the province rather of rhetoric than of logic. \nYet rhetoric springs out of logic ; and as before, in \nspeaking of deduction, occasion was taken to show \nthe basis of persuasive rhetoric, so here we may mark, \nin passing, the foundation of figurative rhetoric. Fig- \nurative rhetoric consists in the use of analogy, either \nfor the purpose of illustrating a truth, that is, of giving \nreality and coucreteuess to it ; or for the purpose of \ngiving to an object or an event some quality foreign \nto itself, by which it may be elevated or debased. \nThese two uses are entirely distinct. We have an \nexample of the first in the illustration of the strength \nthat there is in brotherly union by means of a bundle \nof sticks, each of which by itself could be easily \nbroken, but which together could resist a verv \ngreat force. This use of analogy, though properly \nbelonging to rhetoric, belongs also to logic, and fluc- \ntuates between the two. The second use spoken of \nis illogical and purely rhetorical. It foists, by the \nmeans of analogy, into an object or event some quality \nor idea which does not belong to it. Thus, when a \nship in a tempest is said to reel to and fro like a \ndrunken man, we add in our imagination, almost un- \nconsciously, to the ship the semi-consciousness and \nthe bewilderment of an intoxicated man. In other \nwords, we add the human element to the ship. This, \nit is true, is not asserted of it. The point of the \nanalogy is simply the crooked and unequal course. \nBut because this course is connected in the one case \nwith these human qualities, we receive almost insen- \nsibly the impression that it is connected with them in \nthe other also. By this means it is possible to give \n\n\n\n288 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto an object or event any aspect that we will, from \nthe most sublime to the most ludicrous. Of the use \nand abuse of this power it is the province of rhetoric \nto treat. We merely observe, in passing, the illogical \nnature of it. We must not omit, however, to state \nthat there is a Iiasis of truth in all such analogical \nrhetoric. This basis of truth is the fact that there is \na certain element of identity common to all phenom- \nena. All are the manifestations of one force. All \nsuch figurative expressions as have been referred to \nimply this more or less clearly. In oriental poetry \nthe profusion of images with which every page is \nthronged has mainlj\'^ this object, namely, to bring \nto light the inner identity of all things, which is so \nprominent a part of the oriental philosophy and \ntheology. \n\nWe have thus for considered the uses of analogy in \ntransferring certain qualities, with which we are \nacquainted, to certain objects, with whose other quali- \nties we are already acquainted. There is no new \nelement introduced. So far as the qualities are con- \ncerned, we do not go beyond our experience. There \nis only a fresh combination of old material. The \nquestion now meets us, whether it is possible by \nmeans of analogy to transcend, not merely our expe- \nrience of the combination of qualities, but that of the \nqualities themselves. In other words, can we obtain \nby analogy any idea of an object with none of the \nqualities of which we have been previously familiar? \nSuppose, for example, that you have never seen a \npear, and I wish to give you some conception of what \nit is. I have no means of doing this but by analogy. \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 289 \n\nThe object that occurs to me as being most similar to \na pear is an apple. I tell you that a pear, in color, \nra its internal and external structure, resembles an \napple, only its shape and its flavor are different. It \nmight seem, at first glance, that you would have no \nconception in your mind except of a flavorless apple \nof a peculiar shape. I bid you take your experience \nof an apple, excepting in regard to its shape and its \nflavor. The difi^erent shape I can describe, but I \nhave given you no conception of any other flavor to \ntake its place; consequently, as has been said, your \nonly clear conception would be that of an incomplete \napple. But the fact is, that, though your notion of \na pear would be still very imperfect, yet you would \nhave made a positive advance towards it. The mind \nhas the power to hold fast the two or three points \nwhich analogy may give it, leaving the other elements \nof the unknown object not so much absent as indefi- \nnite. The familiar definite qualities, and the indefi- \nnite ones foreign to our experience, together make a \nnew object, partially defined, yet real to our thoughts. \nThus analogy has the power of enabling us actually \nto transcend our experience, and obtain a partial con- \nception of objects, many of the qualities of which are \nunknown to us. \n\nIn fact, a large portion of our knowledge is of this \nimperfect character. By far the greatest number of \nour conceptions are of this nature, which we may call \nsymbolical. Analogy furnishes two or three clear \npoints ; the rest of the conception is left vague and in- \ndefinite ; yet vague and indefinite as it is, it does mod- \nify the elements furnished by analogy, and bring ua \n\n19 \n\n\n\n290 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntowards the true conception of the iinfamiliai object. \nTake, for instance, our conception of the solar system. \nA diagram is shown to us representing the orbits of the \nplanets, or an orrery representing their movements. \nTo these are added certain large measurements of the \nspaces represented, of which we can form no image \nin our mind. These are the elements out of which \nour idea of the solar system consists. Now, it might \nbe plausibly urged that we have no idea of the solar \nsystem. For take our thought of a single planet, our \nimage of it is the little ball we have seen in the \norrery. This we are to enlarge indefinitely, beyond \nthe farthest reach of our imagination. We have thus \nan inconceivably large ball. But a ball is a body \nbounded in all directions by circles. What makes it \na ball, therefore, is the nature of its limiting surface. \nAn indefinite, that is an unlimited, body cannot be a \nball. In other words, a body, of the limits of which \nwe have no conception, we cannot conceive of as a \nball. For the very conception of a ball involves that \nof its limits. The same may be said of the orbits of \nthe planets. If we cannot take in the conception of \nthe planet, still less can we that of its orbit. In fact, \nwe can hardly make a difierence between the two. \nWe cannot make our thought of the orbit larger than \nthe thought by wliich we strive to comprehend the \nplanet. It might thus be plausibly urged, that the \nanalogy furnished by the orrery has not at all helped \nour conception ; yet, in spite of such plausible argu- \nments, it is true that it has helped us, and we have \napproached towards a true conception of the solar \nsystem. The sai: e reasoning may be applied to our \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 291 \n\nthought of the earth. A globe gives us by analogy \nits shape. We see certaiu stretches of its surface, \ncovered with forest, city, or plain. Yet probably no \none can connect these two in one image. When we \nthink of the world as a globe we reduce its size. \nWhen we enlarge our thought to take in the multi- \nplied objects that cover its vast surface, we lose the \nglobular shape. Take, for instance, a single part of \nthe earth\'s surface, namely, the ocean. We stand on \nthe shore and say that we see the ocean. Yet what \nwe see is only a strip of water, which, for anything \nthat reaches our vision, might be bounded at a short \ndistance by a rocky shore. When we think of the \nocean, we take what we see, and in our thought ex- \ntend it indefinitely. We do not imagine it as circling \nabout the earth, but as a plane of vast though indefi- \nnite extent. Our conception is always limited, though \nthe limit is undefined, and the ocean differs from other \nwaters in that it has no limit. Yet none the less do \nwe think really of the ocean and of the world. And \nnone the less does our analogy help us towards a \nright knowledge of them. From what has been said, \nit will be seen that by the help of analogy we can \nthink truly of what lies beyond our experience, even \nbeyond our possible experience ; that our knowledge \ncan extend further than our imagination or our power \nof complete conception; and, finally, that the imper- \nfect conceptions which we have are, in spite of their \nimperfection, an approach to true conceptions. \n\nThe truths just stated have an extended application \nto the facts relating to our spiritual nature. The \nreasoning by which has been shown the imperfection \n\n\n\n292 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof our thought of the solar system and of the earth \nitself is applied to our thought of spiritual things, and \nespecially to our thought of God. The point at pres- \nent is, not whether such thoughts are true, but whether \nthey are real thoughts. The analogies upon which \nthey are based are so very imperfect, and the rela- \ntions of them are so changed, that it is urged they \namount to nothing, and in using them we deceive \nourselves with empty words. After what has been \nsaid above, this subject need not be treated at length. \nAs the globular form of the earth and its vastness \ncannot be united by us in a single complete concep- \ntion, yet the two together do help us to a true thought \nof the earth, so the elements of finite and of infinite \nrelations which help us to our thought of God do fur- \nnish us with a real thought, whether it be true or not. \nA merely critical and analytical logic may show these \nin their contradiction, and maintain that they can \nmerely result in an unmeaning play of w^ords ; yet a \ntrue and large logic, perceiving that there are similar \nthough smaller difficulties in all our best knowledge, \nthankfully accepts the clue that analogy ofiers, and \nguards only against a misuse of this instrument. Our \nhuman love is finite. God is infinite. Contradic- \ntions and difficulties innumerable beset the attempt \nto unite the two in one thouo-ht. It does not need a \nvery great power of analj\' sis to bring these difficul- \nties together and exhibit them to the mind that thus, \nfor the first time, perhaps, is made conscious of them. \nYet, just as we know that our thought of the solar \nsystem is made more clear by our analogy of form or \nmotion, so we are conscious that the analogies impl\'ed \n\n\n\nANALOGY. 293 \n\nin the words infinite love do help us to a thought \nwhich is clearer than if we had used no such expres- \nsion. It is not by means of analogy, but by means of \ndeduction and induction, that we determine whether \nthis thought be true. It is analogy that gives form \nto the thought, and all our concern here is with the \nquestion whether il can thus help us to a real thought \nand conception. Yet this fact of the limit in the use \nof analogy must guard us against a misuse of it. Not \neverything that the analogy might involve can be pred- \nicated of the larger object to which it is applied. \nWe must use it in a large and free sense, remember- \ning that it is only an analogy. \n\nWe are thus ready, in conclusion, to look at the \nnature of analogy as running through the whole grand \norganism of the universe. What we see in one part \nof this organism helps us to understand the rest, for \nall are parts of one magnificent whole. This is what \nwe are to understand by the expression that nature \nis full of " correspondences." These correspondences \nconnect the highest with the lowest, the material and \nthe spiritual. Attraction and love are, as Empedocles \nso long ago affirmed, the same. In other words, \nthey are the opposite poles of the axis of being. They \ncorrespond to each other, and, by analogy, illustrate \neach other. So the lowest organization may illustrate \nthe highest. The plant and the body of the animal \ncorrespond to, and illustrate, the state. In the prog- \nress of development and the relation of parts each is \nthe analagon of the other. Indeed, all development, \nfrom that of the lowest plant up to that of the highest \nscience, is analagous to all other development. Yet \n\n\n\n294 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthese analoo^ies from the lower to the hisrher must be \nused to illustrate, not to control, our thought of the \nhigher. In spite of the resemblance, the higher must \nbe free of many limitations which hamper the lower. \nThus none of these limitations can be made the basis \nof an argument. \n\nTV"e find an example of the misuse of this argument \nin the oft-repeated analogy between the state and \nany human individual. The man is born, progresses \nthrough his appointed course, and dies. The state \nalso has its birth, its childhood, its youth, its man- \nhood, its period of ignorance, of foith, and of knowl- \nedge. Make the analogy as minute as we will, we \nare struck by its almost limitless application. There- \nfore it is often concluded that every civilization must \nreach its appointed period, and, in like manner, per- \nish. But, as has just been stated, though we may \nillustrate the higher by the lower, we cannot reason \nwith any certainty from the imperfections of the \nlower to those of the higher. To do this we must \nrest our argument, not upon the analogy of similarity, \nbut upon that of causation. We must show that the \nsame cause is operating in the higher as in the lower. \nThus, in regard to the necessary death of the state, \nit must be shown that there is in it the same inherent \ncause of limitation as there is in the living body. \nThis cannot be shown, for the death of the body re- \nsults from the fact that a part of its elements are \nfixed, and a part are constantly changing, and further \nthat the fixed are continually encroaching upon the \nchangeable. Now, in the state this is not true. Its \nparticles are individuals. These are entirely changed \n\n\n\nSTATIC INDUCTION. 295 \n\nwith every generation. Thus from the age and death \nof an individual we cannot reason with any confidence \nin regard to the age and necessary death of a nation \nor a civilization. To prove on such a basis as this, \nfor instance, that the Hindoos can never have a true \nreligion, because their nation has reached the period \nof decrepitude, having passed through the periods of \nyouthful faith and manly knowledge, is not to use \nanalogy, it is to allow it to run away with us. \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 INDUCTION, \na. \xe2\x80\x94 STATIC. \n\nIf I put my hand into a bag of marbles, and pull \nout a white one, I can argue from analogy, not that \nall the marbles are white, but that some of them are, \nfor it is not probable that if tliere were only one white \none, I should lay hold of it at the first trial. If I \ncontinue to take marb\' s from the bag, and they \ncontinue to be white i first conclude that most of \nthem, and, finally, tnat all of them are white. If, \nhowever, I go from this bag to another, I cannot rea- \nson with confidence from these to those. But if, after \nexamining several bags, I find that all contain white \nmarbles, I should judge that all in that collection were \nalike. Yet, if I should go into another building, I \nshould have to begin my examination afresh. It is \neasy to see, however, that my conclusions may have \nbeen wrong all along. Even had I taken all but one \nof the marbles from a bag, and all of those had been \nwhite, the last might chance to be a blaojc one. This \n\n\n\n296 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nreasoning from many examples to all similar oojects \nis called induction. The example just given illus- \ntrates this in its simplest form. It shows the strength, \nand also the weakness, of this form of reasoning. Yet \nit must be remarked, that among natural objects error \nis less likely to occur than in the example given. In \nthe works of man caprice and mistake introduce vari- \nation where we might least expect it. In the works \nof nature there is more regularity, and our induction \nmay move with firmer tread. \n\nA child that is burnt dreads, by what happens to \nbe a correct analogy, all fire. A person chased by a \nmad bull tends for a long time, by a false analogy, to \nfear all cattle. Analogy that is not based on causa- \ntion can thus go but a little way. Induction, how- \never, even independent of any knowledge of causation, \nthat is, in other words, merely statical, extends far, \nand gives us knowledge which is almost certainty, \nwhich ma}^ indeed sometimes amount to absolute cer- \ntainty. If I see a crow for the first time I should \nhave no right to say that all crows are black, any \nmore than a man who should see for the first time a \nhorse could reason from the color of this one to that \nof all horses. But after the experience which we \nhave had ourselves, and the information which others \nhave communicated to us, we have no hesitation in \nsaving that all crows are black. We know no reason \nwhy they should be so. We only know that it is im- \npossible that if there were white crows we should \nnever have seen or heard of any. Thus it will be \nseen that the basis of statical induction is what is \ncalled the doctrine of chances. The fornal mention \n\n\n\nSTATIC INDUCTION. 297 \n\nof this topic has been reserved to this point, because \nthough static analogy, except in cases that are wholly \nabstract, depends upon this doctrine, it does not so \nmuch as induction involve the carefnl calculation of \nchances. \n\nNothing in the world is produced absolutely by \nchance. Everything is the result of a force, or \nforces, acting according to regular law. The rela- \ntion of one member of a line of causation to other \nmembers of the same line is not a matter of chance. \nThere is not, however, the same relation between the \nmembers of one chain of causation and those of \nanother. The relation of these last is a matter of \nchance If John goes to a city on business, his being \nthere is not a chance occurrence. James goes in the \nsame way, by design, and not by chance. But their \nmeeting there was not designed. Neither knew of \nthe movements of the other, and the movements of \none had no relation to those of the other. Thus this \nmeeting is a matter of chance. \n\nWe often speak of a single occurrence, of which we \nknow not the conditions, and thus do not know \nwhether it will or will not take place, as if it were \na matter of chance. By this is properly meant only \nthat it is a matter of chance whether any guess of \nours would or would not correspond with the reality. \nThus the expression is often used simply to affirm that \nthe matter under consideration is one in regard to \nwhich we are in some degree ignorant. \n\nThe doctrine or law of chances expresses the method \nby which we can determine, in many cases, the degree \nof the probability of the occurrence of any phenomena \n\n\n\n298 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwith the definite law and circumstances of which we are \nacquainted ; in other words, by which we can actually \nexpress the precise degree of defiuiteness which our \nknowledge of any subject reaches. This law depends \nupon our faith in the organic unity of the world, that \nfaith which we have seen to be one of the fundamen- \ntal instincts of our nature, developed and confirmed by \nexperience. The statement of the doctrine of chances \nis this : When the tendencies to produce a certain \noccurrence are equal in difierent places and times, this \nresult will be produced with equal frequency in all sim- \nilar spaces of time ; when these vary in difierent places \nand times, the frequency of the result will vary with \nthem. Of course the obverse of this statement will be \nequally true, and by the frequency and regularity of \nany result we may judge of the comparative strength \nof the tendency to produce it. Thus, we find, in toss- \ning a die, that one face tends to come uppermost as \noften as another ; that is, in the long run, each face will \ncome uppermost one time in six. When this result is \nchanged, \xe2\x80\x94 when in the long run one face comes up \noftener than one time in six, \xe2\x80\x94 we know that the funda- \nmental conditions have been changed, that the die is \nloaded ; and the degree in which it is loaded may be \ndetermined by the degree of this frequency. By the \ndoctrine of chances, we discover the permanency or va- \nriation of the force that governs the social and physical \nworld. On the certainty of this doctrine the greater \npart of our science and that of the provisions of our \nsocial order depend. The banker, the lawyer, the \nphj\'^sician, depends upon it for the assurance of his \nregular business and support, and the man of sci- \n\n\n\nSTATIC INDUCTION. 299 \n\nence depends upon it for the assurance of the truth \nand permanence of his generalizations and inductions. \nThe application of the doctrine of chances to induc- \ntion is this : When we have examined a great number \nof objects of a certain class, and find them all to pos- \nsess similar qualities, we believe that there can be \nsmall chance that there are any objects of this class \nwhich do not possess these peculiarities ; for, if there \nwere such, we should have come upon some of them \nin our investigation. The greater the number of ex- \namples on which our result rests, the smaller becomes \nthe chance of any exception, until at last this cha,nce \nbecomes so small as not to afiect our calculations. \nThis is the only basis of confidence in what I have \ncalled static induction. Static induction includes all \ngeneralizations, whether of coexistence or of sequence, \nwhere there is no known relation of cause and efiect \nbetween the relations or facts which the induction de- \ncides invariably to coexist or to follow one another. \nWe only know that they are thus united. We know \nno reason for the union. We cannot explain its \ncauses. We only know that we have always found \nthese elements or facts thus connected, and we reason \nthat we always shall find them so. All of our de- \nscriptive science rests upon this foundation. We \nmake one quality or part of the object or animal the \nmark of a certain class or genus ; and we do this, \nconfident that where this mark is found, certain others \nwill be found connected with it. That is, the quali- \nties, whatever they are, we find to be grouped \ntogether, so that when we meet one or two, we know \nthat the others must be found also. This was at first \n\n\n\n300 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe basis of our astronomical knowledge, though \nafterwards dynamical relations were mingled with \nthese. In a word, the beginning of all sciences, and \nthe completion of many, rest simply upon observation, \nor what we have called statical induction. We can \ngive no reason for our results. We only know that they \nare reliable. What we have always found to coexist, \nwe are confident that we shall always find coexisting. \n\nIt need hardly be said that the most careful obser- \nvation is needed, in order that our results may be \nworthy of reliance. Yet no absolute rule can of \ncourse be given for the limit at which doubt ceases \nand certainty begins. At any moment the discovery \nof an exception may disturb the most carefully \nformed system. But although the point cannot be \ngiven at which we may rest assured that our induction \nis complete, none the less there is a point where the \nhealthy mind takes its result for granted. \n\nAmong cautions and safeguards that should be used \nin this form of reasoning, there is none more important \nthan this, that the more widely the objects to which the \narguments point are separated in space or time from \nthose upon which the argument is based, the greater \nshould be the caution exercised in reaching the conclu- \nsion, and the less should be the confidence that is placed \nupon it. In merely statical induction we are \nworking, it will be remembered, in ignorance of the \ncauses that produce the phenomenon which we are \nconsiderino^. All we know is that some such causes \nare active here and now. But what change even a \nslight difierence in place or time may produce in them, \nwe cannot say. This limitation was foreshadowed in \n\n\n\nSTATIC INDUCTION. 301 \n\ntho illustration with which this discussion commenced. \nWe found that we could not reason from one of a \nquantity of bags of marbles to the rest. In fact, \nwhen we left one bag for the others, our induction had \nbecome simple analogy. The same is true of all dif- \nference in space or time. What is induction in regard \nto the fauna of one country becomes mere analogy \nwhen we reason from it to the fauna of another. To \nan inhabitant of Africa a white elephant would seem \nan impossibility. The King of Siam would not be- \nlieve the stories in regard to frozen rivers. His induc- \ntion was correct as far as it related to his own locality. \nHis mistake was in extendins; it to regions of which he \nhad no knowledge. To return to an illustration used \nbefore, it is not actually impossible that a bird may at \nsome time be discovered like a crow in all respects, \nsave that it is white. In this case we should still call \nit a crow. But the discovery, if ever made, will be \nin some remote region, where the nature of the climate \nis different, and which has not been explored as yet by \nour naturalists. There is the same limitation to stati- \ncal induction in time that there is in space. The un- \nknown causes of phenomena vary in one as well as in \nthe other, and phenomena vary with them. What is \ntrue at one age is not necessarily true at another. \nDoubtless, at some period, all horses were of one color ; \nindeed, wild animals of the same species are apt to \nhave small divergence in this respect. Thus in one age \nthere may be similarity ; in another, difference. This \n\'limitation of induction by time is strongly urged by the \nadvocates of what is called the development theory. \nNothing is more absolutely established by scientific \n\n\n\n302 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ninduction than the permanence of species. The lines \nthat separate them are impassable. Yet it is urged, \nby the believers of the theory referred to, that this \ngeneralization, however true of the present, cannot be \nextended back into the uncounted ages of the past, in \nwhich the conditions of life, that during the historic \nperiod have had a certain permanence, w^ere passing \nthrough slow yet almost immeasurable change. \n\nAnother limitation of statical induction is that of \nKind. We cannot extend our results to objects \ngreatly differing in kind from those which we have \nactually observed. An example of this nature is \nfound in the difference between mind and matter. \nMr. Mill, in his logic, asserts that we can conceive \nof a world that is not governed by the laws of causa- \ntion. He seems, however, to find it impossible to \nbelieve that mind is not governed strictly by this law. \nWe will not here stop to inquire whether we can con- \nceive of a world not governed by causation, whether \nsuch a so-called world would be a world ; nor, on the \nother hand, whether the mind is what is technically \ntermed a free agent. Our point of interest in the \nmatter is simply this, that the induction from objects \nin the physical world in which we live can much more \nsafely be extended to the most remote physical world, \nrather than into the realm of mind or spirit. That \nis, mind is more widely separated from these physical \nobjects by a difference in kind, than the furthest physi- \ncal world is separated from them by difference in space. \nAll questions in regard to the freedom and other \nqualities of the mind must be determined by the study \n\n\n\nSTATIC INDUCTION. 