We are forced to admit that the science of psychology has not yet

emerged from the state in which a critical examination of its

foundations is necessary, and that the construction of the beaten path

is still in progress. This I shall try to make clear by illustrations.

The psychologist studies the mind, and his ultimate appeal must be to

introspection, to a direct observation of mental phenomena, and of

their relations to external things. Now, if the observation of mental

phenomena were a simple and an easy thing; if the mere fact that we are

conscious of sensations and ideas implied that we are _clearly_

conscious of them and are in a position to describe them with accuracy,

psychology would be a much more satisfactory science than it is.

But we are not thus conscious of our mental life. We can and do use

our mental states without being able to describe them accurately. In a

sense, we are conscious of what is there, but our consciousness is

rather dim and vague, and in our attempts to give an account of it we

are in no little danger of giving a false account.

Thus, the psychologist assumes that we perceive both physical phenomena

and mental--the external world and the mind. He takes it for granted

that we perceive mental phenomena to be related to physical. He is

hardly in a position to make this assumption, and then to set it aside

as a thing he need not further consider. Does he not tell us, as a

result of his investigations, that we can know the external world only

as it is reflected in our sensations, and thus seem to shut the mind up

within the circle of mental phenomena merely, cutting off absolutely a

direct knowledge of what is extra-mental? If we can know only mental

phenomena, the representatives of things, at first hand, how can we

tell that they are representatives? and what becomes of the assumption

that we _perceive_ that mind is related to an external world?

It may be said, this problem the psychologist may leave to the

metaphysician. Certainly, it is one of those problems that the

metaphysician discusses; it has been treated in Chapter IV. But my

contention is, that he who has given no thought to the matter may

easily fall into error as to the very nature of mental phenomena.

For example, when we approach or recede from a physical object we have

a series of experiences which are recognized as sensational. When we

imagine a tree or a house we are also experiencing a mental phenomenon.

All these experiences _seem_ plainly to have extension in some sense of

the word. We appear to perceive plainly part out of part. In so far,

these mental things seem to resemble the physical things which we

contrast with what is mental. Shall we say that, because these things

are mental and not physical, their apparent extension is a delusion?

Shall we say that they really have no parts? Such considerations have

impelled psychologists of eminence to maintain, in flat contradiction

to what seems to be the unequivocal testimony of direct introspection,

that the total content of consciousness at any moment must be looked

upon as an indivisible, part-less unit.

We cannot, then, depend merely on direct introspection. It is too

uncertain in its deliverances. If we would make clear to ourselves

what mental phenomena really are, and how they | differ from physical

phenomena, we must fall back upon the reflective analysis of our

experience which occupies the metaphysician (section 34). Until we

have done this, we are in great danger of error. We are actually

uncertain of our materials.

Again. The psychologist speaks of the relation of mind and body. Some

psychologists incline to be parallelists, some are warm advocates of

interactionism. Now, any theory of the relation of mind to body must

depend on observation ultimately. If we had not direct experience of a

relation between the physical and the mental somewhere, no hypothesis

on the subject would ever have emerged.

But our experiences are not perfectly clear and unequivocal to us.

Their significance does not seem to be easily grasped. To comprehend

it one is forced to that reflective examination of experience which is

characteristic of the philosopher (Chapter IX).

Here it may again be said: Leave the matter to the meta-physician and

go on with your psychological work. I answer: The psychologist is not

in the same position as the botanist or the zoölogist. He is studying

mind in its relation to body. It cannot but be unsatisfactory to him

to leave that relation wholly vague; and, as a matter of fact, he

usually takes up with one theory or another. We have seen (section 36)

that he may easily adopt a theory that leads him to overlook the great

difference between physical phenomena and mental phenomena, and to

treat them as though they were the same. This one may do in spite of

all that introspection has to say about the gulf that separates them.

Psychology is, then, very properly classed among the philosophical

sciences. The psychologist is not sufficiently sure of his materials

to be able to dispense with reflective thought, in many parts of his

field. Some day there may come to be a consensus of opinion touching

fundamental facts, and the science may become more independent. A

beaten track may be attained; but that has not yet been done.

70. THE DOUBLE AFFILIATION OF PSYCHOLOGY.--In spite of what has been

said above, we must not forget that psychology is a _relatively_

independent science. One may be a useful psychologist without knowing

much about philosophy.

As in logic it is possible to write a text-book not greatly different

in spirit and method from text-books concerned with the sciences not

classed as philosophical, so it is possible to make a useful study of

mental phenomena without entering upon metaphysical analyses. In

science, as in common life, we can _use_ concepts without subjecting

them to careful analysis.

Thus, our common experience reveals that mind and body are connected.

We may, for a specific purpose, leave the _nature_ of this connection

vague, and may pay careful attention to the physiological conditions of

mental phenomena, studying in detail the senses and the nervous system.

We may, further, endeavor to render our knowledge of mental phenomena

more full and accurate by experimentation. In doing this we may be

compelled to make use of elaborate apparatus. Of such mechanical aids

to investigation our psychological laboratories are full.

It is to such work as this that we owe what is called the

"physiological" and the "experimental" psychology. One can carry on

such investigations without being a metaphysician. But one can

scarcely carry them on without having a good knowledge of certain

sciences not commonly supposed to be closely related to psychology at

all. Thus, one should be trained in chemistry and physics and

physiology, and should have a working knowledge of laboratory methods.

Moreover, it is desirable to have a sufficient knowledge of mathematics

to enable one to handle experimental data.