303 \n\ncf the mind itself. No induction from the outer world \ncan be extended to it with absolute confidence. \n\nHaving thus considered the limits of statical in- \nduction, and the caution needed in its use, we have \nto notice the principle that should always guide and \ncontrol its use. This is, that its result should be as \nwell defined, as complete, and as minute as possible. \nIt is not enough, for instance, to know that a certain \nanimal, say the gorilla, is found in Africa. We \nwish to know, first, the limits within which it is \nfound, and, secondly, the size, the shape, the habits, \nin a word, the whole anatomical structure and exter- \nnal life of the animal, \xe2\x80\x94 in what it resembles the ape. \nin what it resembles man. In fact, the first great \ndiflference that strikes us between merely popular \nknowledge on the one side, and scientific knowledge \non the other, is the loose, general, and vague charac- \nter of the one, and the precise, accurate, and minute \ncharacter of the other. Science ensures this accu- \nracy by carefulness of observation, by registry and \ncomparison of all results, and by measuring whatever \ncan be measured. In fact, this matter of measure- \nment is the grand element of statical induction. The \nbeginning of many a science dates from the discovery \nof some method of measurement. Without the \nthermometer there could be no thermology. With- \nout the gouometer there could be no crystallography. \nScience thus carries its measurement everywhere. \nIt measures the planets and weighs them. It meas- \nures their orbits. It measures and weighs the earth \nand the sun. It is as accurate in the minute elements \nas in the vast. It tells us exactly how many pulsa- \n\n\n\n304 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntions are needed for the dullest or sharpest sound ; \nfor the most dazzling red, or the most delicate violet. \n\nEqually with this accuracy of measurement does \nit need accuracy of language. It must have a name \nfor everything, \xe2\x80\x94 some fixed, hard word, that shall \nstand for this one thing, and for nothing else. Thus, \nat first sight, any science is a mass of terms. It \nwould almost startle an ignorant mortal to learn what \nvast numbers of hard names are needed to define all \nthe parts of his bodily system, which he carries about, \nas it were, embodied in himself. Poets complain that \ntheir sweetest flowers are made to bear the same bur- \nden of ponderous nomenclature. Yet this terminol- \nogy is an essential element of science. It is the rec- \nord of its analyses and of its discoveries. \n\nWhen we have said this, we have said all that con- \ncerns us in regard to statical induction. It is a vast \nsystem of observation, of measurement, and of ter- \nminology. Some sciences are mainly confined with- \nm this sphere. These are the descriptive sciences, \nbotany, zoology, and the like. They have indeed \nsome relations in which they extend beyond this ; but \nmainly they are the result and the record of this vast \nobservation and delicate measurement. Yet these \nmagnificent results do not wholly satisfy us. These \nmeasurements, so gigantic or so minute, are only the \npreparation for the induction that most attracts our \nminds. It is not enough to see this great world of \nphenomena existing side by side, with no active re- \nlation to each other. We wish to see them at work. \nThe great question of cause forces itself upon us. \nWe wish to know the cause of every eflTect, and the \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 305 \n\neffect of every object which we know must be in \nmany directions a cause. Static induction is only \nthe introduction to dynamic induction. We may re- \nmark in passing, that static induction bears the \nsame relation to dynamic, that we found the term to \nbear to the proposition. As the verb brings the ob- \njects or qualities that had stood side by side into \nactive relation, so dynamic induction, the induction \nof cause and effect, reveals to us the forces acting \nand reacting among the objects which before we had \nsimply observed in the relation of space and of \ntime. \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 DYNAMIC INDUCTION. \na. \xe2\x80\x94 EMPIRIC. \n\nThe first results of induction in regard to causation \nare merely empiric. We find that certain causes \nproduce certain efiects, though we cannot tell in what \nmanner these efiects are produced by these causes. \nThus the empiric form of dynamic induction would \nrest on no stronger and no difierent basis than that \nwhich is the foundation of static induction, but for \nthe fact that dynamic induction has two advantages. \nThe first is, that instead of dealing with groups loose- \nly bound together, it can single out the active mem- \nber of each group, the essential element of the union, \nthough it may not be able to explain the nature of its \npower, or the method of its working. And the sec- \nond advantage which dynamic induction has over \nstatic is, that it can call to its aid the force and the \nartifices of experiment. \n\n20 \n\n\n\n306 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nFor reaching reliable results by the aid of empiric \ndynamic induction two methods have been given. \nOne of them is called the method of agreement ; the \nother, the method of difference. The method of \nagreement} watches to see whether, when certain causes \nare present, certain effects are produced. The meth- \nod of difference comes with the more searching query \nwhether the effect is never produced if these causes \nare absent. The two together give us results upon \nwhich we can rel^^ As an example, suppose the ques- \ntion is in regard to the utility of any fertilizer. One \nman may say that he has used it on his farm for sev- \neral years, and has always had first-rate crops ; also, \nthat he has seen it used elsewhere with the same re- \nsult. This is the method of agreement. Another man \nis not satisfied with such proof He says, Perhaps \nyour farm was of specially good soil, or perhaps you \nhave seen it tried under some other favorable circum- \nstances. He resolves to give a fairer trial. He takes \ndifferent parts of his farm, and divides each into two \nsections, both possessing the same soil, the same slope, \nthe same natural advantages and disadvantages. Of \nthese sections he dresses one with the common, the \nother with the new, fertilizer. He takes account of \nthe seed he plants. He is very careful to expend the \nsame culture on both ; and finally makes a careful \nestimate of the crop gathered from each. Here all \nthe circumstances in both members of each pair of \nsections are similar, except that in one the old, and in \nthe other the new, fertilizer was made use of. "What- \never difference, then, there is in the crop must depend \nfni the different fertilizer used, and if in every case \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 307 \n\nthe result is the same, there can be no doubt of the \ncause. Thus the loose statement, " I used such \ndressing and had a first-rate crop," is replaced by the \nmore careful and scientific detail just given. An- \nother familiar example would be this : A man \nhears that alum will clear the turbid water of his \nwell. He takes some of the water in a glass, he \nputs a little alum into it, and in a short time the \nwater is clear. He is satisfied with the experiment. \nOne less ready to believe would say, "Perhaps the \nwater settled itself simply by standing." He would \nplace two glasses of the water side by side. Into \none he would put alum, into the other he would put \nnothing. If the one to which the alum is added be- \ncomes clear, while the other is still turbid, as this \naddition is the only difference in the circumstances of \nthe two, to it must be ascribed the difference in the \nresult. From these examples will be seen, very \nclearly, the distinction between the method of agree- \nment and the method of difference. The first is the \nsource of much of our popular knowledge, and also \nof much of our popular prejudice. A person ob- \nserving a certain fact to accompany in a few cases a \ncertain result, takes it for granted, without looking \nfurther, that the two are bound together by the law of \ncausation. The very foct of noticing the connection \nin one or two cases would lead one to notice it in \nothers, and to overlook those in which the two facts \noccur separately. If, for instance, one has a notion, \nor has ever heard, that Friday is an unlucky day, he \nvery naturally calls to mind all the unlucky events \nconnected with that day. The list can easily be \n\n\n\n308 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nmade a long one, containing one-seventh of all the \nmisfortunes that come to his knowledge, and the per- \nson might naturally make up his mind that there was \na connection between the day and these unfortunate \noccurrences. Thus it is that the method of agreement, \nhastily used, leads to many false results, which the \nmethod of difference alone can corrrct. \n\nA complication often arises from the fact that the \nsame result may be produced by different causes. \nThus, how many are the circumstances that affect the \nweather, or the social prosperity of any community ! \nIn such cases, the method of difference cannot be used \nwith perfect strictness. Every one of the circum- \nstances concerned may be in turn omitted or varied, \nand the result may be still the same. The fact that \nthe result takes place without the presence of the cir- \ncumstance, which may be supposed to be one of its \ncauses, does not prove that it may not have been such \nin other cases. The fact that men often sleep without \nopium does not prove that opium does not often cause \nsleep. The fact that many men have reached a high \ndegree of mental development without opportunities \nof education, or of moral development without any \ndefinite form of religion, does not prove that educa- \ntion and religion may not be considered as causes of \nsuch results. From the fact that inider one system \nof laws a nation has reached a certain height of pros- \nperity, w4iile another, with a different system, has \nreached the same, it does not follow that eaich of these \nsystems may not, in the one case and the other, have \nco-operated to this result. Inattention to this fact is \nthe cause of man}\' popular fallacies and much false \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 309 \n\nreasoning. The difficulty which this multiplicity of \ncauses, each able to produce a similar result, occasions \nin the attempt to prove that either of them is actually \nsuch a cause, may be met by various methods. One \nis by that of deduction. We can reason from what \nmust be the effect of a certain cause to what has been \nits effect, which, however, leads us forward to the \ndepartment of rational dynamics. Another method \nis to apply the doctrine of chances. If the two facts \nare oftener connected than would be the case merely \nby chance, we judge that there must be some relation \nof cause and effect between them. In other words, in \nsuch cases the method of difference can be but imper- \nfectly used, and we are obliged to fall back, mainly, \non that of agreement. \n\nBefore leaving the method of difference, there is a \nmodification of it to be considered, required in any \nattempt to apply it to those natural causes which are \npermanent, and which thus cannot be removed for \nthe sake of experiment. This modification is called \nthe method of concomitant variations. In experi- \nments on heat we cannot wholly remove the force of \nheat from any body. We can, however, increase and \ndiminish it. We can study the eflect of this change, \nand thus reach results as accurate as if we could com- \npare the effects of its presence and absence. This \nmethod of concomitant variations, though it has been \nexalted to the rank of an independent method, is \nstrictly, as has been said above, a modification of the \nmethod of difference. \n\nThere is, however, another method which deserves \na distinct place. This is called the method of unex- \n\n\n\n310 THE sciEm.1: of thought. \n\nplained residuums. I wisk to discover the presence \nor absence of any agent in producing a given result. \nOther causes have contributed to produce it. The \nquestion is whether they alone were sufficient for this \nend. The method of determining this is to calculate \nthe effect of each of these, subtract this from the com- \nmon result, and then examine whether there be any- \nthing left to require for its explanation the influence \nof any additional force. Thus, if we were examining \na case of so-called spiritual manifestation, we should \nfirst seek, and if we found it subtract, the influence \nof deception. If we found there was no chance for \nthis, or only a very slight chance, we should proceed \nto examine what we had present as a bona fide fact. \nWe should next look for the effects which mio^ht be \nproduced in certain temperaments by an excited or \nexalted state of the nervous system. This might \nproduce a certain fluency and exaltation of speech, \nnot habitual with the individual, perhaps not even \npossible to him in his ordinary state. This effect is, \nas experience teaches us, no unusual result of such a \nstate. But we might still find a residuum unex- \nplained. There might be an acquaintance with facts \nof which the person in his normal state could know \nnothins:- Here we mio;ht brino; into consideration \nthe force known as animal magnetism. This we know \nproduces a certain clairvoyant power, and also ren- \nders an individual susceptible to influences from cer- \ntain persons with whom he niay be, by chance or \ndesign, en rapport. Here, then, we have certain known \ncauses. One is the involuntary and exalted utter- \nances which may be produced l)y certain nbuorraal \n\n\n\nDYTSTAMIC INDUCTION. 311 \n\nstates of the nervous system. The other is the power \nof clairvoyance and the subjection to foreign wills, or \neven to foreign personalities, which may be produced \nby the mesmeric state. Then, after these have been \nsubtracted, there remains the question, whether any- \nthing is left requiring some additional cause. The \nnervous sensibility of the person whose case we are \nconsidering may in its excited state be compared to \na sensitive photographic plate, receiving impressions \nfrom every object about it. We cannot, as in the \nphotographic example, shut out all influences, leaving \nonly the one which we have to study. We must ex- \namine it, and find whether in this confused mass of \nimpressions, produced by the memory or the imagi- \nnation, or imprinted upon it by the wills, or even by \nthe personalities, of any who may chance to be near, \nthere is also an impression that would require for its \ncause the influence of some disembodied spirit. \n\nThough this is the first direct reference to the \nmethod of residues that has been made in this work, \nit has been tacitly assumed in all that has been said \nabove in regard to the difierent methods of induc- \ntion. The simplest case of the method of agreement \ninvolves the method of unexplained residues, for the \neflect of chance must be eliminated before any result \ncan be reached. This, as was intimated above, comes \ninto very marked prominence in those cases in w^hich \nthe method of difference cannot be tried. Besides \nthe case mentioned above, where there were a multi- \nplicity of causes, each capable of effecting the result \nunder consideration, we have other cases where the \nforces are not under our control. So many circum\' \n\n\n\n312 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nstances affect the process, and do this iu ways so \ndelicate, that although we make in two cases precisely \nthe same preparations, in the one we obtain the end \nsought, while in the other we fail. This is the case \nvery frequently with experiments in regard to some \nnew agent, especially in regard to one of a delicate \nnature. At first, it is not isnown how to preserve \nthe experiment free from foreign influences. It may \nbe that only now and then such an experiment will \nsucceed ; but this success may be of so striking a na- \nture as to exclude the possibility of its being a chance \nproduct. We exclude all the possible results of \nchance from our calculation, and have left one or two \nfacts which demand other explanation. This cannot \nbe illustrated better than by reference to phenomena, \nthe nature of which is not yet settled in the minds of \nmen generally, though a belief in their being the ex- \npression of some heretofore unrecognized agent has \nbeen slowly gaining ground. The phenomena referred \nto are those which come under the general heads of \nanimal magnetism, clairvoyance, and the like. In \nthese, supposing them to be what they appear, the \neffects are produced by some force, or forces, which \nit is impossible for most to control, and therefore \nnearly all the experiments made miscellaneously must \nbe failures. Thus a person may have dreams all his \nlife, which are mere idle fancies. All the persons of \nwhom he has knowledge may have had the same ex- \nperience. Yet he may, some night, have a dream \nwhich corresponds with minute accuracy to some per- \nhaps painful event that is at the time going on else- \nwhere. The question to be decided is, whether it is \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 313 \n\ntoo minute to be the eflect of chance. If, after having \neliminated the possible effects of chance, there remain \na striking accuracy of detail, it must be supposed \nthat there was some reason for this. It would not \nfollow that dreams are generally reliable, but that \nsometimes a person may be drawn into sympathy \nwith some distant friend, or may, while sleeping in \nthe ordinary way, fall, spontaneously, into the deeper \nsleep of the magnetic or clairvoyant state. Thus it is \nwith all those occult sympathies which spring to light \nvery rarely, but then in so striking a manner as to \nforbid the possibility of considering them merely acci- \ndental coincidences. The same is more strikingly \ntrue in cases in which the person who may be exam- \nining them exercises, by his very presence, a nega- \ntive and hindering influence. Not only can his own \nexperiments never succeed, but his very presence \nhinders the success of others. All such phenomena \nmust be studied with peculiar care. Nothing is more \nremarkable than the feet that phenomena, so perfectly \nauthenticated as those under consideration, should be \nutterly disbelieved by many. The reason is the diffi- \nculty of success in ordinary experiment, and the neg- \nlect to eliminate the possibilities of chance from the \nfacts that cannot be denied, and thus discovering the \nunexplained residuum which demands some additional \ncause. The student and thinker who would enlarge \nthe boundaries of human knowledge has, in such \nphenomena, a vast and comparatively unexplored \nfield of research. It is difficult, it is true, to accom- \nplish anything definite and satisfactory in this field ; \nbut even in unimportant matters it is the shyness of \n\n\n\n314 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe game that gives zest to the chase ; aud discoveries \nill the field referred to Avould do more than ahnost \nanything else to shed light upon the most interesting \nfacts and relations of our nature. \n\nAnother example of the method of unexplained \nresidues, and one more interestinsf to the oreneral \nreader, is found in a process constantly going on in \ngeneral thought aud literature. It is the method \noften applied on a grand scale and unconsciously. \nWhen a man, namely, undertakes to explain some \nphenomenon by one of the many causes that have co- \noperated to produce it, his work in its direct object \nis a failure, but yet he does service, for by showing \nwhat this one cause can accomplish he shows, uncon- \nsciously, the need of other causes, and also defines \nthe sphere of these others. An example of what is \nmeant by that which has just been said may be found \nin the famous chapters of Gibbon, which attempt to \nexplain the rise and progress of Christianity by merely \nnatural and finite causes. How for such an attempt \nmight be successful we have not here to consider. \nWhat we have to notice is, that whatever infinite and \ndivine cause were working behind and through Chris- \ntianity, these finite causes were working with it ; aud \nthe effect of this grand and special cause cannot be \nseen and understood until we have found how much \ncan be explained by these ordinary and finite causes. \nThus such an undertaking as that of Gibbon, what- \never its intention and whatever its results, should \nreally be regarded as tending to exhibit the divine \norigin of Christianity,, if it had such a special divine \norigin, by the method of an unexplained residuum. \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 315 \n\nThese remarks will not be understood as an attempt \nto give a complete view of the nature and import of \nthese chapters, but simply as using them to illus- \ntrate the point mider consideration. \n\nAnother example of the same kind is furnished by \nthe work of Darwin, on the " Origin of Species." This \nwork, as is well known, attempts to prove from the \ntransformations that all animals are liable to undergo \nin correspondence with outward changes, and espe- \ncially from the incorporation of these variations into \npermanent varieties or species, that all species and \nvarieties of living creatures originated in this way \nfrom one common source. This book was received \nwith a great outcry of indignation by those who be- \nlieved the permanence of species to be matter of sci- \nentific, and even of religious, certainty. But what- \never our views of this may be, all must admit that \nthe law of natural selection is one of the forces at \nwork in the world. Variations in the structure and \nhabits of animals are continually taking place. \nHowever fixed and definite species may be, these \nvariations play about them, and thus we can never \nunderstand the true nature and permanence of spe- \ncies, until persistent attempts in the path Darwin has \npointed out have proved how much can be explained \nby this law of natural selection, and thus shown, by \nthe method of unexplained residuum, what must be \naccounted for by the existence of fixed and perma- \nnent species. Another illustration is the attempt to \nexplain vital functions by chemical forces. These \nforces do co-operate in all vital processes. What- \never may be the special object in the attempt referred \n\n\n\n316 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto, its result Avill be to show, by the method we are \nconsidering, what is the extent and nature of the vi- \ntal force, and without such attempts we should never \nreach this understanding. \n\nBut examples of this sort need not be detailed. \nWe can find them everywhere, in the highest matters \nand in the lowest ; whether it be the application of the \nsternest criticism to the Bible, or whether it concern \nmerely some trivial matter, every such attempt is, \nconsciously or unconsciously, the application of the \nlogical method of unexplained residues to the clear- \ning up and the making definite of our knowledge. \nAll schools in science or philosophy, all sects in re- \nligion, all theorizers who have ability and patience to \ncarry out their theory into detail, no mattei\' how \nnarrow these schools or these theories ma}\' be, are \nyet working out into clear, sharp outline the general \nsum and substance of our knowledge. Each de- \ntaches something from the common mass, and, by the \nmethod of the unexplained residuum, leaves more \ndefinite and comprehensible the result of other and \nmore 2:eneral forces. \n\nIt must be remarked, however, in concluding what \nis here said of the method of unexplained residues, \nthat it cannot be regarded as absolutely final. What \none analysis leaves, as not to be explained except by \nmeans of some special force or agency, a sharper \nanalysis may open, or may even remove altogether, \nby showing that the force, or agent, supposed at first \nto be necessary for all, is in reality not needed for \nony, everything being accounted for by other and \nmore ordinary causes. \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 317 \n\n\n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 RATIONAL DYNAMIC INDUCTION. \n\nThe processes we have just studied have been \npurely empirical. The results of such processes we \ncanuot, except by other methods, explain. We can \nonly say that we have proved them to exist. But \ndynamical induction is by no means satisfied by such \ncoarse processes and such crude results. It will not \nonly seek by observation to bind together cause and \neffect ; its grandest triumphs consist in showing the \nnecessary connection between cause and effect. The \nempirical generalization must be large indeed that \nforbids any chance of error, but so soon as we reach \nthese necessary relations, we find ourselves on the \nsolid ground. By rational causes is meant causes that \nadmit an explanation of the manner of their work- \ning. Of empirical causes we can only say that they \nare such. Of rational causes we can say why they \nare such. Yet few, if any, causes are wholly ration- \nal. Every object and every force has its original \nnature, by which it produces such and such effects. \nThis nature is an original fact not to be explained. \nNo science of optics, however perfect, can explain \nwhy any external combination should produce in us \nthe special sensation which we call red, blue, or \ngreen. Our most rational causes are, therefore, more \nor less mixed. The problem is to reduce the empiri- \ncal to a minimum, and to raise the rational to a max- \ni7num. \n\nThe difference between the two may be readily il- \nlustrated. The physician administers quinine for \n\n\n\n318 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe intermittent fever. The remedy is purely em- \npirical. He administers it because he has found it to \nbe a remedy in such cases ; but of its working, from \nbeginning to end, he knows nothing. When, on the \nother hand, he prescribes antimony for certain dis- \neases of the lungs, he knows, in part, what he is \nabout. He knows the precise effect which his reme- \ndy produces upon the lungs ; he knows, also, the pre- \ncise state of the lungs ; he knows, therefore, how his \nremedy, acting as it does, will relieve them. He \ndoes not know the reason for the primary action of \nhis drug. His knowledge of this is as purely em- \npirical as his knowledge of the effects of quinine in \nthe intermittent fever. Yet, in the former case, all \nafter the first step is clear ; while in the latter the \nwhole is involved in mystery. The one is in part \nrational and in part empirical. The other is wholly \nempirical. When, however, he prescribes iron for \nsome state of the blood, he deals with causes much \nmore purely rational. The blood is deficient in iron ; \nhe simply supplies what is lacking to its complete- \nness. \n\nIt would seem as if the tracing of the actual trans- \nfer of a body from one set of relations to another \nwould furnish the nearest possible approach to a ra- \ntional explanation of the working of any cause. TJie \ntransfer of force, however, approaches this standard \nmore nearly. A body of whatever kind has its own \npeculiar properties which are active in all causation \nof which it forms a part. These qualities are alwaj\'s \nirrational, that is, they admit of no explanation. \nThey are purely empirical. Force, however, is pure \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 319 \n\nly abstract. It has no qualities. It is susceptible \nof mathematical formulas. Its presence and its de- \ngree can thus be demonstrated, and what can be \ndemonstrated is in the highest sense of the word \nrational. \n\nHypotheses may be formed in regard to either em- \npirical or rational causes. An hypothesis that admits \nof merely empirical proof is, however, little more \nthan a guess. We conjecture that a certain agent \nmay produce a certain eflect, and by the method of \nagreement and that of difference we determine whether \nit be so or not. So far, the result is merely empirical. \nIt becomes rational, so far as we are able to explain its \nmethod, and show why and how this agent produces \nthis special effect. \n\nThe course in regard to the verification of rational \nhypotheses is very different from this. A rational \nhypothesis is proved to be true when it is shown that it \ncompletely explains the phenomena under considera- \ntion, while nothing else can be thought of that would do \nthis. To verify such an hypothesis, then, one must \ndevelop all the results that would spring from the \nsupposed cause ; must examine, most minutely and \naccurately, all the phenomena to be explained, in all \ntheir relations, and if the two results cover each \nother, that is, if nothing could result from the cause \nthat we cannot find in the phenomena, and there is \nnothing in the phenomena that cannot be explained by \nthe cause, we are justified in assuming the hypothesis \nto be correct, and the cause to be a true one. Two \nor three examples will illustrate what has been said, \nand also suggest certain qualifications of it. \n\n\n\n320 THE SCIEISCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nI have already referred to the fact, that a short time \nago it was the custom to explahi electrical phenomena \nby the hypothesis of what was called the electric \nfluid. This hypothesis existed under two forms. One \nschool affirmed that there were two fluids, which it \ncalled respectively vitreous and resinous ; the other \naffirmed that there was but one fluid, and the two elec- \ntrical states were called positive and negative. \nNearly all electrical phenomena were explained with \nequal ease and satisfactoriness by either of these theo- \nries, while the latter, that of one fluid, had the advan- \ntage of greater apparent simplicity. Each, however, \nhad its weak point. The theory of the one fluid pro- \nceeded triumphantly, till it met the fact that negative \nbodies repel each other in the same way that positive \nbodies do. Here the theory of two fluids met the \ncase exactly. The vitreous and resinous electricities \neach attracts the other and repels itself. The defend- \ners of the one fluid found themselves in difficulty. \nFranklin, the originator of this theory, confesses that \nwhen he originated it he was not aware of this nega- \ntive repulsion. The most obvious explanation would \nseem to be, to claim that unelectrified matter repels \nitself; but this is counter to our common experience, \nthat particles of matter, except when they are forced \ninto too close proximity, have a mutually attractive \nforce. The explanation relied on was this : Two \nnegative bodies do not repel each other, though they \nappear to do this. They are attracted by the positive \nbodies which surround them on all sides. This at- \ntraction is equal in all directions, except in that where \nanother negative body by its presence replaces and de- \n\n\n\nDYNAJIIC INDUCTION. 321 \n\nstroys this attraction. Two negative bodies are attract- \ned in all directions except towards each other. Thns \nthey are drawn apart, as if they repelled each other. \nBut while the defenders of the theory of one fluid were \nforced to this awkward detour to avoid a difficulty, \nthey had on the other hand an experimentum crucis, \nwhich gave their antagonists no loss trouble. If a \nLey den jar be heavily charged, and its two poles be \nmade to touch opposite sides of a card, yet in such a \nway that they shall not be directly opposite to each \nother, we find, when the jar is discharged, this very \nstriking result : from the positive pole there is a line \nburned, marking the course of the electricity till it \nreaches the point opposite the negative pole. There \nis at that point a hole where it has struck through to \ncomplete its circuit. From the negative pole, on the \nother side of the card, there is no such line. The \npositive or vitreous electricity thus leaves its very au- \ntograph. The negative, or resinous, makes not even \nits mark. We have thus two theories, each plausible up \nto a certain point, each failing there. This failure in \neach does not surprise us, now that we know that there \nare neither two fluids nor one, that there is no such \nthing as an electric fluid at all, but that what we call \nelectricity, like what we call light and heat, is only a \nform of molecular motion. \n\nAnother illustration is furnished by the long con- \ntroversy, now happily at an end, between the defend- \ners of the corpuscular and the undulatory theories of \nlight. The corpuscular theory was at first sight the \nmost plausible. It fitted in admirably with the more \nobvious phenomena to be explained. The precision \n21 \n\n\n\n322 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nand regularity of the movement of reflected light, its \napparently smooth and clean outline, its regular re- \nbound, the angle of reflection equalling the angle of \nincidence, \xe2\x80\x94 all of this so completely resembled the \nmotion and the rebound of a thrown ball, that it is not \nsingular that the most scientific minds should have \nrested content with this explanation. Its first diffi- \nculty came with the phenomena of refraction. Why \nare these corpuscles thrown out of their path on pass- \ning from one medium into another of different density ? \nThe clumsy explanation, clumsy, though the best that \ncould be devised, was, that these corpuscles were at- \ntracted towards the denser medium when they entered \nit, and thus were drawn out of their course, and \nmoved while passing through this denser medium at \na different angle from that which their motion had pre- \nviously described. On leaving it they are attracted \nbackwards towards it, and thus move on a line paral- \nlel to their original course, though on a different \nplane. Even Newton was so convinced of the truth \nof the corpuscular theory, from its complete fitness in \nother respects, that he was satisfied with the explana- \ntion of refraction just given. But when the phenom- \nena of polarized light began to be fiiirly understood, \nthe corpuscular theory had to make use of so many \nfictions, and such elaborate complications of its first \nbeautiful simplicity, that it was soon given up by sci- \nentific men. The undulatory theory had this disad- \nvantage to contend with, that its application to the \ncommon phenomena of light was less obvious than to \nthe more delicate. It was very easy to point to a \nsmooth, round ray of light, and ask if that smooth \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 323 \n\noutline couKcl be the result of undulatiou. If the \nundulatoiy theory were true, light, it was said, would, \non passing through any opening, distribute itself at once \nin all directions, instead of following its straight course \nuntil it met with a rebound. With refraction, the \nundulatory theory was at once at home. Here it \nneeded only the very natural hypothesis, that the \nundulations were somewhat slower in a dense than \nin a rare medium. But the undulatory theory found \nitself most completely at home with the phenomena \nof polarized light, where its opponent had failed. \nAnd, finally, it was at last demonstrated that the lines \nof light and shade are not clear and smooth. Every \nshadow has its fringe, and the phenomena of trans- \nmitted and reflected light are just what they should \nbe if the undulatory theory were true. But the grand \ntriumph of this theory consists in the fact that it is \ncapable of absolute mathematical demonstration. The \nundulations can be measured and counted. It is mar- \nvellous to what minute accuracy this measurement can \nbe carried , so that we know that to produce the violet \nray are needed fifty-nine thousand seven hundred \nund fifty undulations to an inch. Not only can the \nnumber of these undulations be calculated, but all \nthe laws of their interference and their harmonies are \nsusceptible of the most minute and complete demon- \nstration, and the results of this demonstration coincide, \nat every point, with the facts of the case. The polar- \nization of light, the fringes of shadows, the fact of two \nrays of light uniting to form darkness, the fact that \nthe brightness of light may be under certain circum- \nstances increased by obstructing and keeping back \n\n\n\n324 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nportious of it, so that ouly the undulations that harmo- \nnize pass, while those that interfere are kept back, \xe2\x80\x94 \nall of these diverse, strange, and, at first, bewildering \nphenomena seem only the play-ground of this undula- \ntory theory, such an easy, simple, and beautiful solution \ndoes it supply to them all. This is what in these days \nis called science. \n\nThe consideration of these theories of light suggests \ntwo qualifications of the principle of rational dj^namio \ninduction which was laid down above. The first ib \nthis, that when a theory, or hypothesis, becomes more \nand more complicated to satisfy the demands of fresti \nphenomena, even though it may succeed in explaining \nthem, it is an indication of its falseness. The cor- \npuscular theory could explain, after a fashion, the \npolarization of light; but the corpuscles had to be so \nmanipulated to accomplish this that they could hardly \nhold their own after it. Another example of the \nsame kind is found in the history of the phlogistic \ntheory of combustion. The burning body, it was \nsaid, gives out its phlogiston. But closer analysis \nshowed that all the results of combustion, ^vhen col- \nlected and weighed, are heavier than the body was \nbefore it was burned. This seemed to conflict with \nthe theory of phlogiston, for if anything was given \nout, the body should have lost weight instead of gain- \ning it. But there was never a theory yet that would \nnot undertake to give some explanation of all facts, \nhowever contradictory to what it would have sup- \nposed. The defence set up for phlogiston was, that \nit possessed the property of specific levity, so that \nwith it the b.idy was lighter than without it. \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 325 \n\nPerhaps the most striking example of a theory \nproved false by its increasing curabersomeness and \ncomplication is furnished by the theory of cycles and \nepicycles, by means of which the movements of the \nheavenly bodies were explained by the early astrono- \nmers. They, not being able to conceive the possi- \nbility that these bodies should be self-sustained, \nimagined them to be attached to crystal spheres. \nThe revolution of these spheres was supposed to be \nthe cause of the apparent revolution of these bodies. \nWith the discovery of the satellites of the planets, and \nof the variations in the movement of the various \nbodies, more crystal spheres and new revolutions had \nto be added, until at last was produced such a com- \nplicated system that the very thought of it is bewil- \ndering. It is no wonder that Alphonso of Castile \nexclaimed, that if God had consulted him he could \nhave suggested a better arrangement. The wonder- \nful thing about it is, that this theory actually did ex- \nplain all the movements of the heavenly bodies, on \nthe hypothesis that the earth was the centre about \nwhich all revolved. If mere success in explaining \nthe facts of any case, so far as they are known, could \nprove an hypothesis correct, this had that proof. But \nits complication showed its falseness. How different \nwas the true theory when it came ! A single word, \nand the whole story was told. \n\nThe second qualification suggested by the exam- \nples referred to is that an hypothesis capable of \nmathematical demonstration gains thereby the highest \ndegree of certainty. A general knowledge of the \nmovements of the planets and of the moon might \n\n\n\n326 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsatisfy common minds that the hypothesis ot univer- \nsal gravitation was correct. It was, however, a mere \nguess, until Newton applied the power of mathemat- \nics to the question and settled it forever. He proved \nthat the moon moved precisely so far towards the \nearth in a given time as it would if it were drawn to- \nwards it by gravitation ; and yet some would claim \nfor those who had merely guessed the fact of this \nrelation of the heavenly bodies an honor akin to his \nwho demonstrated it. Comparatively few discoveries \nhave not existed as conjectures in the minds of many \nbefore their truth was fully demonstrated. The \nhonor of them belongs to him who proves them to be \ntrue. A similar example is furnished by what is \ncalled the correlation of forces, which is now no longer \na theory merely, but a fact. A popular argument for \nthe truth that light, heat, electricity, etc., are only \nvarieties of motion, and thus different forms of one \nforce, can be made from the fact that each may pro- \nduce, or pass into, the other. Motion, friction for \nexample, produces electricity, heat, and finally light. \nElectricity produces, or becomes, motion, light, and \nheat. Heat produces motion, electricity, and light. \nWhichever you start with, you find yourself having \nto do with the others. This popular argument be- \ncomes a scientific demonstration when the relation \nbetween these forces, which we know to be forms \nof the same force, can be expressed by figures more \neasily than the relations of gravitation itself. The \nheat generated by the concussion of a falling ball of \nlead against the earth may be calculated with perfect \naccuracy, if the size of the ball and the distance it has \n\n\n\nDYNAMIC INDUCTION. 327 \n\nfallen be known. Thus a ball of lead of a given size, \nfalling from a given height, may furnish a standard \nof measurement for heat. And, on the other side, we \nhave this marvellous confirmation of the theory, \nnamely, that the heat thus generated is precisely \nwhat would be needed, if rightly applied, say by \nmeans of steam, to lift the same ball to the height \nfrom which it fell. This is the perfection of the \nmathematical demonstration of a rational hypothesis. \nIt must be remarked, however, that an hypothesis, \nthough susceptible of mathematical expression and \nproof, is subject to all the other conditions of proof \nto which other rational hypotheses are subject. It \nmust be the only conceivable power that can lie be- \nhind, and express itself through, these mathematical \nformulas. Moreover these formulas must be capable \nof various and corroborating application. Thus, the \nfact that we can calculate the number and weight of \nthe meteors which would be required to keep up the \nheat of the sun to its present degree, by their concus- \nsion against its surface after having been drawn to it \nfrom afar by the might of gravitation, does not prove \nthe truth of the theory. If there were, to our knowl- \nedge, precisely this amount of meteoric matter falling \nupon the sun, then the demonstration would be self- \nproved, like that of the relation between motion and \nheat, just referred to. Again, the flict that the hypoth- \nesis of ultimate atoms is adapted to the mathematical \nrelations of chemical combination, and to those of \npressure and expansion, does not prove its truth. \nThis hypothesis is a convenience ; but we can suppose \nanother structure of bodies that would satisfy the \n\n\n\n328 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nsame demand. Thus we may calculate the relations \nof a circle by supposing it to consist of an infinite \nnumber of straight sides ; but though this is a conven- \nience we do not imagine it to be the truth. So, \nalso, if we may borrow a beautiful example used by \nSchopenhauer to oppose the atomic theory, we may \nspeak of motion as if it were made up of spaces of \nrest and motion alternating. A rapid motion we may \nexplain to be that in which the spaces of rest are the \nsmaller ; slow motion that in which they are the larger. \nThis is precisely similar to the way in which we ex- \nplain specific gravity by the atomic theory. If the \nresult is false in the one case, it may not be true in \nthe other. It may serve further to modify our confi- \ndence in mathematical demonstration, as furnishing \nabsolute proof of the truth of any hypothesis, to re- \nmember that the theory of cycles and epicycles above \ndescribed was a perfect triumph of mathematical rea- \nsoning, though it proved to be founded on an utter \nmisconception of the true relations of the heavenly \nbodies to one another and to the earth. In fine, all \nthe pre-eminence that can be claimed for the mathe- \nmatical demonstration of hypotheses exists when it is \nadded to other proof, not when it replaces this. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will appear that noth- \ning can do more to disturb our absolute confidence \nin the truth of any hypothesis, than the discovery of \nanother hypothesis which furnishes an equally satisfac- \ntory solution of the problem. This is the reason why \nany scientific or theological school opposes, with so \nmuch force, a new hypothesis, which would furnish \nan explanation of any phenomena, in a manner differ- \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 329 \n\nent from the established and time-honored one. The \nvery presence of the new seems to cast doubt upon \nthe old. \n\n\n\nC. \xe2\x80\x94 ORGANIC INDUCTION. \xe2\x80\x94 INDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. \n\nIn another place the propriety of forming hypothe- \nses based upon the notion of final causes has been \nconsidered. We have now to consider the kind of \nproof and of certainty which belongs to this field of \ninquiry. It must be confessed that the passage from \ndynamic to organic induction, from the study of \nworking or efficient causes to that of final causes, is \nlike that from the clearness of day into the dimness \nof twilight. Every man who ever acted from a pur- \npose and for an end is certain of the existence of final \ncauses. Still, in special cases, we have not as a gen- \neral thing a clear, mathematical demonstration of their \nexistence and of the manner of their operation. In \ndynamic induction, as we have seen, the more minute \nour search the more certain becomes our result. In \nregard to organic induction, though we may be sure \nof general truths, yet the more minute our search the \nless sure we are of our ground. The great difficultj\' \nin regard to the study of final causes is the fact that \nthey are always mingled with dynamic causes. A \nfinal cause has no objective existence except in its \nresult. This result has been directly produced by \nefficient causes. The final cause has only been work- \ning invisibly behind and through these. Now, not \nonly does a difficulty arise from the fact that a final \n\n\n\n330 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncause can accomplish itself only through the medium \nof dynamic causes, \xe2\x80\x94 another difficulty arises from the \nfact, that Avheu the two work together it is always \nthrough a relation of subjection on the one side and \ncontrol on the other, which is constantly liable to be \ndisturbed. Thus, though we are sure in any case \nthat the final cause is present, and is in fact guiding \nthe whole process, we may be doubtful, in any special \nBtage of the process, whether any particular phenom- \nena are the results of the final cause, or whether \nthey are simply produced by the efficient causes fi-eed, \nfor the moment, from the guidance of their superior. \nWe often find, indeed, the presence of the final cause \nwhere we have no conception of the nature of the \nefficient cause. This is the case in regard to nearly \nall the productions of organic nature. Yet we know \nthat in all such cases there is an efficient cause, and \nas Schopenhauer well remarks, though he supports \nhis remark by unsatisfactory illustrations, our perfect \nknowledge is reached when we are able to give ac- \ncount of each. After these general remarks, we \nwill proceed to consider final causes in their special \nforms. \n\nIn regard to all actions that are the result of mind \nor intelligence, we know that there must be a final \ncause. Intelligence is the acting for a final cause, and \nthus every intelligent act must have such an aim. Our \ndifficulty arises when we come to determine what was \nthe final cause of any particular act or series of acts. \nIn legal investigations this is often very important. If \na man is accused of any crime, say of murder, or of \nassault, or of incendiarism, it is a very important point \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 331 \n\nto show that he had a motive. If the accused was \nknown to bear malice towards the injured party, or if \nhe has had reason to bear malice, or if he could have \nsought an opportunity for robbery, such a possible \nfinal cause gives point to the other circumstances that \ntell against him. Through its influence, facts that \nmight otherwise have been passed over assume grave \nimportance. Of equal moment with the deduction of \nan act from this possible final cause, is often the in- \nduction of the final cause from the circumstances of \nthe act. Thus suspicious circumstances which tend to \nimplicate a man in any crime lose their dark shade \noften if they can be explained by any other motive \nthan that which the crime would furnish. A skilful \nlawyer has often saved his client by the suggestion of \nsome new motive, which might run through the whole \nline of circumstances, that, strung upon a diflerent \nthread, looked so formidable, and give them an en- \ntirely difierent aspect. Indeed, the skill of an advo- \ncate is shown in hardly anything more than in the \nmanner in which he marshals the various parts of his \ntestimony, so that they shall be linked together in \nsuch a manner that they shall of themselves force upon \nthe listeners the purpose by which he would explain \nthem. Such arrangement of testimony is more pow- \nerful than an argument, for in it the advocate is out of \nsight. There is art, but there is no appearance of art. \nIn an argument the listener braces himself against \nwhat he sees to be the object of the speaker. But in \nlistening to this skilfully arranged testimony, where \neach point stands out in the relation to the others which \nthe advocate wishes, one is like a man who takes a \n\n\n\n332 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nforced card from the hand of a juggler, sure that in \nthis there is no trick, for he picked out just the card \nhe had himself selected from the pack. Another \nform which the question of final cause takes in legal \ntribunals relates not to the fact of the commission of any \nfelonious act, but to the degree of evil which the act \nwas meant to accomplish. Suppose the fact of murder \nproved, then comes the question w^hether it was in- \ntended or not. The law has a rough o-eneral maxim \nthat decides such questions, other things being equal, \nby the nature of the weapon by which the assault was \ncommitted. If it was by one that would naturally \nproduce death, the man is held accountable for the act. \nIf it be one that Avould not ordinarily produce this \nresult, it is not insisted that the man could have fore- \nseen it in this case. Maxims like this are rules, \nrough and rude, which may be convenient in many \ncases, and may furnish a greater approximation to \ntruth than could otherwise be reached. It need \nnot be urged, however, that such rules should always \nbe subsidiary and subordinate to more accurate and \ndelicate methods, where these can be employed. \nAnother example of the manner in which a general \nrule, based upon the nature of final cause, is used to \nsettle delicate questions of fact, is furnished by \nthe science of biblical criticism. It is one of the \ncanons of criticism, that in case of any divergence \nbetween the reading of the oldest manuscripts, other \nthings being equal, the preference shall be given to \nthe reading that is the most obscure. It is believed \nthat as these manuscripts were copied by one and \nanother, it was easier for an obscure reading to be \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 333 \n\nreplaced by an easy one than the reverse. The dis- \nposition to clear up the sacred text would work almost \ninsensibly to this end. Thus the first result and ob- \nject of these critical labors is, contrary to the popular \nimpression, not to remove difficulties, but to increase \nthem. \n\nBesides judicial and private judgments of actions, \nand these problems of minute criticism, the larger \nquestions of history demand often a similar solution. \nThe heroes and great actors of history not only excite \nour curiosity as to the circumstances of their lives, \nbut also create an intense interest to know the mo- \ntives which actuated them. When we see the origin \nof great discoveries, the originating of new eras, the \ncommencement of epochs of good or evil, we demand \nto know how far the chief actors in such events were \nconscious of the parts they were playing. We wish \nto know how much blame to award to the workers of \nevil, how high honor to the accomplishers of good. \nWe can hardly help judging men by the light of their \nachievements. We cannot shut the grand results \nfrom our own thoughts, nor, in our imagination, from \nthe minds of their originators. The two ships that \nthe same year brought, the one the first slaves to Vir- \nginia, the other the Pilgrim Fathers to Massachusetts, \nwe can hardly look upon as chartered by persons seek- \ning merely, or mainly, immediate results. We see the \none freighted with the shame, the other with the \nglory, of the Continent. We are often disappointed \nwhen we find that these grand results were not pres- \nent to the minds of their authors. Our Pilgrim \nFathers did not seek consciously to found a republic \n\n\n\n334 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof equal religious liberty for all. Thej^ sought relig- \nious liberty for themselves. When we consider this, \nwe are tempted to take from them much of the glory \nof the achievement. The fact we are considering \nbecomes yet plainer to iis in the history of scientific \ndiscovery. We find how little the discoverer often \nknew of what he had accomplished ; and how little of \nthis he had foreseen . Galvani discovered the galvanic \npower. We approach the act of discovery expecting \nto find a certain preparation and foreknowledge. We \nfind the philosopher simply puzzling his head to know \nwhy the leg of a dead frog should kick so unaccountably \nin his kitchen. Columbus, we say, discovered the \nNew World. We are a little disappointed when we \nfind that he did not undertake any such discovery ; \nthat he even died without the knowledge that the land \nhe had found did belous: to a new continent. As we \nlook more closely, however, at the final cause \nwhich controlled such events, we incline to pay back \nto such founders and discoverers at least a part, and a \nlarge part, of the honor which we had taken from \nthem. They took the path without knowing indeed \nthe grand issues to which it would lead ; yet they \ntook it, seeking results similar in kind to those actually \nreached. They were on the path of improvement and \ndisc^overy, and the fact that they did not beforehand \ncomprehend its whole length does not take from them \nthe honor of choosing this path. Galvani was not \nseeking what we call galvanism. He was seeking a \nknowledge of the forces at work in nature. Columbus \ndid not know of a New World, but he did consciously \nmake use of the fact of the spherical nature of the \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES 335 \n\nworld to seek what lay on its other side. The Pil- \ngrim Fathers did not seek to found a republic of abso- \nlute religious liberty, but they did seek to found a \nrepublic in which religious truth should be the ground- \nwork of its strength, while to this religious truth they \nsacrificed all that was dear to them. \n\nThis consideration of final causes, as they actuate, \nindividuals, leads us to the perception of a certain \nplan, a grand final cause, which is working through \nthe events of history, so that an apparently slight \nevent proves to be the germ of some vast outgrowth, \nwhich can only be comprehended after the result. \nThus we see individuals to be only the instruments in \nthis great progress of an organic history. We learn \nalso to honor individuals, so far as the final cause \nwhich actuated them can become one with, and ab- \nsorbed into, the great final cause that is controlling \nthe march of history. We find thus in the great men \nof the world a sort of instinct, like that which leads \nthe lower animals to prepare for a future of which \nthey have no knowledge. The young bird builds its \nnest, knowing nothing of its future brood ; or wings \nits flight across continents and seas, knowing nothing \nof the more genial climate that shall meet it at the \nend. Thus the great minds of the world seem to act \nfor some future which is not fully conscious to their \nown thought. \n\nThis brings us to consider the strange manifesta- \ntion of the working of final causes, as we find them in \nthe life of the lower creation. That animals reason, \nthat is, that they plan actions for a certain result, we \ncannot doubt, A dog seeks warmth and food with no \n\n\n\n336 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nless clear notion of what he is about than that which im- \npels his master to the same ends. Yet we find another \npower present in animal life, most present in the \nlower forms of animal life, which is as unquestion- \nably the operation of final causation, while yet the \nobject of the act is unknown to the creature perform- \ning it. Thus the young spider spins his first web. \nThus do insects seek the fitting locality for the dep- \nosition of their eggs. The moth plans for the food \nof its young, whose nature and whose appetite will \nbe so difierentfrom its own. Such instinctive acts are \nmore diflScult to be distinguished from acts of reason- \ning, when we find that new circumstances are met and \nprovided for by them. Thus in Kirby and Spence\'s \n"Introduction to the Study of Entomology," we are \ntold of bumblebees, which carefully propped up \nwith wax a piece of comb that had, for the purpose \nof experiment, been placed upon its edge, or small- \nest side, in such a manner that it tottered with the \nmovements they made upon it, and was liable to fall. \nThese artificial props, which the bees could never have \nneeded to make use of in their natural and wild state, \nwhich perhaps no creature of the class had ever used \nbefore, were introduced with as much skill and adap- \ntation to their end, as if they had been a part of the \nmachinery regularly employed by these insects. \nSchopenhauer gives a good method of understanding \nsuch phenomena, when he compares instinct to a \nmagnetic clairvoyance. " The young spider," he says, \n^^ feels as if it must spin its web, although it neither \nknows nor understands the object of its work." So \nhe relates, among other similar examples, the story of \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 337 \n\na man upon the ocean, who felt of an evening impelled, \nwithout any reason, not to undress himself, and who \nthus stretched himself in his clothes, boots, and even \nspectacles, upon his bed. In the night the ship took \nfire, and he was one of the few that escaped. He il- \nlustrates this form of instinct further by comparing \nsuch necessary, though not understood, acts to the \norganic growth of the body. As some creatures de- \nvelop claws and teeth or poison for self-defence, so \ndo others develop webs or other apparently con- \nscious contrivances to secure their prey. The differ- \nence is less in the nature of the act than in the \ndegree of openness or secrecy with which it is per- \nformed. In the one case it is indirect, in the other \nit is direct. A very fine illustration of this view may \nbe added to those which he enumerates, and may, \nperhaps, better than any other, help our imagination. \nIt is suggested by the coloring of many mollusks. \nWe know that the occupant paints its own shell. It \nspreads the colors upon parts of its own structure, \nand these are then applied to the surface of the shell. \nBut though we know this, yet we cannot, in our \nthought, make much distinction between the nature \nof the spots on the shell of a mollusk and those on a \nleopard. Schopenhauer w^ell compares the different \nclasses and operations in a hive of bees to the like \ndivision in any one living body. " As the liver," he \nsays, " will do nothing else than secrete gall for the \nsake of the digestion, and even exists merely for this \nend, so will the working bee do nothing else than \ncollect honey, secrete wax, and build cells for the \nbrood of the queen ; the drones will do nothing else \n\n22 \n\n\n\n338 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthan fertilize , the queen nothing but lay eggs. All \nparts thus work merely for the support of the whole, \nwhich is the only absolute end ; just as is the case in \nthe parts of a bodily organism. . . . This common \nresult the insects will without knowing it, just as \nthe organic nature works for final causes. Thus the \ngeneral choice of means is not left to their intelli- \ngence, but only the direct arrangement of them sep- \narately. But this is the reason why their actions are \nin no wise mechanical. The unmechanical nature of \ntheir acts is most clearly seen when one puts ob- \nstructions in their way. The caterpillar spins itself a \nnest in leaves, without knowledge of its object, but \nif one disturbs the web it mends it skilfully." Such \nrepairing of injury and meeting of unforeseen cases, \nSchopenhauer compares to the vix medicatrix na- \ntures, by which nature repairs the injuries of an