The consideration of such facts as these sometimes leads men to raise

the question: Should psychology affiliate with philosophy or with the

physical sciences? The issue is an illegitimate one. Psychology is

one of the philosophical sciences, and cannot dispense with reflection;

but that is no reason why it should not acknowledge a close relation to

certain physical sciences as well. Parts of the field can be isolated,

and one may work as one works in the natural sciences generally; but if

one does nothing more, one's concepts remain unanalyzed, and, as we

have seen in the previous section, there is some danger of actual

misconception.

[1] "Psychology," Preface.

CHAPTER XVIII

ETHICS AND AESTHETICS

71. COMMON SENSE ETHICS.--We may, if we choose, study the actions of

men merely with a view to ascertaining what they are and describing

them accurately. Something like this is done by the anthropologist,

who gives us an account of the manners and customs of the various races

of mankind; he tells us _what is_; he may not regard it as within his

province at all to inform us regarding _what ought to be_.

But men do not merely act; they judge their actions in the light of

some norm or standard, and they distinguish between them as right and

wrong. The systematic study of actions as right and wrong yields us

the science of ethics.

Like psychology, ethics is a special science. It is concerned with a

somewhat limited field of investigation, and is not to be confounded

with other sciences. It has a definite aim distinct from theirs. And,

also like psychology, ethics is classed as one of the philosophical

sciences, and its relation to philosophy is supposed to be closer than

that of such sciences as physics and mathematics. It is fair to ask

why this is so. Why cannot ethics proceed on the basis of certain

assumptions independently, and leave to some other discipline the whole

question of an inquiry into the nature and validity of those

assumptions?

About half a century ago Dr. William Whewell, one of the most learned

of English scholars, wrote a work entitled "The Elements of Morality,"

in which he attempted to treat the science of ethics as it is generally

admitted that one may treat the science of geometry. The book was

rather widely read a generation since, but we meet with few references

to it in our time.

"Morality and the philosophy of morality," argues the author, "differ

in the same manner and in the same degree as geometry and the

philosophy of geometry. Of these two subjects, geometry consists of a

series of positive and definite propositions, deduced one from another,

in succession, by rigorous reasoning, and all resting upon certain

definitions and self-evident axioms. The philosophy of geometry is

quite a different subject; it includes such inquiries as these: Whence

is the cogency of geometrical proof? What is the evidence of the

axioms and definitions? What are the faculties by which we become

aware of their truth? and the like. The two kinds of speculation have

been pursued, for the most part, by two different classes of

persons,--the geometers and the metaphysicians; for it has been far

more the occupation of metaphysicians than of geometers to discuss such

questions as I have stated, the nature of geometrical proofs,

geometrical axioms, the geometrical faculty, and the like. And if we

construct a complete system of geometry, it will be almost exactly the

same, whatever be the views which we take on these metaphysical

questions." [1]

Such a system Dr. Whewell wishes to construct in the field of ethics.

His aim is to give us a view of morality in which moral propositions

are "deduced from axioms, by successive steps of reasoning, so far as

to form a connected system of moral truth." Such a "sure and connected

knowledge of the duties of man" would, he thinks, be of the greatest

importance.

In accordance with this purpose, Dr. Whewell assumes that humanity,

justice, truth, purity, order, earnestness, and moral purpose are

fundamental principles of human action; and he thinks that all who

admit as much as this will be able to go on with him in his development

of a system of moral rules to govern the life of man.

It would hardly be worth while for me to speak at length of a way of

treating ethics so little likely to be urged upon the attention of the

reader who busies himself with the books which are appearing in our own

day, were it not that we have here an admirable illustration of the

attempt to teach ethics as though it were such a science as geometry.

The shortcomings of the method become very evident to one who reads the

work attentively.

Thus, we are forced to ask ourselves, have we really a collection of

ultimate moral principles which are analogous to the axioms of

geometry? For example, to take but a single instance, Dr. Whewell

formulates the Principle of Truth as follows: "We must conform to the

universal understanding among men which the use of language

implies";[2] and he remarks later; "The rules: _Lie not_, Perform your

promise, are of universal validity; and the conceptions of _lie_ and of

_promise_ are so simple and distinct that, in general, the rules may be

directly and easily applied." [3]

Now, we are struck by the fact that this affirmation of the universal

validity of the principle of truth is made in a chapter on "Cases of

Conscience," in a chapter concerned with what seem to be conflicts

between duties; and this chapter is followed by one which treats of

"Cases of Necessity," _i.e._ cases in which a man is to be regarded as

justified in violating common rules when there seems to be urgent

reason for so doing. We are told that the moralist cannot say: Lie

not, except in great emergencies; but must say: Lie not at all. But we

are also told that he must grant that there are cases of necessity in

which transgressions of moral rules are excusable; and this looks very

much as if he said: Go on and do the thing while I close my eyes.

This hardly seems to give us a "sure and connected knowledge of the

duties of man" deduced from axiomatic principles. On what authority

shall we suspend for the time being this axiomatic principle or that?

Is there some deeper principle which lends to each of them its

authority, and which may, for cause, withdraw it? There is no hint of

such in the treatment of ethics which we are considering, and we seem

to have on our hands, not so much a science, as a collection of

practical rules, of the scope of which we are more or less in the dark.

The interesting thing to notice is that this view of ethics is very

closely akin to that adapted unconsciously by the majority of the

persons we meet who have not interested themselves much in ethics as a

science.