or- \nganic body ; as, for example, she sets a broken bone, \nforming about the extremities which are to be joined \na ring of bone, a sort of natural splint, to keep them \nin their place until she has united the parts by a \nmore regular process. After this is accomplished, \nthe external rius: is absorbed. The fact in organic \nnature illustrated by the example last used, namely, \nthe absorption, or the expulsion, of what has become \nuseless, this economy of nature, Schopenhauer uses \nto illustrate the destruction in insect oro;anizations of \nthose members that have become useless for the com- \nmon end. Thus, when the drones have fulfilled theii \nfunction they are killed. When the tropical ants iu \ntheir march come upon a ditch which obstructs thjeir \nprogress, the foremost ones are thrust in till theh \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 339 \n\ndead bodies form a bridge over which the others pass. \nA similar case is the pulling off of her own wings by \nthe mother ant, when her home duties demand her \nconstant presence. This last is simply the external \nand indirect accomplishment of what nature often \nperforms in the interior of an organized body. It \nis like the falling off of the leaves of a flower when \nthey are no longer needed. In the one case nature \nperforms the work indirectly, through instinct ; in \nthe other, she performs it directly, without the in- \ntervention of instinct. But perhaps we can batter \nunderstand the manner in which animals make use of \nmeans in order to bring about ends of which they \nknow nothing, by reference to the appetites which \nwe share with them. Nothing is more directly adapt- \ned to its end than food is to provide for the growth, \nand supply the waste, of the body. Yet both men \nand animals eat for the most part as their appetites \nprompt at the moment, hardly thinking of the object \nfor which the food is taken. Indeed, so far as this \nobject is forgotten, does the food best accomplish its \nend. It is so most often with the means by which \nnature renews the human race. In the use of these \nmeans, perhaps, their result is oftenest forgotten. \nOften it is dreaded. Too often it is wilfully brought \nto naught. By such illustrations we can help our \nthought to comprehend how it is possible for the \nlower animals to work with such apparent providence \nfor ends of which they can know nothing. \n\nFrom the half-conscious working of final causes in \niiidtinct, we are now led to consider their utterly un- \nconscious working in organized bodies. Here it \n\n\n\n340 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwould be impossible to take a step without a con- \ntinual reference to the final cause. As intellect is by \nits very nature the acting for an end, so organization \nis by its very nature the existence for an end. The \nbest definition of an organized body would be, that it \nis one in which all the parts exist only for the sake \nof the whole. In the study of nature we are almost \nstartled by the delicate adaptation of means to ends. \nPerhaps nothing is more striking in this regard than \nthe application of the principle of the pulley to enable \na muscle to act in a direction which without this con- \ntrivance could not be reached by muscular action. \nThus the obliquus superior muscle of the eye turns \nupon itself by a pulley affixed to the frontal bone, and \nmoves the eyeball as no muscle, without this arrange- \nment, could do. This contrivance, if we may so call \nit, is repeated in the digastric muscle of the throat. \nFurther examples, almost equally striking, may be \nfound in the synovial membrane and fluid, by which \nall friction is taken from the movements of the joints, \nas we seek to accomplish the same end in our machin- \nery by means of oil. Indeed, we cannot look at any \npart of any organized body without being struck by \nits relation to the final cause for which it exists. It \nhas well been said that what the study of simple dy- \nnamic causation is in the consideration of inorganic \nmatter, that is the study of final causation in relation \nto organic nature. \n\nBut though we must in general recognize the pres- \nence of final causes in the study of vegetable and ani- \nmal life, the question may arise as to the limit of \nthese causes. While we can hardly be too strict and \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 341 \n\nconfident in seeking to explain by this principle the \nrelations of an organism to itself, we may hesitate \nand question when we have to consider its relations \nto other bodies. In other words, as has already been \nstated, an organization consists in a certain relation \nbetween efficient and final causes, and Ave may well \nsuppose that this relation should be sometimes disr- \nturbed, and the efficient causes should sometimes \nexert their power without regard to the end to be \naccomplished. We see this in the case of any de- \nformity. A deformity exists when some external \ncause has forced some part of the organic structure \nout of its true relations with the rest. \n\nIt is an interesting question how far the same \nirregularity exists in the uniformities of nature. \nThere are general uniformities connecting certain \nvegetables and animals that are otherwise distinct \nfrom one another. One may have certain peculiari- \nties for no other reason, apparently, than because \nanother has them. It is a question which has a very \nimportant bearing upon the large theories of physical \nlife, how far such similarities exist for the sake of \nuniformity of plan, or how far they are simply the \nresult of common efficient causes. In other words, \ncan the principle of final cause be applied to those \nparts of an organic structure which have no other use \nthan to connect it with other organic structures ? \nOne of these uniformities is the presence in all verte- \nbrate mammals of seven, and only seven, cervical ver- \ntebrge. No matter how long or how short the neck \nmay be, it may be that of a horse, of a giraffe, or of a \nhog, its neck contains seven, and only seven bones. \n\n\n\n342 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThe working of the final cause is well seen in the \nadaptation of these seven bones to the uses of each \nanimal. We see how well they are fitted, by \ntheir shape and arrangement, to enable the giraffe \nto obtain his food by browsing, and the swan to \nreach its food beneath the water. The further ques- \ntion is, whether the confining of these bones to \nthe number of seven be also the result of a final \ncause, namely, to ally the giraffe and the swan thereby \nto other vertebrate creatures ; or whether this num- \nber depends upon an efiicient cause, that is, exists \nbecause the present form of the giraffe and that of \nthe swan have developed from some different forms \nof animal life which possessed this number of verte- \nbrse. We wonder at the fitness of the proboscis of \nan elephant to perform its function. Shall we also \nsee in it the working of a final cause whereby it is the \nanalo^on of the nose of other animals ? Or shall we \nsay it is the analogon of the nose, because it is a \ntransformed and elongated nose? These questions \nacquire more force when they concern what is useless \nto an animal, but which seems affixed merely to pre- \nserve its relation to a common type. Thus the rudi- \nments of mammse in male animals subserve no \npurpose. The question is, whether the}^ are added \nsimply to preserve the unity of type, or whether be- \ncause the orisjinal germ mis^ht have assumed the form \nof either sex, but having been made by circumstances \nto assume the one, yet preserves the marks and the \nrudiments of what might have been developed into \nthe full form of the other? Another very striking \nexample is the fact that in th<^ j.iw of the embryonic \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 343 \n\nwhale are found the germs of teeth which never be- \ncome developed, which germs themselves shortly \ndisappear. Can it be that these minute and transient \ngerms are introduced, simply to stamp the embryo as \nrelated to other organized bodies, in which such \nteeth, having a purpose to serve, exist in full and \nenduring shape? In the human form the useless \nmotor muscles of the ear suggest similar questions. \nThese sometimes movable, yet always needless, ap- \npendages are the analogon of muscles in other animals \nwhich serve an important use. Can it be that these \nare simply the artist\'s stamp on man, to show that \nthe same nature that made them made him also? \nWhen analogous forms of organization tend to become \nactually similar in form or function, the question \npresses itself more strongly, whether it be not an \nactive cause rather than a final one that was the oc- \ncasion of the similarity in organizations which had \nbeen before so different. Thus it is said that the \ncommon snap-dragon and nasturtium tend, under \ncertain circumstances, to revert to the more general \ntype out of which their peculiar shape was formed, \nor on which it was based. Such reversion \xe2\x80\x94 for \nsuch we cannot help calling it \xe2\x80\x94 points to the fact \nthat the common structure was not only artistically \nthe ideal on which the monstrosities of certain species \nwere based , but was actually the material out of which \nthey were formed. \n\nThe fact of the common type which binds all or- \nganic forms into one is among the very grandest \ndiscoveries and conceptions of modern times. It \nopens to the student of science one of the most \n\n\n\n344 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nelevated subjects of investigation and thought, and \nit has already called out and quickened the genius of \nsome most honored in the scientific world. We take \nthe same kind of delight in tracing the same type \nthrough all changes, finding how the strangest and \nmost monstrous peculiarities of species and individuals \nare only fresh manifestations of this, that we do in \nfollowing the same theme through all the complicated \nvariations of a grand musical composition, only in \nthis contemplation of nature we have a more sublime \nresult than any single musical work can furnish us, \nfor we have the whole world of inanimate things as \nthe expression of the varied harmony. This observa- \ntion and this search may be shared in common by \nthose whose explanation of the phenomena is most \nopposite. The great foct is that genus, species, and \nindividual are never actually one. As we found in \nspeaking of logical propositions that they were \nalways imperfect, that is, that they affirmed the \nidentity of the individual and the universal, which are \nby their very nature not the same, so we find in the \nobservation of any species or individual an expression \nof the same imperfection. As the individual has \ncertain peculiarities which the type to which he \nbelongs cannot explain ; as the fact that John is man \ndoes not explain the color of his hair, or any special \nmodification of shape he may possess ; so, on the other \nhand, the common type shows its presence by marks \nwhich do not concern the individual life. The whale \nwould be as much a whale, \xe2\x80\x94 that is, would be as well \nfitted for all the circumstances of its life, \xe2\x80\x94 if it had no \ntransient germs of teeth in its upper jaw. The \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 345 \n\ngiraffe would browse as comfortable with twelve as \nwith seven verticle vertebras ; and this comparison \ncould be continued, not only through the examples \nabove given, but through the innumerable others \nthat the study of comparative anatomy furnishes. It \nis not for logic to determine the cause of this grand \nsimilarity and variation. It has only to caution the \nexplorer where the ground becomes uncertain and \nthe support frail. And in obedience to this demand \nwe have to draw the line, in the study of final causes, \nbetween the explaining by final causes the relations \nof the various organs of a body to the perfection and \ncontinuance of the whole, and the application of the \nsame principle to the analogous which in one individ- \nual, or sex, or species, remind us of others. In the \nfirst case, the final cause is as reliable as the force of \ngravitation in mechanics ; in the latter, we are ex- \nposed to the misleading of fancy and caprice. In- \ndeed, the explanation of every similarity by unity of \nplan, and every possible divergence by variation of ex- \necution, approaches the viciousness of a logical circle. \nBut, though it is very unsafe to explain the analo- \ngous of the higher with the lower, or of those on the \nsame plane with one another, by the doctrine of final \ncausation, the danger is lessened when we find in the \nlower the analogon of the higher. Here we cannot \nfail to detect the influence of the final cause, which, \nthrough the lower, is working up towards the higher. \nThe lower is evidently the type of the higher, by \nwhatever power the higher is to be produced. By \nevery theory, whether of development or of progres- \nsive creation, the lower must have preceded the higher \n\n\n\n346 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nin time, and thus the structure of the higher could not \nhave directly caused any peculiarity of the lower, as \nwe might feel at least the possibility of supposing that \nthe higher was directly influenced by the pre-existing \nlower. It is, then, in tracing the hints and prophecies \nof the higher in the lower, that we find freer scope for \nthe application of the doctrine of final causes to the gen- \neral study of organized nature. The most universal of \nsuch facts is the adaptation of the type of the lowest \norganism to take on the highest and most perfect forms. \nThe mere fact, that the highest organic forms are con- \nstructed on the same plan that runs through the lower, \ndoes not, as we have seen, justify us in explaining this \nresemblance by the doctrine of final causes. It is at \nleast theoretically possible that the lower, pre-existing, \nwere the efficient cause of this similarity in the higher ; \nand the question, which explanation shall be adopted, \ncan only be solved by the most careful and prolonged \nscientific study, if indeed it is ever fully settled ; but \nwhen we find the lower taking on so readily and so \nperfectly higher and ever higher perfection, we \nfeel authorized in affirming some previous adaptation \nto this change. We may illustrate this by an exam- \nple about which there is no difierence of opinion. \nWe should not explain by final cause the fact that the \ndivisions of any fruit correspond to those of the flower, \nor that the structure of the flower suggests that of the \nleaf; while we should explain by final cause the adap- \ntation of the earlier forms to put on the peculiarities \nof the later. It cannot be by chance that, in the long \nrun, in the geologic history of the world, the changes \nof organization have been, on the whole, in the direc- \n\n\n\nDmtJCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 347 \n\ntion of greater perfection. The formation of organs, \nand the complication of powers, imply the previous \nadaptation to assume these organs and powers. As \nin casting dice, if certain numbers should appear con- \nstantly more often than their proper average, however \nslight this excess might be, we should say that it is not \nby chance, but that the dice were loaded ; so when we \nsee every convulsion of the earth, whether slow or \nsudden, through the entire reach of geologic history, \nresulting, on the whole, in more and more perfect \nforms, we have to admit that this cannot be by chance, \nbut that nature herself plays with loaded dice. And \nif we go back behind the existence of organic forms, \nif we survey the scattered particles of the nebulous \nmatter out of which the worlds were shaped, and then \nsee this, as it becomes more and more compact, \nassuming organic, animal, intellectual, and spiritual \nforms, we must, at the very least, assume some special \nadaptation for this result. To explain it by chance \nwould be millions and millions of times more absurd \nthan to explain by chance the fact that the confused con- \ntents of a box which contains a boy\'s dissected map or \npicture, the longer they are worked over by a person of \nany skill, tit together more and more perfectly, until \nat last they form a symmetrical whole, or than it would \nbe to explain by chance the production of a bird from \nan eo^ar. And in such cases we have no intermediate \nterm between chances and final causes. We may, in- \ndeed, very properly adopt Herbert Spencer\'s ingenious \ngeneralization, and explain the course of development \nby the fact that every cause multiplies effects, while, \non the other hand, effects tend to become definite and \n\n\n\n348 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nregular. This furnishes a superficial explanation for \nthe phenomena under consideration ; but it no more \nfully accounts for them than it would account for the \nharmou}^ which results from the playing of a baud of \nmusic, to say that the difference of tones is caused bi \nthe fact that each plays on a separate instrument, an( \nthe harmony of them by the fact that musical wave; \ntend to assume regular pulsations. All this is true \nThe slight discords of music become lost at a distance \nbecause the irregular pulsations are absorbed into the \nregular ; but this would not take us a step towards \nexplaining the magnificent music of a trained band. \nThe instruments must have been adapted and used for \nthis special end. So the striking and valuable gen- \neralization of Spencer, just referred to, does not take \nus a step towards explaining the grand process of the \nworld\'s development. You may take a stone and \npound it and grind it, and heat it and cool it ; you \nmay apply whatever forces you will to it, and each of \nthese forces may multiply its efiects ad infinitum, \nbut you can never thereby get a bit of moss out of it. \nFor a regular process of organic growth is needed \nmaterial specially adapted for this. The sun, and \nthe air, and the earth together, bring out buds and \nleaves and blossoms upon the rose-bush, \xe2\x80\x94 because it is \na rose-bush. Let the theory of development be per- \nfected as it will, and it becomes more and more \nevident that there must have been an impulse at the \nbeginning towards precisely this result, \xe2\x80\x94 an adapta- \ntion for which we have no other, and could have no \nsimpler, word than to name it teleologieal, or, what is \nthe same thing, to ascribe it to final causation. \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OP FINAL CAUSES. 349 \n\nThis result becomes more obvious when we consider \nthe fact that ma , who is the conclusion of the animal \nseries, is also ie completion and fulfilment of it. \nThe animal form \xe2\x80\xa2 capable of a symmetry and a beauty, \nof a blending o the most perfect unit}^ with the \ngreatest variety, vhlch. it does not accomplish except \nin man. Other arrano\'ements of the orsfanic structure \nwould have served as well the purposes of the lower \nanimals, but not those of man. It could not be by \nchance that the animal form should assume a certain \nperfection in the higher quadrupeds, and then, losing \nthis among the quaclrumana, should assume a still \nmore perfect one in man. This is impossible on any \nbasis of chance, because the actual close of the \nseries of animal life might have taken myriads of \nforms. That it should take precisely the form which \nis the most perfect that the given bones and muscles \ncould by any guess or calculation reach, must be be- \ncause this was precisely the result for which they were \nfitted, and to which they were tending. Indeed, \nas we look back upon the different forms of animal \nlife, and compare them with man, we seem to see a \nprocess of masquerading, which at last comes to an \nend. It was the human form that was contorted and \ndistorted in all these lower shapes. It was this that \nswam with the fish, that crept with the beast, that cut \nall comical grimaces with the monkey, and that finally \nsprang erect and well proportioned in man. All that \nwas needed was a little straightening here, and pushing \nback there, to make the human form out of the \nbeastly. Indeed, after such a view as this, one can no \nmore doubt that man is the teleological, or organic \n\n\n\n350 THE SCIENCE OP THOUGHT. \n\nclose of the animal creation, than that lie is the actual \nclose, and thus the final cause, of the various embr}\'- \nonic changes that precede his independent personal \nexistence. \n\nIt has been said that there is in all this no possible \nterm between chances and final causes. Chance is \nthe relation of the results of independent causes to \none another. Final causation is the working togeth- \ner of forces specially adapted to a common end. No \nexpression can occupy a middle position between \nthese ; and a slight mathematical calculation will \nshow the possibility or the impossibility of chance in \nthe results above named. Take all the forces that are \nactive on the earth, on the one side, with all their pos- \nsible relations and complications ; and, on the other, \ntake the regular course of organic life, general and \nspecial, its, on the whole, regular improvement, ac- \ncording to any theory, whether of development or cre- \nation, and its absolutely symmetrical close, and it will \nbe seen that the efficient causes, though the}^ often \nhave their free and unfettered sweep, yet, on the \nwhole, were guided and controlled by a final cause. \nThis shows the sense in which man may be spoken \nof as the final cause of creation. "We see not all \nthings put under him," but we do see him the organic \ncompletion of all the perfection of organic life upon \nthe earth. \n\nIt was stated above that logic has not to decide \nbetween the development theory and that of special \ncreation ; yet in what has been said the development \ntheory may seem to have been sometimes assumed. \nThis has been done for two reasons. The first is, \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 351 \n\nthat under the creative theory it was useless to dis- \ncuss the existence of final causes. The theory as- \nsumes them. It was important to show that the \ndevelopment theory is also necessarily bound to them. \nThe second reason is because the terms of the de- \nvelopment theory are better adapted to scientific use. \nScience abhors a break. It is, in fact, her destruc- \ntion ; and the theory of special creation implies a \nsuccession of breaks, of those leaps, which, accord- \ning to science, nature never makes. Thus, whatever \nbe the issue of this controversy, science must long \ncontinue to speak and think under the forms of the \ndevelopment theory. The defenders of this theory \nthemselves admit the improbability of its ever meet- \ning with inductive proof. What we know absolutely \nis, that eflacient causes and final causes have been work- \ning together ; the difficulty is to form a conception of \nthe method of their connection. Either dilemma is \nsufficiently difficult to conceive. Herbert Spencer per- \ntinently asks whether the believer in special creation \ncan imagine any way in which this could have taken \nplace ; whether, for instance, creatures were made in \nthe air and then put upon the earth, or whether they \nwere made in the earth and strutrsled out, as Milton \npictures the half-formed lion. " The belief in special \ncreation of separate classes of living things," he says, \n" could not exist, if men would try to look at the mat- \nter specially and in detail, in the way above suggest- \ned." But, on the other hand, Herbert Spencer, in \nthe first number of his "First Principles," has shown \nthe impofsibility of conceiving of a self-developing \nworld, and the objections there urged would apply \n\n\n\n352 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto the conception of such self-development at every \nstage of its process. It is impossible to imagine the \nlowest plant developing itself, without germ, in a \nsphere that has but recently been a mass of fire. \nAnd it is equal l}\'\' impossible to imagine that lowly \nplant becoming, by any process of self-development \nalone, an elephant or a man. If the development \ntheory is in any sense true, the earth itself must have \nbeen a seed, germinant with all the forms of life that \nwere to spring from it, and specially adapted for \ntheir production ; and this is the same as to say that \nfinal causes have at every step presided over efficient \ncauses. From the position of its defenders, such as \nLyell and Huxley, we may take it for granted, as was \nintimated above, that it Avill be long at least before \nthis theory of development can be by strict induction \nproved, or disproved. Yet its language must, as was \nstated above, be long, if not always, the language of \nscience, for it is her business to explain all phenome- \nna, so far as possible, by their efficient causes ; and \neven if the doctrine of special creation be true, the \ncliffi^reut orders of organic life, being created accord- \ning to one plan, must stand in relations which can be \nexpressed most satisfactorily in the language of this \ntheory. There has been an ideal if not a real devel- \nopment. But, on the other hand, religion can still, \nand must still, use the language of the theory of \nspecial creation. It is her concern to emphasize the \nfinal cause ; and man is no less a creation if made \nout of the ape, or the ape if made out of a palm-tree, \nthan if each had been made out of the dust of the \neartn, just as it would require the same creative ge- \n\n\n\nINDUCTION OF FINAL CAUSES. 353 \n\nnius to make a magnificent statue out of a piece of \nmarble, which had been ah^eacly cut into some infe- \nrior form, as to make one out of a block fresh from \nthe quarry. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will be seen that effi- \ncient, or dynamic, and final causes are not at variance, \nbut only represent different sides of the same event. \nIf it be admitted that the final cause has for its con- \nstant companion the efficient cause, and, on the other \nhand, that the efficient cause is on the whole \nguided by the final cause, then there can be no \npossible strife between science on the one side, and \ntheology upon the other. Each, it is true, will use its \nspecial language, yet each will continually adopt more \nand more of the material of the other into itself. \nScience will make the final cause more and more \nthe object of its induction, as the development \ntheory already in substance does ; while theology will \nfind more and more material for wonder and admira- \ntion, as it sees how the final cause continually uses \nthe efficient causes, that seem acting with independent \nfreedom, for its own end. \n\nFrom the above, it will be seen that final causes \nrest upon an induction as rigid as the other results of \nscience, only such induction must always remain in a \ncertain sense general, never descending to the minute \nspecifications that characterize the induction of \nmerely dynamic causes. The canon for such organic \ninduction, or the induction of final causes, is, that \nwhen various distinct efficient causes unite repeatedly \nin any one harmonious and perfect result, this must be \nheld to be their final cause, and the greater the variety \n\n23 \n\n\n\n354 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof these forces and the greater the frequency of their \nharmonious result, the more perfect is the induction. \nWe have ah\'eady applied this canon in substance to \nthe organic structure of the world. We can apply \nit also to other relations. Thus, for example, in a \nformer part of this work, we found that beauty is the \nfree manifestation, or the ideal manifestation, of any \nand all of the forms of nature or life ; that is, \nwhether it be sound, or color, or form, or life, \nwhen it freely manifests itself according to its own \nlaws and its own nature, we receive from it the pecu- \nliar form of enjoyment that we call the perception of \nbeauty. Now, if all these forms of nature w^hen they \nreach their perfection are beautiful, what is deformed \nor unsightly being only the checking, or the restrain- \ning, or the interference with the laws of any one of \nthese forms, then beauty is one of the final causes in \nthe existence of each one of these elements. On the \nother hand, the presence of the unsightly and the \ndeformed would not, in itself, imply any final cause, \nhowever much they may be multiplied. For disturb- \nance and interference may be over and over again the \nresult of chance, while a repeated and complicated \nharmony cannot be. \n\nThe same induction may be applied to the history \nof man. Indeed, such application is only a continu- \nance of the process commenced already in the study \nof the creation of organic forms. Whatever harmo- \nnious result is produced more and more completely \nby all the changes and convulsions of history, that we \nmay set down to be one of the final causes of history. \nIf, for instance, the rigb\'js and the power of the people \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF INDUCTION. 355 \n\nbave, on the whole, and in the long run, been more \nand more established by the revolutions and convul- \nsions of history, we may assume these to be one of \nthe final causes and ends of history. \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF INDUCTION. \n\nWe have thus passed over the various forms of in- \nductive reasoning, namely, static, dynamic, and \norganic ; the dynamic including under itself the empir- \nical and the rational. It is evident that our rea- \nsoning in common life can, by the nature of things, \nrarely reach scientific certainty. Neither is such cer- \ntainty necessary for belief. Of all our knowledge, \ncomparatively little rests upon a perfectly scientific \nbasis, yet it is none the less knowledge. Even in \ncases at law, the strictness of scientific proof is in gen- \neral unattainable, the jury having only to make up their \nminds to the result, so far that they have not a rea- \nsonable doubt of its truth. While, if the case be a crim- \ninal one, even this degree of certainty is only required \nfor conviction. Yet, in all these cases, the method of \nreasoning is the same that has been indicated in the \nmethods above described. The difierence arises from \nthe fact that, in common life, there may not be mate- \nrial for a rigorous induction, or that it is not considered \nworth while to pursue the process to its completion, \nand thus it is allowed, after a few steps, to make a leap \nto the result. Just when the point may be considered \nas reached, from which this leap may be made with \nsufficient confidence for practical purposes, cannot of \n\n\n\n356 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncourse be arbitrarily defined. It will vary with differ- \nent minds. The weak or untrained will either \nassume the result almost at the first step, while the \nstrong or disciplined will, according to their strength \nor discipline, have almost an intuitive perception of \nthe line where conjecture becomes practical certaiut}^, \nand will keep back its assent till that point is reached ; \nor else the former class will be unaffected by proof to \nwhich the second will give absolute confidence. The \ndifference is, in a word, that the one class know neither \nwhen to believe or when to disbelieve, while the second \nhas almost an instinctive perception of the points at \nwhich possibility becomes probability, and at which \nprobability becomes certainty. One very important \nelement, perhaps the most important element, in this \ndetermination is what has been called the inductive \nweight of evideuce.* By this is meant the manner in \nwhich any proof affects us, so far as this depends \nupon our experience of the facts or laws in the depart- \nment from which the proof is taken. For instance, \nwhat a man tells us incid entail}^, and without reference \nto his own interest, we take for granted to be true, so \nfar as the matter could have come within the range of \nhis knowledge. What a man tells us for the sake of \nbenefiting himself, we subject to a further process of \nproof. The old fable of the spelling-books, entitled \n" The Unjust Judge," could be better used as an exam- \nple of this logical fact than for the moral which is \nusually attached to it. A lawyer will be contented in \nthe street with a simple answer to a simple question. \nIn the court room he would subject the same state- \n\n* See "N. A. Review" for October, 1864, p. 600. \n\n\n\nTHIRD FORM OF SYLLOGISM. 357 \n\nment, if made from a " witness stand," to a severe and \nsearching examination. He knows he is less likely to \nbe deceived in the one case than in the other. So a sin- \ngle experiment in one department of science may satisfy \none who is an adept in this science, simply because he \nknows what is the common relation of such experi- \nments to the truth. For this reason, when the proofs \nof scientific facts are laid before us, we have often to \ntrust to the scientific estimate of them, rather than to \nour own, simply because we are not used to weighing \nthat sort of proof. This, for instance, is the reason \nwhy the great arguments of geology have had but little \neffect upon the general thoughts and beliefs of men. \nIt will thus be seen that the point where any pro- \ncess of induction may be left incomplete, while we \naccept at once the full result, cannot be laid down with \nany abstract and a priori definiteness. It is a sort \nof instinct, or intuition, which is the result of one\'s \ngeneral habits of thought and of one\'s experience in \nthe field under consideration. The methods, how- \never, are, in all cases, whether complete or incomplete, \nwhether popular or scientific, the same, and thus the \nstudy of the nature and laws of induction, in connec- \ntion with the practical experience of their use, furnishes \nthe only possible preparation for this purpose. \n\nTHIRD FORM OF SYLLOGISM. \nIDENTIFICATION. \n\nIn the often-repeated syllogism, "All men are mor- \ntal ; John is man, therefore John is mortal," as we \nhave already seen, each proposition rests upon a dis- \n\n\n\n358 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntinct syllogistic basis. The conclusion rests upon \nthe syllogism of the iSrst form which was just given. \nThe major premise rests upon a sj\'^llogism of the \nsecond form, which we have just studied under the \nname of induction. The minor premise rests upon \na syllogism of the third form, which we have now to \nconsider. In the syllogism of the first form the in- \ndividual and the universal are united by means of the \nparticular. In that of the second the particular is \nunited to the universal by means of the individual. \nBecause John is man, we know that he is mortal, and \nman we know is mortal, because all individuals whose \nlives have reached a certain term, or if prolonged \nwould have reached it, have been mortal. The third \npoint is, how do we know that John is man? To \nanswer this question we consider the general qualities \nwhich pertain to humanity, and inquire whether this \nindividual possesses them or not. In other words, \nin the third form of the syllogism the individual is \nunited to the particular by means of the universal. \nIts symbol will therefore be, \n\np u I. \n\nThat this result may be reached it is necessary, \nfirst, to know what qualities do belong to the par- \nticular class of objects under consideration, and, \nsecondly, to determine which of these are essential, \nand which can be omitted without destroying the \nclaim of the individual to be ranked in this particular \nclass ; or how many of them may be omitted, and how \nmany must be retained for this end. In scientific \nclassification it is a convenience which is always \n\n\n\nIDENTiriCATION. 359 \n\nsought, to have some particular mark by which every \nclass of bodies may be recognized. Thus in zoology \nthe structure of the teeth or the claws sometimes \nfurnishes such tests. In botany, \xe2\x80\x94 at least in the \nartificial system, \xe2\x80\x94 the number of stamens and pistils \nfurnishes like convenient methods of distinction. Yet \nsuch arbitrary marks go but a little way. All other \nparts of an animal or plant belong also to its generic \nor specific nature. One skilled will rest as much \nupon one part as upon another. In fact, our recog- \nnition depends in general upon groups of peculiarities \nof which only a part is always present. Few objects \nfully conform to their scientific description. One \nmay study in books generic and specific differences \nall his life, and yet be puzzled to recognize an object \nbelonging to the genera and species with which he \nhas been busied. Any one may, for instance, study \nthe classification of clouds, even by the aid of plates. \nHe may be fluent with cirrus and cumulus, cirro- \ncumulus and the rest, yet when he begins to study \nthe heavens he finds that the clouds do not put on \nthe fixed forms he had expected. He finds himself \nin a maze of bewilderment. But after his sight has \nbeen familiarized, and he has been taught to distin- \nguish the ideal from among all its actual variations, \nhe recognizes each type of cloud with half a glance. \nThis is also very well illustrated in the experience of \nthe medical student. He studies his books, and listens \nto his lectures, is ready at examinations, and thinks \nhimself familiar with all forms of disease. In his \nimao;ination he administers ideal remedies to ideal \ndiseases with marvellous success. But he finds, ov \n\n\n\n360 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nhis first \xc2\xabixperience, that his patients will not be sick \nquite in the regular way, or that what looked so clear \non pape^ is not quite so obvious in the sick-chamber. \nA student reported to the physician with whom he \nwas pursuing his profession that he had met a strange \ncase, which completely puzzled him. His account \ndid not convey much to the doctor, who started with \nhim to visit this wonderful case. Before they were \nfairly in the room the doctor nudged his student and \nwhispered "small-pox." The student was astonished \nat this, which seemed almost supernatural insight, \nand afterwards asked the physician how he could tell \nwithout a glance the nature of the disease. " It was \nthe smell," said the doctor; the smell, \xe2\x80\x94 that was \nsomething that neither book nor lecturer could de- \nscribe. Thus it is that the physician learns to judge \nby look, by touch, by expression, by indications al- \nmost innumerable, the nature and the event of any \ndisease. He would often be puzzled to explain to \nanother how it is done. An expression of the face \nis not to be described. When he is puzzled he in- \ndeed recalls the descriptions in his books, he studies \ni.nd investigates. He seeks the marks of this disease \nind of that, and his special, and as we may call them \nartificial, tests are available, because he is familiar with \nthe various aspects of disease ; that is, because he is \nat home in the world. of which they treat. This ex- \nample from the medical profession illustrates what is \ntrue of all professions and studies. Henry Ward \nBeecher relates that he once inquired the name of a \nplant. The person of whom he made the inquiry \nthought he was feigning ignorance, and exclaimed, \n\n\n\nIDENTIFICATION. 361 \n\n\'\' Why, I first became femiliar with that plant through \nwhat you wrote about it." \xe2\x80\x94 "True," said Beecher, \n" I wrote about it, but had never seen it." He was \nfamiliar with it in books, but did not for that reason \nrecognize it when he saw it. The practical farmer \ndoes well to use books ; the mere " book-farmer " will \nfail. In morals it is one thing to paint evil in the \nabstract, and another to recognize it when it is really \npresent in some unexpected form. Who could tell \neven how he recognizes a friend in the street. It is \nnot by this or that. It is a glance at the tout ensemble \nwhich decides. Books of particular sciences or \nstudies give, as far as possible, tests of identification \nin their several departments. A work of logic can- \nnot give any abstract or summary of these. It can \nonly say that for recognition is needed, for the most \npart, experience. Thus logic has gone as far as it is \npossible for it to go. With the first two syllogisms \nit may be all-sufficient. With his two premises the \nthinker may sit in his study and draw a conclusion \nby logical laws in regard to matters of which he has \notherwise no knowledge. The statistician may, by \nmeans of collated facts, reach, through the method of \nthe syllogism of the second form, accurate results in \nregard to matters utterly foreign to him. But for \nrecognition of real objects according to the syllogism \nof the third form, logic can help the student little. \nShe can only lead him back to the real life from \nwhich she at first called him, and bid him train his \nsenses, and accustom himself to the most minute \nfamiliarity with the objects he would study. The \n\n\n\n362 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nscience of logical forms thus reaches its own self-ap- \npointed conclusion. \n\nIt may be further remarked that the propriety of \nthe present arrangement of syllogisms, by which the \nsecond and third have changed places, here becomes \nobvious. The first form is that of abstract deduction. \nThe second is that of comparison. The scattered \nobjects of the world are taken in all their diversity, \nand arranged over against each other. The third \nbrings us to concrete individuality, and thus appro- \npriately forms the climax and the close of the series. \nMoreover in the third form deduction and induction \nare combined in equal proportions. The observer \nreasons down from pre-established data, and up from \nthe peculiarities of the object before him. He neither \nexpects to add to his general knowledge, nor to dis- \ncover any new fact or property in regard to this \nobject. He simply asks. Is this what I have seen \ndescribed? or, Does this possess the marks which \nare those set down to such a species or genus ? The \nattempt is merely to make the two cover each other. \nThus, as was just remarked, deduction and induction \nare in absolute equilibrium. This illustrates afresh \nthe concreteness of the third form of syllogism, \nwhich thus reconciles and combines the two others. \nThus, from a new point of view, we see that its true \nposition is at the close of the series. \n\nCONCLUSION OF SYLLOGISMS. , \n\nFrom the point of view which we have now \nreached, we can look back upon the three forms of \nthe syllogism taken as a whole, and see the truth of \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF LOGICAL FORMS. 363 \n\nwhat was stated at the beginning of our study of them, \nnamely, that these three forms exhaust tlie possible \nrelations of thought, and make a complete and organic \nwhole. We saw at first that the universal, the par- \nticular, and the individual could be related to one \nanother only in the three ways which are expressed \nby these syllogisms. We have seen that these three \nforms of thought, deduction, induction, and identifi- \ncation, are the only ones possible to us. Further we \nhave seen that these are needed, each by the other. \nNo one of them can stand alone. That is a poor de- \nduction, which can verify itself by no induction ; that \nis a poor induction that cannot by any deduction find \nitself connected with some known law or principle : \nwhich, in other words, cannot justify itself by an \xc2\xa7 \npriori argument, as well as prove itself by a pos- \nteriori evidence ; while that deduction and induc- \ntion are botli practically barren and vague, which are \nnot united by identification to the objects of which \nthey treat. Thus, by the method of division and \norganization, the syllogism becomes instead of an \nabstract, arbitrary, and formless thing, standing out- \nside of our actual thought and experience, the simple, \nuniversal, and beautifully organic form which our \nthought assumes by its own nature. \n\nCONCLUSION OF LOGICAL FOEMS. \n\nWe have thus passed in review all the forms of \nthought. We have been rather witnesses of a pro- \ncess of vital development, than imposers of outward \nand arbitrary rules. We have seen the two ele- \nments, which in the term exist in simple unity, sep- \n\n\n\n364 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\narate from each other, and stand over against one \nanother in the proposition, and finall_y, in the sjdlo- \ngism, become united by the mediation of an interme- \ndiate element common to both, and thus form a \nunion, organic and concrete, instead of the simple \nand abstract one with which we started. We have \nseen, further, the syllogism itself pass from the form \nof deduction, which, abstract at starting, becomes \nthrough its inevitable antinomies, more and more so \nthe longer it is followed, to that of induction, where \nwe have the scattered materials to be collected and \ncompared, and finally reach its natural conclusion in \nthat of identification, where we have the most concrete \nindividuality. We have now to see, so far as it is \npossible at a hasty glance, the relation which this \nworld of thought stands in to the world of things. \nThis is an important question, for on it depends the \nanswer to another question, namely, whether our \nreasoning is merely a process which whirls itself on \nin the brain without reference or relation to other \nthings, or whether it is the very essence and abstract \nof the world. All that we shall have space to do \nhere, is to point out by a few illustrations the fact, \nthat the relations of thought, which we have been \nconsidering, are the same as those which exist in the \nworld itself. \n\nWe need not go back to the fact that the relations \nof universal, particular, and individual were at first \ndeveloped and abstracted from the relations of the \nobjects about us. We have now to ask how the log- \nical formularies which we have passed under review \ncorrespond to these objective relations. It need \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF LOGICAL FORMS. 365 \n\nhardly be remarked that this discussion cannot be \nunderstood or appreciated, except by those to whom \nthe results of the examination we have just compared \nare familiar. \n\nAnd first, the term with its elements, one the uni- \nversal and the other the particularizing or the individ- \nualizing one, is the expression of all objective life. \nEvery object consists of these two elements. Fur- \nther, as the accent, or emphasis, of logical terms rep- \nresents the negative element, by which all other and \nmore general application of the word is excluded, \nand it is b}^ this manifestation of force shut up to its \nspecial and narrow significance ; so does the same \nforce represent the negative energy by which each \nindividual affirms its own separate nature by repell- \ning all foreign and encroaching influences. Thus this \nstress of accent symbolizes all the violence of the \nworld, that straggle for existence which is the uni- \nversal tragedy of life. This is no more marked in \nvegetable life than it is in the simple and uucom- \npounded term, but becomes prominent in the animal \nand moral creation as it does in the compound term. \nThe strife of animal wdth animal, of man with man, \nof nation with nation, is simply the rightful or wrong- \nful, natural or unnatural, affirmation of itself by \neach. The plant affirms itself, indeed ; but simply by \nthe fact of its own existence. It does not by vio- \nlence repel aggression or maintain itself. It is an \nunaccented individuality, like that of the uncom- \npounded and original term. \n\nAs the term with its two elements corresponds to \nthe objects about us, each taken as complete, so the \n\n\n\n366 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nproposition corresponds to the great process of \ngrowth and development. In the proposition the \nindividual and the universal are visibly brought to- \ngether; so, in the process of growth and develop- \nment, an object assumes qualities that behmg to \nit, though it had not before possessed them. Thus, it \nis the nature of the rose to bear flowers, though in \nthe early season, and in the early period of its exist- \nence, it has none. In the process of its growth it \nbecomes clothed with the beauty that belongs to it. \nAnd further, as the logical proposition involves a cer- \ntain inconsistency, because the individual is not the \nuniversal, and never can be in spite of its affirmation, \nso all growth is the expression of this same inconsis- \ntency. The thing is not actually what it is b}^ nature \nand destiny. Its growth is the striving to fulfil its \nnature, to become one with itself, to make the indi- \nvidual harmonize with the universal. But it can \nnever become absolutely the univen^al. The genus \nis perfectly represented in all its fulness and variety \nneither by the species nor the individual. Thus it \ngives way and perishes, while the genus embodies it- \nself in new forms. In history we have at all points \nthis same inconsistency, which is the power of its prog- \nress. History, in its broadest sense, is the striving \nthough constantly with only partial success to express \nthe infinite in the terms of the finite. Philosophy and \ntheology consciously strive to do this, w^hile institu- \ntions and earnest individual life are less consciously \nattempting the same reconciliation. Thus the ideal \nproposition, or, in other words, the abstract formula of \nthe logical proposition, namely, the individual is the \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF LOGICAL FORMS. 367 \n\nuniversal, corresponds to this universal fact in the \noutward world. \n\nThe mediation between these terms which the syl- \nlogism accomplishes is no less truly the representative \nof the organic life of the world. To say that a tree \ngrows according to the law of the syllogism would \nseem at first glance utterly absurd. Yet it is none the \nless true that the threefold relation of universal, par- \nticular, and individual, which constitutes the essential \nnature of the syllogism, is embodied in all organic \nlife. Thus, take for example a tree, and, in whatever \naspect we consider it, we find this to be true. Thus \nwe may consider the root and trunk as the universal, \nsince all spring from them. The parting branches \nform the particular, \xe2\x80\x94 the separate leaves, the individ- \nual, \xe2\x80\x94 elements of it. Now, each of these may be in \nturn regarded as the middle term by which the two \nothers are bound together. The branches evidently \nconnect the leaves with the root. Yet the leaves just \nas much connect the root with the branches, for, if they \nwere constantly stripped off", the vital connection be- \ntween branch and root would cease, and the tree \nwould die. At the same time, the root also binds \nleaves and branches together. Cut ofi* the root, and \nthe leaves will fall of themselves. Thus, as in the \nsyllogism, each becomes in turn the mean by which \nthe others are connected, and only when each fulfils \nthis function is the work complete. We may take \nanother view, and consider the seed as the abstract \nuniversal, containing the possibility of all that the tree \nis to become. The opening cotyledons, the constantly \nparting brancheSt may represent the particular, while \n\n\n\n368 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe plant itself, in its organic unity, is the concrete \nindividual. Here, also, each only exists through the \nmedium of the other. The plant may be regarded \nas existing by means of the branches and leaves. \nThey, on the other hand, exist only in and through the \nplant ; and both reach their united growth only through \nthe seed. Or yet again, we may regard the plant in its \nrelation to species and genus, and here we should meet \nthe same result. The individual is connected with \nthe genus through the species ; yet, without the indi- \nvidual, genus and species would perish together ; and, \nfurther, species and individuals both exist in and \nthrough the genus. These examples may show how \nthe syllogistic forms are the abstract of all organic \nrelation. \n\nWe may illustrate this in a broader manner, by \nreference to the large theories of growth and prog- \nress already spoken of in this work, as found in the \nworks of two writers who stand in a sort of polar an- \ntagonism to each other, namely, Hegel, and Herbert \nSpencer. The formula according to which Hegel \nranges all progress, whether in thought or life, is \nbased upon the relations which underlie the syllogism. \nAbstract unity, division, and finally a concrete unity, \nin which the divided elements find themselves re- \nunited into a fuller and more perfect union, \xe2\x80\x94 these are \nthe stages of all organic or historic progress. Her- \nbert Spencer approached the same problem from the \nopposite direction, namely, from pure induction, and \nreaches a very similar formula. Progress is from \nthe "homogeneous, through the heterogeneous," while \nthe heterogeneous assume a certain definiteness and \n\n\n\nCONCLUSION OF LOGICAL FORMS. 369 \n\nregularity which harmonize and unite them. Thus \nwe have practically the same result reached from these \ntwo opposite directions of deduction and induction, \nHegel starts from the laws of thought, as embodied \nin the syllogism. Herbert Spencer starts from the \nobserved facts of life and of history. Each wrought \nwithout reference to the other. It was like tunnelling \na mountain from different sides. The fact that they \nmeet midway is one of the most remarkable in the \nhistory of thought. It shows that the forms of \nthought and those of the objective world are one, \nand that thus our logical forms are not arbitrary and \nartificial, but that we may follow them confidently, \nknowing they are the same which rule in the universe \nof things. \n\n24 \n\n\n\nTHIHD BOOK. \n\n\n\nTHE PKOBLEMS A]^D LIMITS \n\n\n\nTHOUGHT. \n\n\n\nTHE PROBLEMS AND LIMITS OF \nTHOUGHT. \n\n\n\nIn tlie first part of this work we considered thought \niu its abstract relations. In the second, we saw it \ndivide itself into its essential forms. We have now \nto consider it as a concrete whole, to see the general \nnature of the problems which it has to solve, the end \nafter which it strives, and the limits within which it \nis by its nature enclosed. In this investigation, we \nshall have, of course, often to fall back on what has \nbeen already stated ; we shall have to bring together \nwhat in the earlier part of the work met us in sepa- \nrated elements ; and though this part of our study will \nbe pursued so far as possible independently of formal \nand merely scientific distinctions, yet it will neces- \nsarily be based upon these, and its general division \nwill fall in with the division of the diflerent syllogistic \nforms. In accordance with this necessity, the gen- \neral questions will divide themselves into the prob- \nlems of philosophy, of science, and of life. \n\nTHE PROBLEMS OF PHILOSOPHY. \nA. \xe2\x80\x94 SUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. \n\nThe first question that meets the thinker, the first \nlogically though not always the first in time, is, how \n\n373 \n\n\n\n374 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nto get beyond the limits of himself. He fiuds that all \nhis sensations, all his perceptions, all his thoughts, \nare simply various forms of his own consciousness. \nHe sees further that all possible experience and \nthought are liable to the same fatal limitation. He \ncannot rest in the idea that all the forms of this \ncrowded and diversified world, all the sublime objects \nof his contemplation, are merely dreams and fantasies. \nThe great problem, then, is how to pass from the \npurely subjective to the objective, how to secure a \nfooting in the external world. \n\nIn the general introduction of this work it was \nshown that we cannot help believing in the reality of \nthe external universe, and this necessity was analyzed \nmto its two forms, namely, that of self-preservation \nand that of the active impulses, the one being nega- \ntive and the other positive. It was there shown, also, \nby abstract and general reasoning, that the real being \noutside of us and the thought within us were only the \nopposite sides of the same thing, that they were at \nheart identical, and thus that in thought Ave find the \nreality we seek. In the course of the work this \nnecessity and this relationship have been followed \ninto a more complete development. We have found \nthat the fundamental truth, which underlies all the \nactivities of the mind beyond that of mere sensation, \nis the unity and organic completeness of the universe. \nThis, as we saw, though brought into consciousness \nand confirmed by experience, yet constantly outruns \nexperience, and thus shows that it rests upon a basis \nwhich is not that of experience. The simplest form \nof this is the instinct of generalization. It is the \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 375 \n\nsimple good faith with which we begin our acquaint- \nance with the world, the good faith in which we put \nconfidence in our own instincts. We have here the \ntrunk from which springs that faith in the outward \nworld which we have before seen to be a necessity of \nour nature. The world within us and the world \nwithout us are parts of the same whole, and thus \nmust be related to one another. They must be at \nheart the same. Thus, by the same priwciple which \ngives us authority to make the slightest generalization \nwhich goes beyond the enumerated facts, we are au- \nthorized to assume that the necessary forms of our \nthought have some relation, definite and real, to the \nforms of existence outside of us. Kant adopted the \nprinciple directly antagonistic to this. If he found \ntime, or space, or the organized completeness of the \nworld to be a necessary form according to which we \ncould not help thinking, he took it for granted that it \ncould have no objective reality. Or, rather, his dictum \nvaries in different departments of his work and sub- \nject. Time and space, he judges, must be purely \nsubjective. In regard to the objects of the pure rea- \nson, such as God and immortality, he judges that we \ncannot through the reason prove them to be true, \nthough their truth may be reached in other ways. \nFrom what has been said, it will be seen that the fact \nthat any form, relation, or object is essential to our \nthought must be taken as a proof that it has some \nanswering reality in the outer world. \n\nWe have now to inquire what is the relation of this \nreality to our thought, and at what point in our \nthought we may rest assured of the most complete \n\n\n\n376 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncertainty iu regard to it. There are in this relation \nof our thought to the outside world two opposite ten- \ndencies. As we leave actual sensation we leave one \nform of certainty, and, if our thought be correct, \nwe approach another. The greatest confidence that \nthere is something external corresponding to our \nthought exists at the point of perception ; yet pre- \ncisely at this point there is the greatest divergence \nbetween the subjective and objective. Redness, blue- \nness, brightness, heat, cold, \xe2\x80\x94 these, like pain and \npleasure, are sensations of our own. They corre- \nspond indeed to something outside of us ; that is, \nthere is always the same or a similar cause of each \nof these sensations, and thus the sensation may be \ntaken as the sign of this reality. But beyond this \nbare existence we cannot conceive any necessary re- \nlation between this external reality and any particu- \nlar sensation. As, however, we go further from \nthese mere sensations, we reach relations