By the time that we have reached years of discretion we are all in

possession of a considerable number of moral maxims. We consider it

wrong to steal, to lie, to injure our neighbor. Such maxims lie in our

minds side by side, and we do not commonly think of criticising them.

But now and then we face a situation in which one maxim seems to urge

one course of action and another maxim a contrary one. Shall we tell

the truth and the whole truth, when so doing will bring grave

misfortune upon an innocent person? And now and then we are brought to

the realization that all men do not admit the validity of all our

maxims. Judgments differ as to what is right and what is wrong. Who

shall be the arbiter? Not infrequently a rough decision is arrived at

in the assumption that we have only to interrogate "conscience"--in the

assumption, in other words, that we carry a watch which can be counted

upon to give the correct time, even if the timepieces of our neighbors

are not to be depended upon.

The common sense ethics cannot be regarded as very systematic and

consistent, or as very profound. It is a collection of working rules,

of practical maxims; and, although it is impossible to overestimate its

value as a guide to life, its deficiencies, when it is looked at

critically, become evident, I think, even to thoughtful persons who are

not scientific at all.

Many writers on ethics have simply tried to turn this collection of

working rules into a science, somewhat as Dr. Whewell has done. This

is the peculiar weakness of those who have been called the

"intuitionalists"--though I must warn the reader against assuming that

this term has but the one meaning, and that all those to whom it has

been applied should be placed in the same class. Here it is used to

indicate those who maintain that we are directly aware of the validity

of certain moral principles, must accept them as ultimate, and need

only concern ourselves with the problem of their application.

72. ETHICS AND PHILOSOPHY.--When John Locke maintained that there are

no "innate practical principles," or innate moral maxims, he pointed in

evidence to the "enormities practiced without remorse" in different

ages and by different peoples. The list he draws up is a curious and

an interesting one.[4]

In our day it has pretty generally come to be recognized by thoughtful

men that a man's judgments as to right and wrong reflect the phase of

civilization, or the lack of it, which he represents, and that their

significance cannot be understood when we consider them apart from

their historic setting. This means that no man's conscience is set up

as an ultimate standard, but that every man's conscience is regarded as

furnishing material which the science of ethics must take into account.

May we, broadening the basis upon which we are to build, and studying

the manners, customs, and moral judgments of all sorts and conditions

of men, develop an empirical science of ethics which will be

independent of philosophy?

It does not seem that we can do this. We are concerned with

psychological phenomena, and their nature and significance are by no

means beyond dispute. For example, there is the feeling of moral

obligation, of which ethics has so much to say. What is this feeling,

and what is its authority? Is it a thing to be explained? Can it

impel a man, let us say, a bigot, to do wrong? And what can we mean by

credit and discredit, by responsibility and free choice, and other

concepts of the sort? All this must remain very vague to one who has

not submitted his ethical concepts to reflective analysis of the sort

that we have a right to call philosophical.

Furthermore, it does not seem possible to decide what a man should or

should not do, without taking into consideration the circumstances in

which he is placed. The same act may be regarded as benevolent or the

reverse according to its context. If we will but grant the validity of

the premises from which the medieval churchman reasoned, we may well

ask whether, in laying hands violently upon those who dared to form

independent judgments in matters of religion, he was not

conscientiously doing his best for his fellow-man. He tried by all

means to save some, and to what he regarded as a most dangerous malady

he applied a drastic remedy. By what standard shall we judge him?

There can be no doubt that our doctrine of the whole duty of man must

be conditioned by our view of the nature of the world in which man

lives and of man's place in the world. Has ethics nothing to do with

religion? If we do not believe in God, and if we think that man's life

ends with the death of the body, it is quite possible that we shall set

for him an ethical standard which we should have to modify if we

adopted other beliefs. The relation of ethics to religion is a problem

that the student of ethics can scarcely set aside. It seems, then,

that the study of ethics necessarily carries us back to world problems

which cannot be approached except by the path of philosophical

reflection. We shall see in Chapter XX that the theistic problem

certainly belongs to this class.

It is worthy of our consideration that the vast majority of writers on

ethics have felt strongly that their science runs out into metaphysics.

We can scarcely afford to treat their testimony lightly. Certainly it

is not possible for one who has no knowledge of philosophy to

understand the significance of the ethical systems which have appeared

in the past. The history of ethics may be looked upon as a part of the

history of philosophy. Only on the basis of some general view as to

nature and man have men decided what man ought to do. As we have seen

above, this appears sufficiently reasonable.

73. AESTHETICS.--Of aesthetics, or the science of the beautiful, I

shall say little. There is somewhat the same reason for including it

among the philosophical sciences that there is for including ethics.

Those who have paid little attention to science or to philosophy are

apt to dogmatize about what is and what is not beautiful just as they

dogmatize about what is and what is not right. They say

unhesitatingly; This object is beautiful, and that one is ugly. It is

as if they said: This one is round, and that one square.

Often it quite escapes their attention that what they now regard as

beautiful struck them as unattractive a short time before; and will,

perhaps, when the ceaseless change of the fashions has driven it out of

vogue, seem strange and unattractive once more. Nor do they reflect

upon the fact that others, who seem to have as good a right to an

opinion as they, do not agree with them in their judgments; nor upon

the further fact that the standard of beauty is a thing that has varied

from age to age, differs widely in different countries, and presents

minor variations in different classes even in the same community.

The dogmatic utterances of those who are keenly susceptible to the

aesthetic aspects of things but are not given to reflection stand in

striking contrast to the epitome of the popular wisdom expressed in the

skeptical adage that there is no disputing about tastes.