which are \nlarger and more general. We reach abstract forms, \npure relations, which can have the same application \nto things as to thoughts. Thus the further we \ngo from mere sensation, the more confident we \nmay be of the absolute and objective reality of \nour result, provided the process he correct. This \nprovision shows the presence of a danger that in- \ncreases the further we withdraw ourselves from mere \nsensation. This danger arises from the possibility \nof mistake in our reasoning upon our perceptions. \nThis reasoning, of course, will involve the errors of \nperception and add to these its own. Each step in \nthought thus is exposed not merely to its own possi- \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 377 \n\nble error, but has to bear the burden of all preceding \nerrors. Thus the longer a train of thought is, the \nmore is it exposed to mistake. It is from such rea- \nsoning as this, that Herbert Spencer reaches the po- \nsition which he assumes as an absolute one, namely, \nthat the further we remove from actual perception, \nthe less reliable is our thought. From what was \nsaid just above, it will be seen, however, that this \nassumption is partial, and thus imperfect. To com- \nplete it, we have to hold ftist to the other truth, \nnamel}^, that the further we remove from perception, \nthe more do our results, if correct, conform to the \nobjective reality. In other words, the more abstract \nour thought is, the more does it become a mere form \nwhich may be filled at pleasure, either by the ma- \nterial of our subjective sensations, or by that of the \nobjective world. When we cling, then, to sensation \nand to perception, we have the greatest confidence \nthat there is something external corresponding with \nour internal state ; yet we may then be most confi- \ndent that this external something is very different \nfrom our subjective impression. The more abstract \nour thought is, the more sure we are that, if correct, \nit actually corresponds with the reality of the out- \nward world. For instance, the scientific statement of \nthe number and length of the vibrations which are \nthe cause of any particular color corresponds far \nmore to the external reality than the simple sensation \nof this color. \n\nThe great problem of connecting the two worlds, \nnamely, the subjectiveand objective, resolves itself into \nthis, to give to our abstract thought the same amount \n\n\n\n378 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof certainty that belongs to our perception, and even \ngreater than this, for each step should correct the errors \nof the preceding, while making none itself. This result \nis only to be reached by long-continued comparison \nof one with the other, and thus by their mutual cor- \nrection. Our experience needs to be vast as possible, \nand our thought, by constant reference to that, needs \nto be kept within the bounds of truth. The trouble is \nthat philosophers are apt to take their start from some \npoint, real or imaginary, and spin all their thin and \nshadowy system out of this, never correcting or prov- \ning it by reference to perception or intuition. From \nwhat has been said, it will be seen that this perfect \ncorrespondence between the subjective and the objec- \ntive worlds is a result which we are continually \napproaching, but which we can hardly claim to have \nreached, except in some instances of the most abstract \nnature. The mathematical formula being purely \nabstract, we may regard as having real objective signifi- \ncance. The same also is true of the abstract formula \nof progression, namely, from the homogeneous through \nthe heterogeneous to the concrete and many-sided \nindividual. The first of these, namely, the mathemat- \nical, is the abstract reality of the static, the other of the \ndynamic and organic realms of existence and of \nthought. The filling out of these abstractions is \nslowly accomplished by the experience of individuals \nand generations. Progressive science is continually \nenlarging the world of our perceptions. Progressive \nphilosophy is striving to embody these in its systems : \nwhile these systems are undergoing constant correc- \ntion through philosophic criticism, and also through \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 379 \n\nscientific discovery. Thus every age makes its gain, \nand establishes some relation between the subjective \nand objective worlds more correct than any that had \npreceded it, while it leaves also a work measureless in \nits extent to be performed by those that come after it. \nThus this rectification of thought, this making the \nworld of thought conform to that of objective reality, \nis not a matter to be fixed by any arbitrary law, nor \nto be accomplished by any separate and special effort. \nIt is the work of ages. Each generation of the past \nhas contributed to it, and every generation of the \nfuture will do its part towards its consummation. \n\nWe have seen that thought needs the correction of \nthe perception. Before leaving this branch of our \nsubject, we have to inquire how thought, in its turn, \ncan correct the result of the perception, and how the \ndifierent degrees of thought can and should correct one \nanother. Thought may correct in two ways the sen- \nsation. The first is by comparing doubtful with \nindubitable results, as has been before intimated. But \nit may also correct it by enlarging its field. The \npower of sensation is limited. There is much in the \nworld, much physical change in existence, which \nis not perceptible by any of our senses. Thus, the \nsense of sight can distinguish pure whiteness and pure \nblackness, and further can discern no color except \nred or violet, and those which are intermediate \nbetween these. To produce the sensation of redness \nare needed thirty-seven thousand six hundred and forty \nundulations of the luminiferous medium to an inch ; \nto produce extreme violet are needed fifty-nine thou- \nsand seven hundred and fifty such undulations. Now \n\n\n\n380 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nit is nol probable, or rather it is not possible, that these \nundulations stop abruptly at these limits. There must, \nat one end and the other, be those that are longer and \nthose that are shorter. We can obtain a posteriori \nproof of this. The chemical effects of light are pro- \nduced mainly outside of the solar spectrum, by undula- \ntions shorter and more rapid than those which form \nthe color of violet. In other words, we have to lay \nthe substance to be acted upon outside the violet \nrays, in what is, to our sense, darkness. For instance, \na cloth wet in nitrate of silver, in this position becomes \nblack. Thus the understanding enlarges the field of \nthe senses, that is, it corrects their imperfection by \nrevealino; to our knowledoe what would have been an \nobject of direct perception if our senses were less \nlimited in their range. We can easily conceive that \nthere may be creatures whose eyes are so constituted \nthat they can become aifected by colors which to us \nare invisible. Beyond the red on the one side, and \nthe violet on the other, the}^ can perceive undulations \nof the lumiuiferous medium. We cannot see these, \nyet are sure of their existence. What is true of \nsight is also true of hearing. In general, no undula- \ntion of the atmosphere longer than 34.10 feet, or \nshorter than 0.13 is perceptible by the sense of \nhearing, yet we know that these undulations increase \nin one direction and decrease in another to an indefi- \nnite extent. We thus sec how the senses are comple- \nmented in their own department by the understanding. \nThis limitation of the senses is nothing variable, and \nnothing which can be overcome. The sense of sight \nmay indeed become strengthened for the beholding of \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 381 \n\ndistant objects, and for the discernment of minute \nones. In these two directions there is great variety \nin the vision of diiferent individuals, and also at dif- \nferent periods of the life of the same individual. But \nthe limitations of color furnish the fixed points within \nwhich these changes occur. They are like parallel \nlines, along which we can see to a greater or less dis- \ntance, and the objects between which we can discern \nwith more or less minuteness, but which we can never \npass. The understanding, to repeat, breaks down \nthese barriers which shut in the senses, while at the \nsame time it brings us more into contact with the \nouter world than the senses can possibly do. Further \nthan that, the understanding breaks down the separa- \ntion which the senses estabhsh, as those, for instance, \nbetween light, heat, and electricity. It shows them \nto be correlated forces, or, rather, diiferent forms of the \nsame force. But, on the other hand, the corpuscular \ntheory of light, which so long prevailed in the scientific \nworld, shows the peril there is as we remove from the \nrealm of perception. This theory was the pure crea- \ntion of the understanding. There was nothing corre- \nsponding to it in the sun, nor on the earth. These \nillustrations may suffice to show the greater accuracy, \nthe wider range, and, at the same time, the greater \nperil of mistake, that meet us the further we remove \nfrom simple perception. If our process is correct, the \nfurther we go from the sensible forms of things, the \nnearer do we approach the reality. \n\nThere is the same gain and the same peril as we \npass from the understanding to the reason. The un- \nderstanding and the intuitive reason complement one \n\n\n\n382 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nanother as the perception and the uuderstandiug com- \nplement each other. The reason, as we have seen, \nextends the realm of the understanding beyond the \nobjects of its direct examination, changing the sum \nof obser/ations to a universal induction. On the \nother hand, the understanding analyzes the objects \nwhich the reason reveals. We have the instinct of \nright and wrong, which is one element of our intuitive \nreason. The understanding examines the objects of \nits intuition, and does much to arrange and explain \ntheir relations by its theory of utilitarianism. This, \nwhich can never be the basis of morals, will always \nbe, to a large extent, the correction, the explanation, \nand the analysis of morals. If we now compare the \nreason and the understandinsf with reference to the \nhelp that we derive from them in passing from the \nsubjective to the objective, we are met by precisely \nthe same result that we found before in comparing \nthe perception and the understanding. The under- \nstanding stands nearer to simple perception than the \nintuitive reason. This latter reveals to us philosoph- \nic, moral, and aesthetic relations, brings us nearer to \nthe reality of things than the analysis of the under- \nstanding. When the moral, the religious, the \naesthetic intuitions are true and pure, they bring us \nnearer to the heart of things than all the formal in- \nvestigations of the understanding apart from these. \nAs one who discerns the free play of life in any ani- \nmal organism knows more about its true nature than \none who had dissected its organization, but who, if \nwe may make for a moment the extravagant hypothesis, \nhad never seen a livino: animal, so one who discerns \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 383 \n\nthe moral, spiritual, and iBsthetic life and relations \nof the world has more true knowledge of it than the \nmost scientific mind destitute of these intuitions. \nYet, on the other hand, this realm of the intuitive \nreason is the one most exposed to mistake and ex- \ntravagance. There is hardly a deformity that might \nnot under some circumstances be regarded as beauti- \nful. There is hardly a crime that has not at some- \ntimes been regarded as a moral virtue, and hardly a \nvagary of the imagination that has not been regarded \nas a philosophic or religious truth. We meet, then, \nthe same twofold tendency as before. The further \nwe go our results have greater worth, yet are more \nexposed to error. We need, also, a similar safeguard. \nThe intuitions of the reason, philosophic, moral, \naesthetic, and religious, need to be continually sub- \njected to the criticisms of the understanding, and the \nfreer and the sharper this criticism is, the better; \nwhile, on the other hand, the understanding needs \nto be quickened and elevated by the reason, and, at \nthe same time, to receive from it fresh material for \nits elaboration. \n\nWe have thus considered the first problem sug- \ngested by the relations of the subjective and objective \nworlds. This problem we may call by distinction \nthe subjective one. That is, we consider the world \nwith reference to our knowledge of it. The second \nproblem that springs from these relations we may \ncall the objective. It considers the first as settled. \nIt regards the subjective and objective worlds as \nequally real, and equally thrown open to our knowl- \nedge. It considers them in their purely objective \n\n\n\n384 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nrelation. The terms of the problem are these : We \ncannot conceive of the outer world as existins: of \nitself. It exists in our consciousness. We cannot \nthink of it except as we tliinh of it, that is, in its \nrelation to thought. By means of our thought we \ntrace it back through the ages of the past. Doing \nthis, we find to our surprise that thought and con- \nsciousness are objectively the offspring of this outer \nworld, which exists only in them. This antithesis \nis sharpl}^ put bj\'\' Schopenhauer, who leaves it where \nhe finds it. It is indeed one of the most striking, \nstartling, and suggestive of all the\' paradoxes which \nphilosophy and science bring to us. Looking more \nclosely, we separate the problem into its elements, \nand put it into its simplest form. The one position \nis that we cannot conceive of subject and object as \nseparate. We cannot think of pure subject or of \npure object, because thought is by its very nature the \nrelation of the two. On the other hand, our indi- \nvidual consciousness and that of the race to which we \nbelong was, in the order of time, in some wa}^ or \nother, developed out of the material or objective \nuniverse. Thus, so far as we are concerned, there \nmust have been pure object before the subjective \nelement was introduced, while the latter still depends \nupon the former. The only escape from this anti- \nnomy is the assumption of a consciousness above and \nbefore ours. There must be an infinite subject in \nwhich the objective world exists. Subject and ob- \nject must thus have been always united. This last \nassumption will lead us at once to the second grand \nproblem of the reason, namely, that which springs from \n\n\n\nSUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE. 385 \n\nthe relation of the Infinite and the Finite ; but another \npoint in relation to the relation of the subject and \nobject will detain us for a moment. It is this : \nIf the subject and object are considered as opposite \nsides of the same reality, so that thought and the \ncrass reality of the world are in essence the same, \nwhich shall we consider as the foundation and ex- \nplanation of the other? It is evident that when the \nsame question is looked upon simply in this aspect, \nthe materialist and the idealist have equal right. The \nmaterialist can urge that thought is only another form \nof matter ; the idealist that matter is only, at heart, \nthought; in other words that it is purely ideal. But \nwhile both these views have equal right, neither is in \nfact right. Both are alike wrong. The objective \nand the subjective world, being opposite sides of the \nsame thing, are not therefore identical. Being op- \nposite sides, they are through this very fact not iden- \ntical. Water and ice are different forms of the same \nsubstance. Shall we say that ice is frozen water, or \nthat water is melted ice ? We have the same right \nto say the one as the other. For convenience\' sake, \nwe may say either. Yet neither would be absolutely \ntrue. Ice and water are not identical. They are \ndifferent forms of the same substance, and thus as \nice and as water they are utterly different. Such is \nthe relation between the subjective and the objective \nconsidered merely in their antagonistic relation to \none another. Other considerations may indeed dis- \nturb the balance of the two. Whether there be such \nconsiderations, and if so what they are, are questions \nwhich will meet us under the heading of the third \n\n25 \n\n\n\n386 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nproblem of philosophy, namely, that of the relation of \ninner and outer. T;i conclusion, it may be well to \nrepeat the definite results at which we have arrived. \nThe subjective and the objective worlds are different \nfoi-ms of the same reality. The fundamental formulas \nof both are the same. The objective world is, con- \nsidered in its whole extent, infinite. The subjective \nworld, considered as existing in the mind of any in- \ndividual man or generation of men, is finite. The \nsenses are limited in their range. The reason is \nlimited in its apprehension. The understanding has \nonly the material furnished by these to work with, \nand the infinite relations of this scanty material it can \nonly in part comprehend. Thus, the subjective \nworld \xe2\x80\x94 meaning by this the world of our human \nthought \xe2\x80\x94 is always limited. It does not correspond \nwith the objective in its fulness. Yet this limitation \nis by the processes of thought and experiment always \nlessening. The subjective is constantly becoming \nmore completely one with the objective, that is, more \ncompletely answering to it. Thus we see what are \nthe limits of thought in this direction. At any par- \nticular moment thought is limited, but these limits \nare constantly giving way, and thought is thus a \nprogress into the infinite. \n\nB. \xe2\x80\x94 SECOND PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY. \xe2\x80\x94 THE INFI- \nNITE AND THE FINITE. \n\nBut when we speak of a progress into the infinite, \ndo we use words without meaning? If it possible \nfor the finite to comprehend the infinite ? and if not, \ndoes the word infinite have a meaning ? This is tht \n\n\n\nINTINITE /*?fi FINITE. 387 \n\n\\ \n\nsecond question whicii has been one of the constantly \nrecurring, pressing, aacl fundamental problems of \nphilosophy. If we cannot conceive of the infinite, \nthen the word infinite has no conceivable meaning. \nThe discussion of this question has, with few excep- \ntions, been confused by foreign elements. The word \ninfinite is as easilj^ defined and as easily understood \nas any other word. It means imthout limit. The \ntrouble has been, first, that many other considerations \nhave been united with this meaning of the word. The \nattempt was made not merely to find what the word \ninfinite denoted, but also what it connoted^ that is, \nwhat other notions were inseparable from the word. \nFurther, it has been applied often to what, by the \nvery nature of the case, cannot be infinite. "We \ncannot conceive of an infinite square, any more than \nwe can of a round square. A square must have \nlimits, and these limits cannot be circular ; yet it is by \nsuch expressions as this that the discussion of this \nproblem has been often confused. Further, by the \nword conception has been understood often an imagina- \ntion. Men have by the word infinite taken away \nthe limit from the object of their contemplation, and \nthen they have sought to look upon it as a limited \nsomething. Because they could not do this, as from \nthe nature of the cr le migho have been foreseen, they \nhave complained of the limitations of our mind. \nThese remarks have not been made for the purpose \nof prejudging the question, but simply to clear up \nour notions in regard to it before entering upon the \ndiscussion. Leaving now these general and prelim- \ninary observations, we will consider the infinite in \n\n\n\n388 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe various forms under which the word is used, not \nseeking to solve all questions that may arise, nor to \nfound or defend any system of philosophy, but sim- \nply to determine whether we, as finite, have a right \nto use the word infinite ; in other words, whether \nthe infinite is one extreme of our thought, or the im- \npassable barrier of it. To do this we must go back \nto the three forms which have so often before been \nthe guide of our thought, and consider the subject \nunder the three relations of static, dynamic, and \norganic. \n\na. \xe2\x80\x94 STATIC INFINITE. \n\nThe first form under which the thought of the in- \nfinite presents itself is that of being. Infinite being \nmay be thought of in two aspects. The first is, that \nof the indeterminate; the second, that of the absolute \nfulness. We see, to take an illustration often used \nby us, ice, and water, and vapor. We see one passing \ninto the other, and know that they are all the same ; \nthat is, that they are difierent forms of one substance. \nWhat this is we cannot conceive. By itself it has \nno existence. It is always embodied in one of the \nthree forms referred to. All we can say of it is, \nthat it is that which may assume these three forms. \nOur chemical knowledge indeed enables us to take a \nstep further. We can say that this, whatever it be, \nis a compound of oxygen and hydrogen. Yet this \nanalj\'sis does not help us in forming a conception of \nthe substance which on the one side consists of these \ntwo el. ments, and on the other assumes these three \nmodes of existence. We can, in fact, form no con \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 389 \n\nception of what this is in its iucleterminate essence, \nfor a conception, as was seen in the early part of this \nwork, consists in determination or limitation. A \nconception is a universal, limited. Yet none the less \ndo we know what the words mean, when we say that \nice, water, and vapor are different forms of the same \nsubstance. Indeed, when we say this, our universal \nis already limited. It is not absolute indeterminate- \nness, but indeterminateness that is subject to certain \ndefinite determinations. \n\nIf, now, we turn from these three forms which we have \nbeen considering, water, ice, and vapor, to all the many \nshapes and substances of the universe, it is easy to \nunderstand what is meant when it is said that all of \nthese are different forms of the same being, that is, of \nmatter. Of matter by itself we can form no concep- \ntion, for it is the absolutely undetermined. But of \nmatter existing under innumerable forms we can form a \nconception, for in each and all of these it is determined, \nand thus we have the two elements of a conception. \n\nThe other form under which we may speak of infi- \nnite being is that of fulness. The first is absolutely \nundetermined and empty. The second is that which \ncontains all the variety of quality and of substance. \nHere, also, we may help our thought, by taking a \nfamiliar illustration. Men often become bewildered \nby questioning and doubting forms of thought which \nare used simply, safely, and necessarily in common \nlife, when these are applied to vast and difficult sub- \njects. Of the infinite fulness we have an illustration in \nlight. Light, so far as the various colors are concerned \nis infinite. Were there nothing but colors in the uni- \n\n\n\n390 TltE SCIENCE or IHOUGHT. \n\nverse, light ^ould be the absolutely infinite. As it \nis, it can be re^jarcled as infinite only when the thought \nis fixed upon colors alone. Light is not mere indeter- \nminateness in regard to color. The uncolored sub- \nstance exists in this relation of indeterminateness to \ncolor. But light contains all colors in itself. What \ndistinguishes the solar spectrum from light is not so \nmuch determinateuess as evolution. We can con- \nceive of light, we can conceive of color. We can \nconceive of light, because it has its peculiar proper- \nties ; of color, because each color is distinct from the \nothers ; but of light, as containing the colors in itself, \nwe cannot conceive. Yet we know that lis\'ht does \nthus contain the colors. We can understand the mean- \ning of the words. We can conceive of light as that \nwhich may become colors. But we cannot bring the \ntwo together into a single conception, because each \nrests on distinct, sensible impressions. Science may, \nindeed, give us a scientific conception. It may show \nus the relations of the difierent undulations of which \nlight and colors are composed ; but this will not help \n^s so far as colors, properly so called, are concerned. \nWe may now turn from this illustration to that \nwhich is the general object of our present thought. \nWe can understand that there should be an infinitude \nin which all positive qualities are included, as colors \nare included in light. Though the one is so vast, it \nis not in its nature diflfereut from the other. We \ncannot, indeed, conceive of these qualities as they \nexist undivided in this infinite, an}\' more than we can \nconceive of the colors existing in light; but w^ can \nfellow with our conception the statement that all tueso \n\n\n\nINPINITF, AND FINITE. 3\xc2\xa31 \n\nqualities were evolved from one infinite fulness, as we \ncan that colors are evolved from light. This fulness \nin itself is, save in this infinite possibilit}^, not different \nfrom emptiness. Light itself, absolutely unbroken, \nis in no sensible way dificrent from darkness. It \ndiffers only in its possibility. It strikes an object, and \nthe colors spring into distinct existence, as when the \nocean smites a rock it scatters its white spray. This \nis what Hegel means in the statement with which his \nphilosophy begins, \xe2\x80\x94 a statement which has served for \nmatter of ridicule to many who have gone no further, \nbut in which he only takes common ground with \nalmost every metaphysical writer who has attempted \nto reach this ultimate verge of thought, namely, \nthe statement that being and nothing are one. This \nis not true, absolutely, he says, for the one is the \ninfinite fulness and the infinite possibility. Pure, \nabsolute, undetermined, undeveloped being is not \nany thing, because every thing involves limita- \ntion. We say of an object. It is. The listener waits \nto know what it is. When we can apply a certain \nquality to it, then we have a conception. The next \nquestion, then, that meets us in regard to static in- \nfinity is whether we can conceive of an infinite qual- \nity, whether the word infinite quality has any mean- \ning for us. \n\nBy recalling what was said in regard to quality, \nin the first part of this work, it will be seen that the \nexpression infinite quality is a contradiction in terms. \nA quality beyond a certain point tends to pass into \nthe opposite. This may be illustrated by colors. \nLight, as was said, is the infinite, so ftir as colors are \n\n\n\n392 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nconcerned. Each color is by its very nature limited. \nIt stands in a polar relation to other colors, especially \nto its opposite. When intensified, it tends to drag \nits other after it, whether subjectively in the eye, or \nobjectively in the outer world. We may speak, \nto take another example, of infinite hardness. The \ninfinitely hard would be the absolutely impenetrable. \nIt would seem as if we might conceive of this. But \nin the infinitely hard the attraction of cohesion would \nhave absolute sway. The object, being thus governed \nby attraction, unlimited by any repulsion, would \nshrink to a point. Indeed, the indivisible atoms, \nassumed in some physical systems, represent the only \npossible conception we can form of the infinitely \nhard. These are, by their ver}^ nature, and by the \nvery definition of infinite hardness, impalpable. Thus \nthe infinitely hard has become by its very nature the \nperfectly soft. \n\nIf we pass from quality to quantity, \xe2\x80\x94 the next \ndetermination of static existence, \xe2\x80\x94 we ask whether \nwe can conceive of infinite quantity. Extensive \nquantity divides itself into two distinct forms, namely, \ncontinuous and discrete. The only form of continuous \nquantity, in regard to which we could think of using \nthe term infinite, is space. \n\nThe questions whether space is infinite or finite, \nand whether we can conceive of infinite space, are \n\'j[uestions that have been the fruitful source of philo- \n^^ophic discussion. Much confusion has been caused \nby confounding extension with space. Extension, so \nfar as we have any knowledge of it, is made up of \ndiscrete quantity. And thus the problems whether \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 393 \n\nwe can conceive of infinite space, and whether we can \nconceive of infinite extension, are two which require \ndifferent forms of examination, if not different an- \nswers. Space is simply the possibility of infinite \nextension, or, what is the same thing, the infinite \npossibility of extension. Space is in itself nothing. \nIf you imagine an object struck out of existence, \nand nothing to take its place, that nothing would be \ncalled space. By the term would be meant the pos- \nsibility of putting something else there, without dis- \nplacing anything. Such is the meaning of space as \napplied to the universe. If that were struck out \nof existence, nothing would be left. If we suppose \nthe universe to be finite, we say that it exists in infi- \nnite space. By this is meant that we can conceive of \nthe universe as being extended indefinitely. There is \nnothing to limit it ; or, in other words, if we should \nleave the universe, and could live and move in vacuity, \nnothing would ever limit our flight. This possibility \nof indefinite extension and indefinite movement is a \nproperty of the extended material universe, or of \nany single object in it. Space itself is thus nothing. \n\nIn following the discussions of the philosophers in \nregard to space, we are reminded of the familiar \nstory of Hans Christian Andersen in regard to the \nroyal robe that was said to be invisible to those un- \nfitted for their office or position. It would seem as if \nmost philosophers fancied they would appear incom- \npetent for their work, if they did not multiply high- \nsounding words in regard to the mi\xc2\xabgnificeut nothing \nthat envelops the uui\'verse. \n\nWhen we turn from space to exte.ision, from con- \n\n\n\n394 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ntinuous to discrete quantity, Ave turn from nothing to \neverything. The question, whether we can conceive \nof infinite extension, is a question that has at least a \nmeaning. Il^q possibility of infinite extension is es- \nrtjntiai to our very thought of extension. That is, \nwe cannot think of any object, however vast, without \nseeing the possibility of something existing bej^oud \n)t, or of its moving in any direction from itself, the \njines of direction being taken from its own structure, \nand not from the nothing called space. Whether ex- \ntension is at any moment actually infinite, that is, \nwhether the physical universe has absolutely no \noouuds, is a question that is difficult not merely to \ndecide, but in regard to which it is difficult to deter- \nmine the a \'priori possibility of solution. Here the \nscientific theories of the infinite and limited elasticity \nof matter do not concern us. Far as the farthest \nstar that is visible, matter extends in uninterrupted \ncourse, as is shown by this visibility, which could \nnot propagate itself across an absolute vacuum. But \nleaving these scientific aspects of the case, and look- \ning beyond the farthest discernible limit, it would \nseem to the mind, at first thought, that a collection \nof finite particles must be itself finite. We cannot, \nit would seem, conceive a finished collection of \nbodies to be absolutely numberless. We can con- \nceive of their being progressively infinite, by means \nof new creations ; but we cannot, it would appear, \nconceive of their being at au}^ one moment absolute- \nly infinite. But while considering the mental diffi- \n3ulty involved in this conception, we must remem- \nVr that space itself is made up of infinite points ; \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 395 \n\nthat is, there is a possibility of infinite extension, \nand that it is the possibility that staggers ns. We \nthus see that the difficulty in regard to forming a \nconception of infinite extension springs from the ten- \ndency that we have elsewhere noticed to confound \nconception with imagination, and that thus the diffi- \nculty is imaginary. \n\nDiscrete quantity may exist either in succession or \nin extension. The possibility of successive existence, \nor change, is called time, as the possibility of exten- \nsion is called space. As we can conceive that start- \ning from any point, had we power of infinite move- \nment, we could move forever, this conception fur- \nnishing our idea of infinite space, so we can imagine \nthat the successive changes which fill up and consti- \ntute that which we call time may be continued for- \never. This possibility of infinite time we call \neternity. The common apprehension is, indeed, \nsomewhat diflferent from this. It is fancied that at \ndeath, or at the end of the world, time will stop and \neternity will begin. But, so long as there are finite \nbeings in existen^\'^, so long must their lives be meas- \nured by successive periods. When time shall cease, \nit shall be because all finite beiag is absorbed and \nlost in the one infinite. If by eternity we mean the \nunfulfilled possibility of time, it lies close before us \nat every step. We are always on the verge of it, \nbut it flies before us. More accurately, eternity is \nthe substance of which time consists. Eternity is \nthe measureless ocean. Time is the ripple running \nacross its surface. We believe in the possibility, \nand in the reality, of the infinitude of time as it \n\n\n\n396 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nstretches before us ; that is, we believe that this \nseries of finite changes will never reach its end. \nThe finite is alwa3\'\'s pressing into the infinite, yet \nnever becoming one with it, because it is fjuite and \nthe other is infinite. Eternity is thus always an \nunfulfilled possibility. Every point reached repre- \nsents only so much finite time. Every point is a \nlimit, while the possibility which is infinite stretches \nbefore. \n\nAs we look back and ask whether there is an infi- \nnite series behind us, as well as an infinite series be- \nfore, we are perplexed by new cotnplications. Our \nfirst impression is, as it was in regard to space, that \nthere can never be an infinite series completed ; that \nwe cannot trace back an infinite succession into the \npast, because that would involve a complete infini- \ntude in one direction, whereas in finite relations the \ninfinite is only an infinite possibility. Here, how- \never, we are met by a graver difficulty on the other \nside. We cannot conceive this series to have had \na beginning. Every change implies a preceding \nchange. This succession, which we call time, pre- \nsenting, as it does outwardly, mere static relations, \nis connected inwardly with dynamic ones. The \ngreat law of cause and efiect comes into play. There \nis no beginning of movement without previous \nmovement. Theologians, indeed, are in the habit \nof stopping short the series with what is called the \ngreat first cause. But this does not help the matter. \nWe cannot conceive the Divine Being to have passed \nan eternity of inaction, and suddenly, without any \nstimulating cause, to have entered upon the work \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 397 \n\nof creation. This great first cause, if we may use \nan expression so liable to misuse, is first, not in the \norder of time nor before the order of time, but as \nbeing the one power from which is the energy of all \nfinite force. It is not before, but within and behind, \nthe row of finite succession. And, indeed, could we \nbelieve that this finite succession had a sudden be- \nginning, that there was a moment which was the \nfirst moment of time, and all that preceded it was \neternity, yet this eternity was simply the possibility \nof time. It was the endless possibility, and the con- \nception of this possibility of time is subject to the \nsame difficulty as that of time without beginning. \nIt is the possibility itself that staggers us. \n\nWe have found, then, a difficulty in both directions. \nWe cannot conceive of time without beginning, and \nwe cannot conceive of it with a beginning. Yet it \nmust be one or the other. This antinomy in oui \nthoughts cannot represent an unyielding antagonism \nin the outward reality. When we look more closely \nat our difficulty, we find that the word conceive is \nused in a diflerent sense in the two cases. When we \nsay we cannot conceive of an infinite made up of \nfinite points, we mean that the mind cannot take in \nthe idea. We understand the words, we know what \nthey mean, but we can form no corresponding image \nin the mind. When we say there cannot be the be- \nginning of finite change, we mean that snch a begin- \nning would contradict the fundamental and absolute \nlaw of cause and efiect, according to which change is \nalways preceded by change . When we have to choose , \nthen, between what would cause a stretch of faculties to \n\n\n\n398 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nwhich they are iinequal, and that which would in- \nvolve a contradiction of the fundamental law of \nthought, we must choose in preference the first. We \nare driven to admit that time can have had no begiu- \nning ; and as we were at first thought disposed to deny \nthe infinitude of extension for the same reason that we \nwere tempted to den}^ that time could have had no \nbeginning, we see from a fresh point of view that \nthere is left us no ground for denying the infinitude \nof extension, that is, for denying that space may be \nfilled by the material universe ; although we are not \ndriven to this by the same necessity that controlled \nus in regard to time. \n\nb. \xe2\x80\x94 DYNAMIC mrmiTE. \n\nHaving thus considered what we may call the stat- \nical mfinite, we have now to consider the dj^namical \ninfinite. Can we conceive of infinite force, and un- \nder what form does such force present itself to the \nmind? As we look at the universe we find that \ngravitation may claim to be such a force in a certain \ndirection, as a straight line may be infinite in length, \nthough in other respects infinitesimal. If the ma- \nterial universe be infinite in its extent, gravitation, \nwhich is coextensive with this universe, is also so far \ninfinite. Indeed, without regard to the probability \nof a boundless universe, gravitation would hold to- \ngether such a universe if it existed. All the worlds, \nno matter how mighty, no matter if they were num- \nberless, would be controlled by it as easily as tht \nfelling apple is drawn by it to the earth. In all thi \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 399 \n\nmeasureless burden there would be no strain, no fall- \ning off, no stimulus, no unsteadiness. It would fol- \nlow its own law and neither lag nor hurry. When \nwe look more closel}\', we find that though the force \nof gravitation and attraction is infinite so far as ex- \ntension is concerned, in intensity it is finite. The \nforce of repulsion is its constant and well-matched \nopponent. They contend together, and the universe, \nas it exists, is caused by their equilibrium. Besides \nthis, there are other forces which modify the action \nof these two. Chemical forces readjust their rela- \ntions. The flash of the electric current overpowers \nthe might of gravitation. The forces of life, in their \nturn, suspend the action of the chemical forces, al- \nthough at last they yield to them, while the force of \nintellect enters as a new element in the grand contest \nof forces which makes up the life of the worlds. No \none of these forces can be pronounced in the strict \nsense of the word infinite. Modern science opens to \nus, however, in the doctrine of the correlation of \nforces, a grand conception. It is that of one com- \nmon, universal force, of which all these are but the \nvaried forms. Attraction, chemical, vital and intel- \nlectual forces are aflirmed to be only the varied man- \nifestations of this one. It holds material substances \ntogether as attraction. It opposes itself under the \nform of repulsion, it flashes in the lightning, it \nburns in the flames, it awakes the vital energies of \nthe world as light, and, in the plant, itself grows and \nblossoms and bears fruit. Can we form a conception \nof this force in itself? If we cannot, it is because it \nhas no such independent existence. Its very exist \n\n\n\n400 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nence is in these diversified manifestations. In this it \nIS similar to the substance which exists under the \ndifierent forms of ice, water, and vapor, but which is \nin itself neither of them. We cannot conceive of it \nin itself, yet we can understand the truth of the \nproposition which afiirms that these three are only \ndifferent forms of one substance. So, when we say \nthat this one infinite force exists in all these different \nforms, we state what is intelligible. It involves no \nlimitation of our understanding that we cannot con- \nceive of it in any separate and independent shape, \nfor as such it does not exist. \n\nWe might here rest content, and feel that we had \nreached the conception of infinite force. We are \nable, however, to take a step further. The doctrine \nof universal and endless progress brings us to the \nthought of a force that is really infinite in the largest \nand fullest meaning of the word. Progress implies \nthat at every step there is more force than is needed \nfor the existing relations of things. Indeed, all \nmovement implies the same. There is an extra or \nsuperfluous power, which, not needed for the exist- \ning arrangement, introduces a new. We may illus- \ntrate this, by the old experiment of the ivory balls. \nThe force of a blow struck against the first of the \nseries is transmitted to the last. Each of these ivory \nballs possesses for the moment an extra and super- \nfluous force which passes on to the one next before \nit. We can attain a more vivid conception of the \nsame thing, if we imagine the balls to bo hung at a \nlittle distance from one another, say an inch apart. \nWhen the first ball is struck it moves an inch. \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 401 \n\nIt possesses, however, more force than is needed to \nmove it this distance. This force is transmitted to \nthe next. This second ball is also moved an inch ; \nbut it, also, is the bearer of more force than is needed \nfor this movement, and this extra force is transmitted \nto the next. The number of balls that could be thus \nmoved, each an inch, will show the amount of force \nwhich was for the moment embodied in the first ball. \nIf the series thus moved were infinite, then the first \nball, and indeed each ball in its order, was for the \nmoment the bearer of an infinite force. In like \nmanner, if the history of the world or of the uni- \nverse be an endless progression, an infinite force is \ninvolved at every step. \n\nThe same fact may be illustrated in a difierent \nmanner, according to the familiar and jilausible \ntheory of Mayer. The heat of the sun, and thus the \nvitality of all the solar system, is kept up, according \nto this theory, by the collision of meteoric matter \nwith the sun, as a bit of iron may be kept hot by re- \npeated blows. According to this theory, the mate- \nrial universe is infinite. It is filled with nebulous \nmatter. A current of this is formed towards the \nsun by the force of its attraction. This nebulous \nmatter becomes condensed as it approaches the solar \nsystem, until it hardens into the meteoric substances, \nthe blow of which revives the failing energy of the \nsun. Thus does the solar system continually derive \nfresh life from this source. Under one of these two \nforms must we conceive of the endless progress of \nthe universe. Either an infinite force is embodied at \n\n26 \n\n\n\n402 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nevery stage, or a fresh force is coutiuually being in- \ntroduced from an infinite fountain. \n\nC, \xe2\x80\x94 ORGANIC INFINITE. \xe2\x80\x94 THE ABSOLUTE. \n\nWe have thus considered the infinite in its static \nand dynamic relations. We have now to consider \nthe thought of the infinite in the largest and fullest \nsense of the term, which includes all statical and all \ndynamical relations, and which, from its including \nthese two elements in one complete whole that is at \nonce infinite in repose and infinite in activity, we \nmay call the organic infinitude. This infinite ful- \nness is what is called the absohite. It is, as has been \n6aid, infinite in repose, for there is nothing outward \nto disturb it, and it sufiers neither addition nor dim- \ninution. At the same time, it is infinite in activity, \nfor, as we have seen, an infinite force is pervading it \nat every moment. Thus the body of a sleeping man \nis, so far as outward bodies are concerned, in repose ; \nyet within, all the vital functions are still active in \nthose processes which, from birth to death, suffer no \nsuspension. \n\nThe infinite is often spoken of as existing over \nagainst the finite. If this were true of the infinite, \nin the largest sense of the term, there could be no \nsuch thing. If the infinite were over against the \nfinite, there would be two fiuites. The absolute in- \ncludes the finite in itself. It includes the infinite \npower and the finite manifestation of the power. \nThe power without such manifestation would be it- \n\n\n\nINFINITE AND FINITE. 403 \n\nself powerless. It would have no field, and would \nthus be limited, that is, finite. The manifestation or \nthe unfolding of all that is involved in this power is \nfinite at every step, and becomes infinite only by \nmeans of endless succession. To pass, for the mo- \nment, from abstract terms to concrete, the absolute \nis not God alone, if we can conceive for the moment \nof a possible divine existence without any objective \nuniverse. The absolute includes both God, using \nthe word in its popular significance to signify the ab- \nstract divine consciousness, and the universe, the \nuniverse being in its endless series of progressive \nchange the manifestation of God. For the complete \nconception of the absolute, then, it is necessary that \nthe unyielding wall, which is apt to separate in our \nthought the infinite and finite, should be broken \ndown. We must, to use still concrete language, con- \nceive that God recognizes in the progressive universe \nthe manifestation of himself; while, on the other \nhand, the universe should come to the consciousness \nof the Divine or Infinite, as being active within it- \nself. This is done by the spirit in its largest con- \nsciousness and its grandest thought. It becomes \nconscious that it and all things exist only in the di- \nvine, and that the divine is the life of whatever has \ntrue life. In this large consciousness, which is \nreached by religion, by philosophy, and by the \npurest intuition, we have the circle complete. The \nabsolute has reached its true and full reality. It ex- \nists not only, to use the language of philosophy, in \nitself, but also for itself; that is, each side recog- \nnizes itself in the other. At the same time it musl, \n\n\n\n404 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nbe remembered that the infinite exists in the finite \nonly as an infinite possibility. The rush, the hurry, \nthe unresting succession of the universe, is the strug- \ngle to express the infinite in finite factors. Yet as \nthis process is endless, that which is in itself finite \nbecomes thus the manifestation of the infinite. \n\nIt we consider what has been said of the infinite, \nin its relation to the limits of our human thought, \nthe first fact that meets us is, that the definitions of it, \nthat is, the meaning of the words, we can understand. \nWhen we say that the absolute is the absolutely infi- \nnite, we know what is meant. Yfe cannot indeed \ntake in all the fulness of the absolute, because we are \na part of the finite manifestation. But, on the other \nhand, our limitation is a retreating one. We, also, \nhaving an endless progression before us, these limits \nwill retreat endlessly, so that they do not belong to \nthe spirit, but to the moment. We are always over- \npassing them, and thus they have no permanent re- \nality. \n\nWe thus conceive of the absolute as divided. \nThere is the infinite power, and there is the manifes- \ntation of it, which is infinite through endless succes- \nsion. Of the beginning of this division, that is, of \nthe first act of creation, we can have no conception. \nWe cannot get beyond the relation of finite causes, \nthough we know that behind each of these is the in- \nfinite cause. We can trace the world back to the \nnebulous haze, but we still ask whence and how. \nWe cannot conceive of the beginning of the material \nuniverse. We can conceive onl}^ of an endless pro- \ncess. This does not show the weakness, but the \n\n\n\nINNER AND OUTEE. 405 \n\nstrength, of our thought. If what has been said is \ntrue, the material universe is such a process without \nbeginning and without end. By the material uni- \nverse, we here understand the universe of finite \nforms or beino;s. Behind and within these is the in- \nfinite power, which is infinite through this endless \nmanifestation. If we can conceive of neither begin- \nning nor end, it is because there is none. Or rather, \nsince the end is not so much of time as of attain- \nment, it is reached at every step. At every step the \ninfinite and the finite meet. At every step, the infi- \nnite recognizes itself in the finite, and the finite rec- \nognizes more perfectly the infinite. Thus every step \nis an attainment. At every step the absolute com- \npletes itself. \n\n\n\n0. \xe2\x80\x94 THIRD PROBLEM OF THE REASON. INNER AND \n\nOUTER. \n\n\n\nThe mind is not content to know that there is an \ninfinite force in the universe, controlling the changes \nof the outward world. It demands to know the \nnature of this force. It is not content with the visible \nprocession of the outward forms of things. It feels \nthat the reality is within and behind these. This \nmanifold and variegated nature seems often only a \npainted screen, a drop-curtain, which shuts out that \nwhich is most worthy of wonder. \n\n"Men ask," says Hegel, in efiect, "what is the \ninterior of the universe ? what is within ? " But he \nsays, This is a question that nature is always an- \n\n\n\n406 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nswering. The growth, the progress of nature and of \nhistory, these are only a turning inside out. There \nis nothing hidden that is not revealed. There is \ngreat truth in this statement. The plant and the \nflower show the inner nature of the seed or of the \nbulb. Every stage in nature is the preparation for, \nand the prophecy of, what is to come after ; and that \nwhich comes after shows what was hidden within that \nwhich went before. Human nature is the fulfilment \nof the lower natures, and is the heart and kernel of \nthe world ; while the latest history is the unfolding \nof what was hidden in the earlier. \n\nThough this is true, it does not fully meet and \nsatisfy the need and the demand which have just been \ndescribed. Men feel that there is something within \nand behind at every step, something which the evolu- \ntion of nature and history does not exhaust. Scho- \npenhauer aflSrms a principle in regard to this, which \nhas always been taken for granted, though never so \ndistinctly expressed ; and even Schopenhauer himself \nfails in the carrying out of his principle. The principle \nof Schopenhauer is this : We demand to know what \nis the inner nature of the phenomena by which we are \nsurrounded. We cannot get to the heart of them. \nThere is, however, one phenomenon, the interior of \nwhich every one can reach and behold. This phenom- \nenon is, for every one, himself. To the outer world, \nhe is a form like other forms, a phenomenon among \nphenomena. But he, in this single case, is admitted \nbehind the scenes, and knows what is the inner force \nand nature. What he finds there, in this only op- \nportunity which he has to go behind the forms of nature, \n\n\n\nINNER AND OUTER. 407 \n\nhe is justified in using in the explanation of nature. \nWhat he finds behind this phenomenon he may assume \nto be behind all phenomena. It is as we find it in the \ncase of the worlds. We are admitted to see the inner \nnature and the use of only one, yet we cannot help \nusing what we find in this world for the understanding \nand explanation of the others. Though Schopenhauer \nhas thus laid down an important principle, he has, \nas was stated above, failed in his application of it. \nHe states that our consciousness affirms that the in- \nmost core of our nature is the will. The will is the \nsubstance within and behind the phenomenon which \nbears our name. This will he further defines to be \nthe blind impulse of the whole nature, which de^ \ntermines, or rather which is, the unchangeable \ncharacter of each, which controls the intellectual \nfaculties themselves, and to which all conscious mo- \ntive, and the whole mental organization, are non- \nessential accidents. This view he has wrought out \nwith an unexampled brilliancy and acuteness. Yet it \nmust be admitted that this blind will of which he \nspeaks is not an object of consciousness. It is not \nwhat we find when we look into ourselves. All that \nwe are conscious of is the will acting consciously and \naccording to conscious motives. Will, defined from \nthe consciousness of any individual, would be defined, \nForce united with conscious motives. Schopenhauer\'s \nnotion of will, as in itself blind and unconscious, he \ndoes not find in his own nature. He finds it in the \nouter world, and from thence brings it into himself. \nThe real process of his thought was the opposite of \nwhat he described. While he claims to be explaiuing \n\n\n\n408 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nthe outer world from the inner nature of man, he is \nreally explaining the inner nature of man by the \nouter world. Even when he attempts to prove by \nbrilliant argument that this unconscious will, as a \nmere blind force, is the inner nature and true being \nof man, he reasons about this inner nature, instead \nof telling what it is in his own consciousness. His \nresult is the result of argument, and does not spring \nfrom what he sees in his single peep behind the scenes. \n\nThe general principle of Schopenhauer is unques- \ntionably true, and it is one on which mankind has \nalways acted, only, instead of this blind force, men \nhave found within themselves a conscious will acting \nfrom conscious motive, and it is this that they have \napplied to the explanation of the outer world. This \nforce indeed is often blind. The motives from which \nit acts are not always conscious. It sometimes cheats \nthe intellect by feigning unreal motives, as when an \nangry man persuades himself that in his revenge he is \nseeking merely the public good, or when it leads one \nto the verge of some bad action, pretending that it \ndoes not mean to commit it, and only at last throws \noff its disguise, and springs forth to accomplish the \nact. In spite of all this, we feel that the conscious \nand self-directing will is the consummation of human- \nity. The examples, such as have been referred to, are \ntaken from its degradation ; and it is this perfection \nof human nature which is felt to be the key to the \nmystery of the universe. \n\nThis key men in all ages have used instinctively. \nAll science rests upon the assumption of the corr* \nspondence between our own nature and that of thf\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nINNER AND OUTER. 409 \n\niuner life of the universe. It seeks iu the world a \nplan and an order, which shall to us seem orderly and \nsystematic. This search assumes that the power \nwhich controls all things adopts an order like that \nwhich a perfect mind would adopt. Philosophy more \nopenly assumes the same thing, in that it more \nconsciously applies the forms of human thought to the \nexplanation of the outward world. This same as- \nsumption is the starting-point and the life of all \nreligion. The earliest form of religion, Fetichism, \ntook it for granted that behind each of the individual \nforms of the world was a nature like our nature. The \nstone, the tree, the animal, were each believed to be \nanimated by a spirit akin to the human spirit. Poly- \ntheism gives up no inch of the ground thus covered. \nIt sees behind all the objects of the world alike nature \nand intelligence, only it puts one such nature behind \ngroups of objects. Monotheism, following the gen- \neralizations of science, places one intelligence behind \nall the manifold shapes of the universe. In the \nlargest and the smallest it sees the traces of this \npresence. It has receded no step from the position \neven of Fetichism. Behind every individual object it \nfinds this kindred presence, only there is but one. \nAll nature is aglow from this one li2:ht. Fetichism \nis retained to a very large extent in the most developed \nthought. In other persons, in animals, we see motives \nand feelings like those which we ourselves possess. \nWe explain their acts from our consciousness. But \nbeside this, we apply our consciousness to the ex- \nplanation of the great movements of nature and history. \nIt has been just said that this process is instinctive \n\n\n\n410 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nIt is, also, in the highest sense, rational. It results \nfrom thf fundamental proposition of the reason, that, \nnamely, which affirms the unity of all things. From \nthis it would result that our nature must correspond \nwith the nature about us. \n\nThe question now meets us, When we speak of \nthe inner nature of the universe as kindred to that \nof ourselves, do the words mean anything? The \nquestion of finite and infinite meets us here again, and \nwe must make a definite application of the principles \nalready laid down, uniting the results of that investi- \ngation with those of the present. The difficulty is, \nthat we apply terms taken from the affections, that is, \nfrom the qualities of our finite natures, to the infinite \nnature. Qualities, as we have seen, cannot be infinite. \nThey are, by their very nature, finite. Do the words \nwhich name them have any meaning when applied to \nthe infinite being ? It must here be remembered that \nthe word infinite has a relative use as well as an ab- \nsolute one. To return to au illustration already \nrepeated, light is infinite in relation to the colors. \nAn endless line is infinite in one direction. So the \nhuman mind or soul is infinite as regards its own \nqualities. More generally, every object is infinite \nwith respect to its qualities, as light is with respect to \ncolor. That is, every object is at heart a unit. Every \nhuman being is one, though his qualities are mani- \nfold. This one integral nature exhibits itself to \nus by means of these manifold qualities. They \nare not it ; they are manifestations of it ; they are \nmodes of its existence. The fact that these quali- \nties are partial, imperfect, or few, shows that the \n\n\n\nINNER AND OUTER. 