We cannot interpret this adage broadly and take it literally, for then

we should have to admit that men's judgments as to the beautiful cannot

constitute the material of a science at all, and that there can be no

such thing as progress in the fine arts. The notion of progress

implies a standard, and an approximation to an ideal. Few would dare

to deny that there has been progress in such arts as painting and

music; and when one has admitted so much as this, one has virtually

admitted that a science of aesthetics is, at least, possible.

The science studies the facts of the aesthetic life as ethics studies

the facts of the moral life. It can take no man's taste as furnishing

a standard: it must take every man's taste as a fact of significance.

It is driven to reflective analysis--to such questions as, what is

beauty? and what is meant by aesthetic progress? It deals with elusive

psychological facts the significance of which is not easily grasped.

It is a philosophical science, and is by no means in a position to

follow a beaten path, dispensing with a reflective analysis of its

materials.

[1] Preface.

[2] section 269.

[3] section 376.

[4] "Essay concerning Human Understanding," Book I, Chapter III.

CHAPTER XIX

METAPHYSICS

74. WHAT IS METAPHYSICS?--The reader has probably already remarked that

in some of the preceding chapters the adjectives "metaphysical" and

"philosophical" have been used as if they were interchangeable, in

certain connections, at least. This is justified by common usage; and

in the present chapter I shall be expected by no one, I think, to prove

that metaphysics is a philosophical discipline. My task will rather be

to show how far the words "metaphysics" and "philosophy" have a

different meaning.

In Chapters III to XI, I have given a general view of the problems

which present themselves to reflective thought, and I have indicated

that they are not problems which can conveniently be distributed among

the several special sciences. Is there an external world? What is it?

What are space and time? What is the mind? How are mind and body

related? How do we know that there are other minds than ours? etc.

These have been presented as _philosophical_ problems; and when we turn

back to the history of speculative thought we find that they are just

the problems with which the men whom we agree to call philosophers have

chiefly occupied themselves.

But when we turn to our treatises on _metaphysics_, we also find that

these are the problems there discussed. Such treatises differ much

among themselves, and the problems are not presented in the same form

or in the same order; but one who can look beneath the surface will

find that the authors are busied with much the same thing--with some or

all of the problems above mentioned.

How, then, does metaphysics differ from philosophy? The difference

becomes clear to us when we realize that the word philosophy has a

broader and looser signification, and that metaphysics is, so to speak,

the core, the citadel, of philosophy.

We have seen (Chapter II) that the world and the mind, as they seem to

be presented in the experience of the plain man, do not stand forth

with such clearness and distinctness that he is able to answer

intelligently the questions we wish to ask him regarding their nature.

It is not merely that his information is limited; it is vague and

indefinite as well. And we have seen, too, that, however the special

sciences may increase and systematize his information, they do not

clear away such vagueness. The man still uses such concepts as "inner"

and "outer," "reality," "the mind," "space," and "time," with no very

definite notion of what they mean.

Now, the attempt to clear away this vagueness by the systematic

analysis of such concepts--in other words, the attempt to make a

thorough analysis of our experience--is metaphysics. The metaphysician

strives to limit his task as well as he may, and to avoid unnecessary

excursions into the fields occupied by the special sciences, even those

which lie nearest to his own, such as psychology and ethics. There is

a sense in which he may be said to be working in the field of a special

science, though he is using as the material for his investigations

concepts which are employed in many sciences; but it is clear that his

discipline is not a special science in the same sense in which geometry

and physics are special sciences.

Nevertheless, the special sciences stand, as we have already seen in

the case of several of them, very near to his own. If he broadens his

view, and deliberately determines to take a survey of the field of

human knowledge as illuminated by the analyses that he has made, he

becomes something more than a _metaphysician_; he becomes a

_philosopher_.

This does not in the least mean that he becomes a storehouse of

miscellaneous information, and an authority on all the sciences.

Sometimes the philosophers have attempted to describe the world of

matter and of mind as though they possessed some mysterious power of

knowing things that absolved them from the duty of traveling the weary

road of observation and experiment that has ended in the sciences as we

have them. When they have done this, they have mistaken the

significance of their calling. A philosopher has no more right than

another man to create information out of nothing.

But it is possible, even for one who is not acquainted with the whole

body of facts presented in a science, to take careful note of the

assumptions upon which that science rests, to analyze the concepts of

which it makes use, to mark the methods which it employs, and to gain a

fair idea of its scope and of its relation to other sciences. Such a

reflection upon our scientific knowledge is philosophical reflection,

and it may result in a classification of the sciences, and in a general

view of human knowledge as a whole. Such a view may be illuminating in

the extreme; it can only be harmful when its significance is

misunderstood.

But, it may be argued, why may not the man of science do all this for

himself? Why should he leave it to the philosopher, who is presumably

less intimately acquainted with the sciences than he is?

To this I answer: The work should, of course, be done by the man who

will do it best. All our subdivision of labor should be dictated by

convenience. But I add, that experience has shown that the workers in

the special sciences have not as a rule been very successful when they

have tried to philosophize.

Science is an imperious mistress; she demands one's utmost efforts; and

when a man turns to philosophical reflection merely "by the way," and

in the scraps of time at his disposal after the day's work is done, his

philosophical work is apt to be rather superficial. Moreover, it does

not follow that, because a man is a good mathematician or chemist or

physicist, he is gifted with the power of reflective analysis. Then,

too, such men are apt to be imperfectly acquainted with what has been

done in the past; and those who are familiar with the history of

philosophy often have occasion to remark that what is laid before them,

in ignorance of the fact that it is neither new nor original, is a

doctrine which has already made its appearance in many forms and has

been discussed at prodigious length in the centuries gone by.