411 \n\nnature is, as regards other natures, itself imperfect \nand finite. To say that the application of the names \nof qualities to the one supreme being which we call \nGod is meaningless, because we have no conception \nof any but finite qualities, shows a confusion of \nthought. To say that God is a being of infinite \nqualities is to use words without meaning, because \nquality is, by its very nature, finite. When we say, \nhowever, that God is the being of all perfect qualities, \nwe no longer use words Avithout meaning. We mean \nthat in him are all perfections, all the perfections of \nthe universe. To say that these are finite, is only to \nsay that they are qualities. They are the limitations \nof his infinite nature for the manifestation of itself, as \nour qualities are the limitations of our natures in their \nself-manifestation. A person would meet precisely \nthe same difficulties in explaining how the several \nqualities of the single nature of any one human being \ncould spring from this one single nature, as to explain \nthe relation of the divine qualities to the infinite \ndivine nature. When you come into contact with any \nquality of a human being, you have not reached his \nreal and central nature, but have reached within a \nstep of it ; that is, you have reached its first manifes- \ntation. So, when we meet the divine qualities, we do \nnot meet the absolute nature of God, but its mani- \nfestation. We come nearest to this nature when we \napply to it that which we can conceive as most perfect. \nCould the inanimate worlds conceive of God, from \ntheir lower degree of relations, they would conceive \nof him as the infinite force. This conception would \nbe partial, yet true as far as it went. No higher \n\n\n\n412 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\ncouceptioii could leave out that of the hifiuite force. \nSo the plant would, and rightly, conceive of God as \nthe infinite life. That conception would be true, \nthough partial. The spirit conceives of him as the \ninfinite spirit. This is still true, but still partial. \nWhat may be above this we do not know, or what \nfurther may be involved in the word spirit. \n\nWe may look at the same facts from a difiereut \nstand-point. When we see the regular arrangement \nof all things in the world, we cannot apply to it any \nother word than Order. When we see the adaptation \nof everything to its end, Ave cannot describe it by \nany other term so well as by the word Wisdom. When \nwe see the beneficent working of the laws of the \nworld, we can use uo other word in regard to their \nsource than Benevolence. In a word, we cannot \nthink of the central and inner pow^er of the universe, \nsave by using forms of thought adapted to express \nsuch personal relations. The words thus used have a \npositive meaning. Moreover, the highest quality \nthat we can conceive, we feel that we predicate most \ntruly of this cause, unknown yet al\\va3\'s revealing \nitself. When, looking on the one side, we find that \nthe highest term that we can use is Love, and on the \nother, we look at the beneficent working of the forces \nof the universe, and of the intimate connection of \nevery soul with this hidden cause, so that everj^ life \ntouches it, comes forth from it, and exists in it, we \nfind no word so fitting as the word Love to express \nthe reality of this relationship. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will be seen that the \nlimit of our thouoht here is like that in other direc- \n\n\n\nPROBLEMS OF SCIENCE. 413 \n\ntioiis, a retreating one. As our own interior life \nbecomes perfect, the more insiglit do we have into \nthe inner life of the universe. The two progressions \nmove side by side. \n\nWe have studied the nature of these problems of \nthe reason, in order to discover the limits of human \nthought. We find that the solution in all cases de- \npends upon the one fundamental proposition of the \nreason which affirms the unity of the universe ; and \nwe find, also, that the limits of human thought are \nthose which spring from its finiteness, but that they \nare limits which are constantly retreating before the \nexpanding nature of the soul. Thus there is no \nabsolute limitation to thought. Its limits are only \nthose of the moment, which the next moment removes. \nNew limits, it is true, take the place of the old, but \nthese are as transient as the first. \n\nSECOND.\xe2\x80\x94 PROBLEMS OF THE UNDERSTANDING OR \nOF SCIENCE. \n\nThe limits of human thought, as it strives to solve \nthe problems of science, offer less to detain us than \nwe found in pursuing like investigations in regard to \nthe problems of the reason or of philosophy. In the \ncase of these latter, the limits in which thought is, or \nis supposed to be, confined, spring from the nature of \nthought itself, and thus require consideration in a \nlogical discussion. In the case of science, the limita- \ntions are for the most part in the nature or relations \nof the external world. The one can thus be deter- \nmined by a priori reasoning ; the other only by a \n\n\n\n414 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\n\'posteriori. Still, however, a hasty glauce at this field \nis necessary for the completion of our treatment of \nthe subject. We will retain the same division that \nhas so often served us, namely, that of statical, dynami- \ncal, and organic relations. \n\nThe forms which are assumed by what we may call \nstatical science are twofold. This science may be \neither historical or analytical. What we call, somewhat \nloosely, historical science includes the description \nand classification of all the objects in the universe, \npresent and past, so far as these are accessible to \nhuman knowledge. This last provision suggests the \nexternal limit of these sciences, although this limit is \na vqj-iable one, receding before the advance of inven- \ntion and of research. The invention of the telescope \nand every improvement in its structure have opened \nnew fields to be occupied by descriptive science. \nThe microscope has done the same, in the opposite \ndirection. Geologic research has made the past also, \nin a great measure, open to scientific description. In \nthe face of all this advance, it would be folly to at- \ntempt to fix any limit to the advance of descriptive \nscience. It would appear to us that the distance of \nthe stars must forever shut them out from the domain \nof our knowledge ; while so far as the past is con- \ncerned, it would seem as if the primitive strata, out \nof which almost every trace of life has been removed \nby fierce heat, would forever wall up any further \nprogress in that direction. Even the first traces of \nthe history of man would seem to be washed out by \nthe glacial period, as drawings upon a slate are washed \nout by a wet sponge. Yet we cannot say that these \n\n\n\nPROBLEMS OF SCIENCE. 415 \n\nlimits may not be surpassed. We know not what \ndiscoveries are before us. So far as the past is con- \ncerned, history is still making. Every stage of being \nmay be now existing in the world. The primitive \nelements are still at work. Continents are still \nforming. The coral insects are plying their slow but \nstujpeudous work. Beasts and savages still roam the \nearth, and, if no other means are at control, it may be \nthat the present may thus replace and explain the \npast. \n\nThe other element of historical science is, as we \nhave seen, that of classification. Nothing is easier \nthan to classify ; nothing is harder than to make one\'s \nclassification fall in with the plan of nature. The \nrejoicing of Hugh Miller when he discovered, or \nsupposed that he had discovered, that the divisions \nand arrangements of geology fit in with the actual \ndivisions in the process of creation, illustrates the \nkind of triumph that every science must achieve. The \nsuperiority of the natural to the artificial system of \nbotany is simply that the former falls in more accu- \nrately with the divisions of nature. The artificial \nsystem included all in a convenient form, more \nconvenient in some respects than that furnished by \nthe other, yet in entering it we left the world of na- \nture. There is here, also, no limit that can be affixed \nto scientific progress. There is no reason why it \nshould not continually approach more and more nearly \nactual identity with nature itself. \n\nThe other element of statical science was stated to \nbe analytical. Historical science describes and classi- \nfies. Analytical science seeks to reduce the elements \n\n\n\n416 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nof nature to the smallest possible number. Unity is \nthe end of all science. The problem of analytical \nscience is to reduce the fundamental elements of all \nbodies as nearly as possible to unity. How nearly \nthis can be accomplished cannot of course be even \nguessed at. The question, however, may be raised \nas to whether there is any a priori possibilit}\' of \nreaching the complete result aimed at, that is, of \ndetermining whether from one simple substance all \nothers could be by any possibility derived. It would \nseem, at first sight, as if this were absolutely impos- \nsible ; as if there must be at least two primary \nsubstances in order that the first compound could be \nformed. The late discoveries in regard to the colloid \ncondition of matter show, however, that it is danger- \nous to dogmatize in this direction. We see a simple \nsubstance, or what appears to us to be such, existing \nunder two utterly unlike forms. The conjecture may \nthus be ventured whether it may not possibly be found \nthat one simple substance might exist, the arrange- \nment of the particles of which might be capable of \nassumino; two forms so distinct that the two might \nenter into combination with each other. This sug- \ngestion is not put forward as a theor}^ but only to \nshow the danger of attempting to limit the progress \nof science by any a priori theories. The fiict that \nsome binary compounds result from a twofold com- \nposition of their elements, as if, for instance, the \nsymbol for water should be, as some maintain, H^ \nO^ instead of H O, may illustrate the possibility in \nthe direction pointed out. \n\nThe example taken from the colloid condition of \n\n\n\nPEOBLEMS OF SCIENCE. 417 \n\nmatter does not, it is obvious, fairly apply. Should \nthe ultimate elements of matter ever be reduced to \none, it will be shown that these bodies which assume \ntwo forms are not simple, but themselves compound. \nWhat we call the colloid would be the allotropic \ncondition of matter. But the fact of the recognition \nof this colloid state by science shows that the most \nopposite conditions of an absolutely simple substance \nare not inconceivable. \n\nIt is, however, in dynamical relations that science \nfinds its truest and highest Avork, and it is here that \nthe problem of science meets us in its sharpest out- \nline. The work of dynamical science is to study the \nrelations of cause and effect. It traces backward and \nforward in endless succession the lines of causation. \nBehind every effect is a cause, but this cause is itself \nan effect with a cause standing behind it ; while every \neffect is also a cause producing other effects. These \nlines, then, are interminable. The grand problem of \nscience is to make these lines converge and unite in \none. Each science is complete sa far as it brings its \nvarious forces under some common law and into some \ncommon relation. Science, in general, is complete \nso far as it unites all these separate systems into one \ncommon system, these separate forces into one common \nforce. Towards this latter result the present genera- \ntion has taken a tremendous stride. The discovery \nof the great principle of the correlation of forces \nequals, if it does not surpass, in importance and \ngrandeur an}^ other discovery that ennobles the \nhistory of science. The discovery of the law of \ngravitation showed the identity in the forces at v\\^ork \n\n27 \n\n\n\n418 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nin this world and throughout the whole reach of the \nstarry universe. The discovery of the identity of the \nlightning with the electricity of the laboratory was \nanother step in the invasion of the mysteries of the \nheavens. These are, above all others, startling to the \nimagination. But the discovery of the principle by \nwhich all the forces active about us are shown to be \nonly various forms of one force is recognized by the \nunderstanding as a grander victory, inasmuch as tho \ndifferences of kind which are united by this principle \nare more radical and essential than those of space to \nwhich the former discoveries referred. The principle \nof unity, the revelation of which is the great problem \nof science, seems to have been thus reached in one \ndirection. The application of this discovery has, \nhowever, limits beyond which it cannot pass. The \nnature and fundamental qualities of matter in general, \nand of all its various forms in particular, lie outside \nof the succession of cause and effect. These are \npermanent, and the special results of causation depend \nupon these. Why, for iustance, a certain physical \narrangement produces within the eye the sensation of \nblue, why one body is an acid and another an alkali, \nand why the two are so drawn together, \xe2\x80\x94 all of these \nquestions relate to the inner world, which our laws \nof causation cannot reach, and across which the series \nof causes and effects play, as the ripples or the waves \nfollG"""^ <^ach other across the ocean. Our laws of \ncausation, then, are external and superficial. \n\n"^C^b&r, there is a force at work in the universe \nwM-*^ can never be brought into any system of \n\nSSjje^on, or into any system of mere science. Thia \n\n\n\nPROBLEMS OF SCIENCE. 419 \n\nis the force which is behind and working through the \nprogressive history of the world. Progress is the law \nof life and the law of history. It rests like the law \nof gravitation on a basis of strict induction, and like \nthat holds itself aloof from our scientific generaliza- \ntions. As the principle of gravitation cannot as yet \nbe brought to take its place among the correlated \nforces which form the brilliant system above referred \nto, so the principle of progress works through and by \nthe means of these other forces, yet will not count \nitself among them. Indeed, the problem of science \nis to exclude as far as possible this principle of \nprogress, and reduce all change to the relation of \nequivalents. Herbert Spencer has gone further than \nany other in this direction ; but yet what he has done \nshows most clearly the impossibility of completing \nthe undertaking. Science must move in the direction \ntowards which he points ; but the simplest phenomenon \nof organic growth, in which the law of growth over- \nrules and uses other force, is forever inexplicable on \nany principle of equivalents ; and this is a type of the \nprogress in history and in the geologic ages, in which \nall special forces are the instruments of one overruling \ntendency. The theory of development and that of \nspecial creation are alike in this. As above stated, \nthere is an infinite force working through, and in, \nnature and life. It is concealed like the ictus of the \nivory balls, but reveals itself by results which cannot \nbe accounted for by any arrangement of previous \ncircumstances. This infinite force will forever escape \nour scientific formulas. These have to do with equa- \ntions and equivalents ; tliat is out of proportion with \n\n\n\n420 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nall other agencies. These others are but the conditions. \nThis works through them and springs from them. \n\nIf, after these observations, we take a hasty glance \nat the relation of science to the grand organization \nwhich we call the universe, we meet the same relations \nas in the case of philosophy. There is the same \nadvance, the same surpassing of limits, and the same \nstretching before, of what can never be fully gone \nover. Is science limited or not? At every step it is \nlimited, yet these limitations are constantly giving \nway. The old limits pass, but new spring to fill \ntheir place. At every step there is victory. At \nevery step the circle is complete. Yet at every step \nnew obstacles challenge the advance, and a broader \ncircle stretches beyond, to be clasped by the un- \nwearied and unfolding reach of thought. \n\nTHIRD.\xe2\x80\x94 PROBLEMS OF LIFE. \n\nWhat thought strives to comprehend, that life has \nto realize in a concrete form. Life, like philosophy \nand science, is progressive. Its problem is one that \nwill never be so completely solved that its work will \nbe accomplished. We meet the same two factors as \nbefore, the infinite and the finite. The struggle of life \nis to unite the two, to embody the infinite in finite \nforms. This is a problem which demands the united \nstrength of the reason and the understanding. Here, \nalso, victories are continually won ; but other victories \nyet more brilliant always remain to be achieved. \n\nThe static problem of life, that is, how to embody \nlife in enduring forms, is the one which from the \n\n\n\nPROBLEMS OF LIFE. 421 \n\nnature of the case is more insoluble than any other. \nIt is so in regard to public affairs, because the move- \nment of history is onward, and thus what seems \nstationary is only a temporary stage. The only \npermanent political forms or institutions are those \nwhich allow for this expansion, which admit of change \nwithout suffering thereby destruction. In regard to \nthe individual, the static problem is no less impossible \nof solution. Here there is progress ; but the progress \nis followed by decay. So far as the outward is con- \ncerned, it is a rise and a fall with no pausing place. \n\nThe dynamical problem is how to make the most \nof the vital force in the individual and in society. How \nto make the most of himself is the problem that meets \nevery one. The answer varies in detail with regard \nto different individuals. It involves all questions of \nphysical training and mental and moral education, \nand also of the personal government and the aims of \nlife. In general it may be said, however, that to \nmake the most of one\'s self, one should fall in with \nthe grand movement of life and of history. By moving \non the line with this, one has his puny efforts seconded \nby the infinite force, as when one sails down stream \nthe force of the current itself bears him on. So far \nas society is concerned, it may be also remarked in \ngeneral, that it is essential to this end that the \ndevelopment of the individual should be left free and \nunrepressed, and provided with what is essential for \nits start in the great movement. A glance at the \ngreat organic relations of society and of history shows \nus that this progressive movement is for the world at \nlarge inevitable. We speak of the logic of events. \n\n\n\n422 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. \n\nThis is the necessity that there is for one event to \nfollow another. It makes no difference when or \nwhere a universal idea is given to the world, sooner \nor later some one will trace it to its particular and in- \ndividual results; as, on the other hand, all particular \nand individual facts will at some time find their \ngeneralization. The individual as we see him in this \nworld is not long enough subjected to this logic of \nevents to secure inevitably this result. On the con- \ntrary, too many depart, the lesson of life unlearned. \nBut the state sooner or later feels its full force. \n\nThe static and dynamic problems of life, which \nadmit of no satisfactory solution when viewed in their \nseparateuess, thus meet us united in organic relations, \nand here first may be properly understood and answered. \nThis is seen in the case of the individual, first, bythe \nfact that it is the final cause of any life, that is, the \npurpose for which one lives and the strength of this \npurpose, that determines its success or failure, and not \nany outward accomplishment or lack of accomplish- \nment; and, secondly, that the individual life, as \nwas intimated above, does not reach its full develop- \nment when pursued merely as an individual life. It \nreceives its complete strength only as a part of the \ngreat social organism to which it properly belongs. \nIn this the partialness of each is complemented by \nthat of others, and the imperfect success of each is made \ncomplete by the common triumph of all. And in the \ncase of the state, the static problem is solved only by \nan organism that admits of growth and progress, by \nproviding for, and adapting itself to, these necessary \nchanges. When this is accomplished it need not \n\n\n\nFINAL CAUSES. 423 \n\ntimidly repress any of the forces of the life which it \ncontains. On the contrary, it reaches its true end only \nwhen it develops and utilizes all these forces ; and falls \nshort of this only when through ignorance or the \nrepression of outward circumstances any part of its \nmass fails to partake of the common life. \n\nThese problems of life, at which we have thus \nglanced, do not, however, properly belong to our sub- \nject ; and for this reason they have been passed over so \nhastily. They adjoin it, they spring out of it, they \nform the transition between it and the outward world. \nThey form the doorway through which, after having \npassed through the world of pure thought, and studied \nit in its manifold yet simple relations, we pass out \ninto the concrete world of facts and tangible forms, \nbearing with us the result of our sojourn in the realm \nof pure thought, to be our help and our guide. \n\n\n\nNOTE TO " PKOPOSITIONS OF PERCEPTION." \n\n(Seepage 110.) \n\nI did not realize the full treatment which the "propositions \nof perception" required, until it was too late to introduce this \ninto the body of the work. I there analj^zed the outward senses \nupon which these propositions rest for their truth, but neglected \nto refer to the inward senses, which are hardl}\' less important \nfor this purpose. The recognition of any object or fact in the \nouter world is no more an act of simple perception than the rec- \nognition of any internal thought or feeling. The logical impor- \ntance of this internal perception may be seen in the Cogito of \nDescartes ; and also in the controversy, that has sprung up of late \nyears, in regard to the true method of the study of psychology. \n\n\xc2\xab24 \n\n\n\nAPPENDIX. \n\n\n\nAPPENDIX. \n\n\n\nI. THE PROPOSITION. \n\nIn the text it is stated that in all logical propositions \nthe predicate is regarded as more extensive than the sub- \nject. This is in accordance with the position of Hegel, \nwho makes a distinction between a logical proposition \nand a simple statement of fact, or, as we should say, an \nindividual proposition. I am inclined to think that this \ndifference does not exist, and that in all propositions the \nsubject is brought into relation with a class which in- \ncludes other members besides itself. Take as an example \nof an individual proposition the following : Philip was \nthe father of Alexander. Both Philip and Alexander are \nindividuals. Each is the centre of a group of character- \nistics and relations ; and it is possible that the two groups \nare equal in extent. In the proposition before us, how- \never, Philip is considered as an individual, and as such is \nbrought into relation with Alexander. He takes his \nplace in the sphere which is made up of the relations and \nthings that may be called Alexandrine. Or we may take \na different view. The question may have been whether \nPhilip were or were not childless. In this case, the prop- \nosition plases him in the general relation of fatherhood. \nIt does not affect the result that these two vmiversals, \nthings Alexandrine and fatherhood, meet in a single \nperson and indicate precisely the individual Philip. In \n\n427 \n\n\n\n428 APPENDIX. \n\nreal thinking our interest would be actually in one or the \nother of these universals. It would probably be in the \nenlargement of our thought of Philip through his sub- \nsumption under the things Alexandrine. The proposi- \ntion may be reversed. We may say Alexander was the \nson of Philip, Such a change cannot, however, take place \nwithout a change in the aspect of the thought. Alexan- \nder is now subsumed under things Philipine. It is the \nconstant change of interest and emphasis that makes to \na large extent the charm of even our most superficial \nthinking. It is a clumsy handling of such delicate relor \ntions when we use the term Identical Proposition or \nIndividual Propositions in such a way as to leave no \nplace for this fine play of the changeful life of thought. \n\nNo treatment could be clumsier in this respect than \nthe attempt to reduce every proposition to an equation. \nThis method, as aj^plied by Jevons, may be a matter of \npractical convenience, but it is wholly contrary to the \nnature of thought. It introduces a tautology which has \nno place in real thinking, and it makes of this artificial \ntautology the essential thing. We do not care to know, \nfor instance, that John is a John Englishman ; we wish \nto know simply his nationality. We do not care to know \nthat monkeys are monkeys quadrumana; our interest is \nonly to know that they are quadrumana. \n\nII. THE SYLLOGISM. \n\nMr. F. H. Bradley, in his important and interesting \nwork, " The Principles of Logic," argues with great force \nagainst the importance which logicians have been in the \nhabit of giving to the syllogism. In view of this discus- \nsion, and of the general tendency to underrate this form \nof reasoning, it may be well to suggest certain considera- \n\n\n\nAPPENDIX. 429 \n\ntions in regard to it additional to those embodied in the \ntext. The significance of the syllogism consists in the \nfact that nothing can be affirmed in any particular case \nwhich cannot be affirmed with truth in regard to all simi- \nlar cases. If an individual or a particular statement is \nmade, the test of its truth is found in the question as to \nwhether the statement is capable of a universal applica- \ntion. A consideration of the extent of its general truth \nfurnishes the measure of its probable truth in this particu- \nlar case. The universal may stand to the particular or \nthe individual statement in either of two relations. It \nmay be external or accidental, in the sense that we know \nonly by the results of an examination that the proj^osi- \ntion is generally true. The thought of a man would not \nsuggest the idea of his mortality, unless, by experience \nand by the study of the past, we had learned to associate \nthe idea of mortality with that of man. When we have \nthoroughly learned this, then the syllogistic form has \nbecome ixseless and is cast aside, excei^t as it may be \nneeded to teach some one who has not learned the lesson. \nThe other form of the relation of the general truth to \nthe particular statement is what we may call that of in- \nherence. It is seen intuitively as soon as the particular \nstatement is made. When we say, If A is west of B, \nand B is west of C, then A is west of B, we see at the \nfirst glance that this is true. We do not separate in our \nthought the general truth that underlies the statement \nfrom the special application of it. This is what is called \ndirect inference. The elements of the syllogism are \nthere, but they have flowed together into an undivided, \nthough not an indivisible unity. The syllogistic process \nbegins and ends with such direct inference. The major \nand the minor premises involve such an inference and \nso does the conclusion. These direct inferences are \n\n\n\n430 APPENDIX. \n\neither of the originally intuitive form, or they represent \nsome permanent result of previous thought or experience. \nThe syllogism is thus implicit in all reasoning, although \nit is not necessary to make it explicit except in cases where \nthere is some doubt as to the proof of a proposition. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n,0 O^ \n\n\n\noo* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n.^>-^, ^ \n\n\n\n%^\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\nOo. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^A v^ \n\n\n\n,0o. \n\n\n\n0- --\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\';% \n\n\n\n\n\n\n-.,^\' \n\n\n\n^\xe2\x96\xa0^\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n"C- <i- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n.K^^ \n\n\n\n^i^\'VT^L \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0^7. * s \' .\'V^ \n\n\n\no>\' \n\n\n\nv> * ^ \'\' " \n\n\n\n^. */,.^^^sO-^^,.^^;^;*..o^^^^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n>1^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n% ,^<\'\'\'" \n\n\n\n0> C\xc2\xab^ \'* "^ ^\xc2\xab^^ .VIS , -/^_ \n\n\n\n\n\n\nvOC\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\no \no5 -^.u \n\n\n\n\'V- y \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\' .0- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ , - ^ \' ," * . \' \'^\' \n\n\n\n.-^- .^^^"^^ \n\n\n\n:^fn. : -^. ,^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n-ii^/--,<\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n/. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab^ \n\n\n\n-^^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n0^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n8 I \xc2\xbb \n\n\n\n" .0- \n\n\n\n^ v^^V\'. \'\'O \'^\'\' \\> \n\n\n\n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0 V. \n\n\n\nci-. \n\n\n\n0\' \n\n\n\nx\'^ , V \' " \n\n\n\n\n\n\n%\'"^^\' Z\' OS \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 0\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ -^^ vt\\^ \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2^ o \n\n\n\n\n\'^^/. \n\n\n\'*.\xe2\x96\xa0_. \n\n\nS \' \n\n\n\\^ \n\n\n\'/ c \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\\\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n.^" \n\n\n\n\n:i^: \n\n\n,\'ti \n\n.^^ \n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\n\n\n\\i-^ I- \n\n\n\n\n\n\nN \n\n\n\nA*^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^^ v-J \n\n\n\n'