In certain sciences it seems possible to ignore the past, to a great

extent, at least. What is worth keeping has been kept, and there is a

solid foundation on which to build for the future. But with reflective

thought it is not so. There is no accepted body of doctrine which we

have the right to regard as unassailable. We should take it as a safe

maxim that the reflections of men long dead _may_ be profounder and

more worthy of our study than those urged upon our attention by the men

of our day.

And this leads me to make a remark upon the titles given to works on

metaphysics. It seems somewhat misleading to label them: "Outlines of

Metaphysics" or "Elements of Metaphysics." Such titles suggest that we

are dealing with a body of doctrine which has met with general

acceptance, and may be compared with that found in handbooks on the

special sciences. But we should realize that, when we are concerned

with the profounder investigations into the nature of our experience,

we tread upon uncertain ground and many differences of opinion obtain.

We should, if possible, avoid a false semblance of authority.

75. EPISTEMOLOGY.--We hear a great deal at the present day of

Epistemology, or the Theory of Knowledge. I have not classed it as a

distinct philosophical science, for reasons which will appear below.

We have seen in Chapter XVI that it is possible to treat of logic in a

simple way without growing very metaphysical; but we have also seen

that when we go deeply into questions touching the nature of evidence

and what is meant by truth and falsity, we are carried back to

philosophical reflection at once.

We may, for convenience, group together these deeper questions

regarding the nature of knowledge and its scope, and call the subject

of our study "Epistemology."

But it should be remarked, in the first place, that, when we work in

this field, we are exercising a reflective analysis of precisely the

type employed in making the metaphysical analyses contained in the

earlier chapters of this book. We are treating our experience as it is

not treated in common thought and in science.

And it should be remarked, in the second place, that the investigation

of our knowledge inevitably runs together with an investigation into

the nature of things known, of the mind and the world. Suppose that I

give the titles of the chapters in Part III of Mr. Hobhouse's able work

on "The Theory of Knowledge." They are as follows: Validity; the

Validity of Knowledge; the Conception of External Reality; Substance;

the Conception of Self; Reality as a System; Knowledge and Reality; the

Grounds of Knowledge and Belief.

Are not these topics metaphysical? Let us ask ourselves how it would

affect our views of the validity and of the limits of our knowledge, if

we were converted to the metaphysical doctrines of John Locke, or of

Bishop Berkeley, or of David Hume, or of Thomas Reid, or of Immanuel

Kant.

We may, then, regard epistemology as a part of logic--the metaphysical

part--or as a part of metaphysics; it does not much matter which we

call it, since we mean the same thing. But its relation to metaphysics

is such that it does not seem worth while to call it a separate

discipline.

Before leaving this subject there is one more point upon which I should

touch, if only to obviate a possible misunderstanding.

We find in Professor Cornelius's clear little book, "An Introduction to

Philosophy" (Leipzig, 1903; it has unhappily not yet been translated

into English), that metaphysics is repudiated altogether, and

epistemology is set in its place. But this rejection of metaphysics

does not necessarily imply the denial of the value of such an analysis

of our experience as I have in this work called metaphysical.

Metaphysics is taken to mean, not an analysis of experience, but a

groping behind the veil of phenomena for some reality not given in

experience. In other words, what Professor Cornelius condemns is what

many of the rest of us also condemn under another name. What he calls

metaphysics, we call bad metaphysics; and what he calls epistemology,

we call metaphysics. The dispute is really a dispute touching the

proper name to apply to reflective analysis of a certain kind.

As it is the fashion in certain quarters to abuse metaphysics, I set

the reader on his guard. Some kinds of metaphysics certainly ought to

be repudiated under whatever name they may be presented to us.

CHAPTER XX

THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION

76. RELIGION AND REFLECTION.--A man may be through and through ethical

in his thought and feeling, and yet know nothing of the science of

ethics. He may be possessed of the finest aesthetic taste, and yet may

know nothing of the science of aesthetics. It is one thing to be good,

and another to know clearly what goodness means; it is one thing to

love the beautiful, and another to know how to define it.

Just so a man may be thoroughly religious, and may, nevertheless, have

reflected very little upon his religious belief and the foundations

upon which it rests. This does not mean that his belief is without

foundation. It may have a firm basis or it may not. But whatever the

case may be, he is not in a position to say much about it. He _feels_

that he is right, but he cannot prove it. The man is, I think we must

admit, rather blind as to the full significance of his position, and he

is, in consequence, rather helpless.

Such a man is menaced by certain dangers. We have seen in the chapter

on ethics that men are by no means at one in their judgments as to the

rightness or wrongness of given actions. And it requires a very little

reflection to teach us that men are not at one in their religious

notions. God and His nature, the relation of God to man, what the

religious life should be, these things are the subject of much dispute;

and some men hold opinions regarded by others as not merely erroneous

but highly pernicious in their influence.

Shall a man simply assume that the opinions which he happens to hold

are correct, and that all who differ with him are in error? He has not

framed his opinions quite independently for himself. We are all

influenced by what we have inherited from the past, and what we inherit

may be partly erroneous, even if we be right in the main. Moreover, we

are all liable to prejudices, and he who has no means of distinguishing

such from sober truths may admit into his creed many errors. The

lesson of history is very instructive upon this point. The fact is

that a man's religious notions reflect the position which he occupies

in the development of civilization very much as do his ethical notions.

Again. Even supposing that a man has enlightened notions and is living

a religious life that the most instructed must approve; if he has never

reflected, and has never tried to make clear to himself just what he

really does believe and upon what grounds he believes it, how will it

be with him when his position is attacked by another? Men are, as I

have said, not at one in these matters, and there are few or none of

the doctrines put forward as religions that have not been attacked

again and again.

Now, those who depend only upon an instinctive feeling may be placed in

the very painful position of seeing no answer to the objections brought

against them. What is said may seem plausible; it may even seem true,

and is it right for a man to oppose what appears to be the truth? One

may be shocked and pained, and may feel that he who makes the assault

_cannot_ be right, and yet may be forced to admit that a relentless

logic, or what presents itself as such, has every appearance of

establishing the repellent truth that robs one of one's dearest

possession. The situation is an unendurable one; it is that of the man

who guards a treasure and recognizes that there is no lock on the door.

Surely, if there is error mixed with truth in our religious beliefs, it

is desirable that we should have some way of distinguishing between the

truth and the error. And if our beliefs really have a foundation, it

is desirable that we should know what that foundation is, and should

not be at the mercy of every passer-by who takes the notion to throw a

stone at us. But these desirable ends, it seems clear, cannot be

attained without reflection.

77. THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION.--The reflection that busies itself with

these things results in what is called the philosophy of religion. To

show that the name is an appropriate one and that we are concerned with

a philosophical discipline, I shall take up for a moment the idea of

God, which most men will admit has a very important place in our

conception of religion.

Does God exist? We may feel very sure that He does, and yet be forced

to admit that the evidence of His existence is not so clear and

undeniable as to compel the assent of every one. We do not try to

prove the existence of the men we meet and who talk to us. No one

thinks of denying their existence; it is taken for granted. Even the

metaphysician, when he takes up and discusses the question whether we

can prove the existence of any mind beyond our own, does not seriously

doubt whether there are other minds or not. It is not so much what we

know, as how we know it, that interests him.

But with the existence of God it is different. That men do not think

that an examination of the evidence can be dispensed with is evident

from the books that are written and lectures that are delivered year

after year. There seem to be honest differences of opinion, and we

feel compelled to offer men proofs--to show that belief is reasonable.

How shall we determine whether this world in which we live is such a

world that we may take it as a revelation of God? And of what sort of

a Being are we speaking when we use the word "God"? The question is

not an idle one, for men's conceptions have differed widely. There is

the savage, with a conception that strikes the modern civilized man as

altogether inadequate; there is the thoughtful man of our day, who has

inherited the reflections of those who have lived in the ages gone by.

And there is the philosopher, or, perhaps, I should rather say, there

are the philosophers. Have they not conceived of God as a group of

abstract notions, or as a something that may best be described as the

Unknowable, or as the Substance which is the identity of thought and

extension, or as the external world itself? All have not sinned in

this way, but some have, and they are not men whom we can ignore.

If we turn from all such notions and, in harmony with the faith of the

great body of religious men in the ages past, some of whom were

philosophers but most of whom were not, cling close to the notion that

God is a mind or spirit, and must be conceived according to the

analogy, at least, of the human mind, the mind we most directly

know--if we do this, we are still confronted by problems to which the

thoughtful man cannot refuse attention.

What do we mean by a mind? This is a question to which one can

scarcely give an intelligent answer unless one has exercised one's

faculty of philosophic reflection. And upon what sort of evidence does

one depend in establishing the existence of minds other than one's own?

This has been discussed at length in Chapter X, and the problem is

certainly a metaphysical one. And if we believe that the Divine Mind

is not subject to the limitations which confine the human, how shall we

conceive it? The question is an important one. Some of the

philosophers and theologians who have tried to free the Divine Mind

from such limitations have taken away every positive mark by which we

recognize a mind to be such, and have left us a naked "Absolute" which

is no better than a labeled vacuum.

Moreover, we cannot refuse to consider the question of God's relation

to the world. This seems to lead back to the broader question: How are

we to conceive of any mind as related to the world? What is the

relation between mind and matter? If any subject of inquiry may

properly be called metaphysical, surely this may be.

We see, then, that there is little wonder that the thoughtful

consideration of the facts and doctrines of religion has taken its

place among the philosophical sciences. Aesthetics has been called

applied psychology; and I think it is scarcely too much to say that we

are here concerned with applied metaphysics, with the attempt to obtain

a clear understanding of the significance of the facts of religion in

the light of those ultimate analyses which reveal to us the real nature

of the world of matter and of minds.

CHAPTER XXI

PHILOSOPHY AND THE OTHER SCIENCES

78. THE PHILOSOPHICAL AND NON-PHILOSOPHICAL SCIENCES.--We have seen in

the preceding chapters that certain of the sciences can scarcely be

cultivated successfully in complete separation from philosophy. It has

also been indicated in various places that the relation of other

sciences to philosophy is not so close.

Thus, the sciences of arithmetic, algebra, and geometry may be

successfully prosecuted by a man who has reflected little upon the

nature of numbers and who has never asked himself seriously what he

means by space. The assumptions which he is justified in making, and

the kind of operations which he has the right to perform, do not seem,

as a rule, to be in doubt.

So it is also in the sciences of chemistry and physics. There is

nothing to prevent the chemist or the physicist from being a

philosopher, but he is not compelled to be one. He may push forward

the investigations proper to his profession regardless of the type of

philosophy which it pleases him to adopt. Whether he be a realist or

an idealist, a dualist or a monist, he should, as chemist or physicist,

treat the same sort of facts in the same sort of a way. His path

appears to be laid out for him, and he can do work the value of which

is undisputed by traveling quietly along it, and without stopping to

consider consciously what kind of a path it is. There are many who

work in this way, and they succeed in making important contributions to

human knowledge.

Such sciences as these I call the non-philosophical sciences to

distinguish them from the group of sciences I have been discussing at

length. What marks them out is, that the facts with which the

investigator has to deal are known by him with sufficient clearness to

leave him usually in little doubt as to the use which he can make of

them. His knowledge is clear enough for the purpose in hand, and his

work is justified by its results. What is the relation of such

sciences as these to philosophy?

79. THE STUDY OF SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES AND METHODS.--It is one thing to

have the instinct of the investigator and to be able to feel one's way

along the road that leads to new knowledge of a given kind, and it is

another thing to have the reflective turn of mind that makes one

clearly conscious of just what one has been doing and how one has been

doing it. Men reasoned before there was a science of logic, and the

sciences made their appearance before what may be called the logic of

the sciences had its birth.

"It may be truly asserted," writes Professor Jevons,[1] "that the rapid

progress of the physical sciences during the last three centuries has

not been accompanied by a corresponding advance in the theory of

reasoning. Physicists speak familiarly of Scientific Method, but they

could not readily describe what they mean by that expression.

Profoundly engaged in the study of particular classes of natural

phenomena, they are usually too much engrossed in the immense and ever

accumulating details of their special sciences to generalize upon the

methods of reasoning which they unconsciously employ. Yet few will

deny that these methods of reasoning ought to be studied, especially by

those who endeavor to introduce scientific order into less successful

and methodical branches of knowledge."

Professor Jevons suggests that it is lack of time and attention that

prevents the scientific investigator from attaining to a clear

conception of what is meant by scientific method. This has something

to do with it, but I think we may also maintain that the work of the

investigator and that of the critic are somewhat different in kind, and

require somewhat different powers of mind. We find a parallel to this

elsewhere. Both in literature and in art men may be in the best sense

productive, and yet may be poor critics. We are often wofully

disappointed when we attend a lecture on poetry by a poet, or one on

painting by an artist.

It may be said: If what is maintained above regarding the possibility

of prosecuting scientific researches without having recourse to

reflective thought is true, why should the man of science care whether

the principles and methods of the non-philosophical sciences are

investigated or are merely taken for granted?

I answer: It should be observed that the statements made in the last

section were somewhat guarded. I have used the expressions "as a rule"

and "usually." I have spoken thus because one can work in the way

described, without danger of error, only where a beaten track has been

attained and is followed. In Chapter XVI it was pointed out that even

in the mathematical sciences one may be forced to reflect upon the

significance of one's symbols. As I write this, a pamphlet comes to

hand which is concerned to prove that "every cause is potentially

capable of producing several effects," and proves it by claiming that

the square root of four ([square root symbol]4) is a _cause_ which may

have as _effect_ either two (2) or minus two (-2).

Is this mathematical reasoning? Are mathematical relations ever those

of cause and effect? And may one on the basis of such reasonings claim

that in nature the relation of cause and effect is not a fixed and

invariable one?

Even where there is a beaten track, there is some danger that men may

wander from it. And on the confines of our knowledge there are fields

in which the accepted road is yet to be established. Science makes

constant use of hypotheses as an aid to investigation. What hypotheses

may one frame, and what are inadmissible? How important an

investigation of this question may be to the worker in certain branches

of science will be clear to one who will read with attention Professor

Poincaré's brilliant little work on "Science and Hypothesis." [2]

There is no field in art, literature, or science in which the work of

the critic is wholly superfluous. "There are periods in the growth of

science," writes Professor Pearson in his deservedly popular work, "The

Grammar of Science," [3] "when it is well to turn our attention from

its imposing superstructure and to examine carefully its foundations.

The present book is primarily intended as a criticism of the

fundamental concepts of modern science, and as such finds its

justification in the motto placed upon its title-page." The motto in

question is a quotation from the French philosopher Cousin: "Criticism

is the life of science."

We have seen in Chapter XVI that a work on logic may be a comparatively

simple thing. It may describe the ways in which men reason when they

reason correctly, and may not go deep into metaphysical questions. On

the other hand, it may be deeply metaphysical.

When we approach the part of logic which deals with the principles and

methods of the sciences, this difference is forced upon our attention.

One may set forth the assumptions upon which a science rests, and may

describe the methods of investigation employed, without going much

below the plane of common thought. As a type of such works I may

mention the useful treatise by Professor Jevons cited earlier in this

chapter.

On the other hand, our investigations may be more profound, and we may

scrutinize the very foundations upon which a science rests. Both the

other works referred to illustrate this method of procedure.

For example, in "The Grammar of Science," we find our author

discussing, under the title "The Facts of Science," such problems as

the following: the Reality of Things; Sense-impressions and

Consciousness; the Nature of Thought; the External Universe; Sensations

as the Ultimate Source of the Materials of Knowledge; and the Futility

of "Things-in-themselves." The philosophical character of such

discussions does not need to be pointed out at length.

[1] "The Principles Of Science," London, 1874, Preface.

[2] English translation, New York, 1905.

[3] Second edition, London, 1900.

VI. ON THE STUDY OF PHILOSOPHY

CHAPTER XXII

THE VALUE OF THE STUDY OF PHILOSOPHY

80. THE QUESTION OF PRACTICAL UTILITY.--Why should men study

philosophy? The question is a natural one, for man is a rational

being, and when the worth of a thing is not at once evident to him, he

usually calls for proof of its worth. Our professional schools, with

the exception of schools of theology, usually pay little attention to

philosophical studies; but such studies occupy a strong position in our

colleges, and a vast number of persons not students in the technical

sense think it worth while to occupy themselves with them more or less.

Wherever liberal studies are prosecuted they have their place, and it

is an honored place. Is this as it should be?

Before we ask whether any given study is of practical value, it is wise

to determine what the word "practical" shall be taken to mean. Shall

we say that we may call practical only such learning as can be turned

to direct account in earning money later? If we restrict the meaning

of the word in this way, we seem to strike a blow at liberal studies in

general.

Thus, no one would think of maintaining that the study of mathematics

is not of practical value--sometimes and to some persons. The

physicist and the engineer need to know a good deal about mathematics.

But how is it with the merchant, the lawyer, the clergyman, the

physician? How much of their algebra, geometry, and trigonometry do

these remember after they have become absorbed in the practice of their

several callings, and how often do they find it necessary to use

anything beyond certain simple rules of arithmetic?

Sometimes we are tempted to condemn the study of the classics as

unpractical, and to turn instead to the modern languages and to the

physical sciences. Now, it is, of course, a fair question to ask what

should and what should not be regarded as forming part of a liberal

education, and I shall make no effort to decide the question here. But

it should be borne well in mind that one cannot decide it by

determining what studies are practical in the sense of the word under

discussion.

If we keep strictly to this sense, the modern languages are to the

majority of Americans of little more practical value than are the Latin

and Greek. We scarcely need them except when we travel abroad, and

when we do that we find that the concierge and the waiter use English

with surprising fluency. As for the sciences, those who expect to earn

a living through a knowledge of them, seek, as a rule, that knowledge

in a technical or professional school, and the rest of us can enjoy the

fruit of their labors without sharing them. It is a popular fallacy

that because certain studies have a practical value to the world at

large, they must necessarily have a practical value to every one, and

can be recommended to the individual on that account. It is worth

while to sit down quietly and ask oneself how many of the bits of

information acquired during the course of a liberal education are

directly used in the carrying on of a given business or in the practice

of a given profession.

Nevertheless, we all believe that liberal education is a good thing for

the individual and for the race. One must not too much restrict the

meaning of the word "practical." A civilized state composed of men who

know nothing save what has a direct bearing upon their especial work in

life is an absurdity; it cannot exist. There must be a good deal of

general enlightenment and there must be a considerable number of

individuals who have enjoyed a high measure of enlightenment.

This becomes clear if we consider the part played in the life of the

state by the humblest tradesman. If he is to be successful, he must be

able to read, write, and keep his accounts, and make, let us say,

shoes. But when we have said this, we have summed him up as a workman,

but not as a man, and he is also a man. He may marry, and make a good

or a bad husband, and a good or a bad father. He stands in relations

to his neighborhood, to the school, and to the church; and he is not

without his influence. He may be temperate or intemperate, frugal or

extravagant, law-abiding or the reverse. He has his share, and no

small share, in the government of his city and of his state. His

influence is indeed far-reaching, and that it may be an influence for

good, he is in need of all the intellectual and moral enlightenment

that we can give him. It is of the utmost practical utility to the

state that he should know a vast number of things which have no direct

bearing upon the making and mending of shoes.

And if this is true in the case of the tradesman, it is scarcely

necessary to point out that the physician, the lawyer, the clergyman,

and the whole army of those whom we regard as the leaders of men and

the molders of public opinion have spheres of non-professional activity

of great importance to the state. They cannot be mere specialists if

they would. They must influence society for good or ill; and if they

are ignorant and unenlightened, their influence cannot be good.

When we consider the life of man in a broad way, we see how essential

it is that many men should be brought to have a share in what has been

gained by the long travail of the centuries past. It will not do to

ask at every step whether they can put to direct professional use every

bit of information gained. Literature and science, sweetness and

light, beauty and truth, these are the heritage of the modern world;

and unless these permeate its very being, society must undergo

degeneration. It is this conviction that has led to the high

appreciation accorded by intelligent men to courses of liberal study,

and among such courses those which we have recognized as philosophical

must take their place.

81. WHY PHILOSOPHICAL STUDIES ARE USEFUL.--But let us ask a little more

specifically what is to be gained by pursuing distinctively

philosophical studies. Why should those who go to college, or

intelligent persons who cannot go to college, care to interest

themselves in logic and ethics, psychology and metaphysics? Are not

these studies rather dry, in the first place, and rather profitless, in

the second?

As to the first point, I should stoutly maintain that if they are dry,

it is somebody's fault. The most sensational of novels would be dry if

couched in the language which some philosophers have seen fit to use in

expressing their thoughts. He who defines "existence" as "the still

and simple precipitate of the oscillation between beginning to be and

ceasing to be" has done his best to alienate our affections from the

subject of his predilection.

But it is not in the least necessary to talk in this way about matters

philosophical. He who is not a slave to tradition can use plain and

simple language. To be sure, there are some subjects, especially in

the field of metaphysics, into which the student cannot expect to see

very deeply at the outset of his studies. Men do not expect to

understand the more difficult problems of mathematics without making a

good deal of preparation; but, unhappily, they sometimes expect to have

the profoundest problems of metaphysics made luminous to them in one or

two popular lectures.

Philosophical studies are not dry, when men are properly taught, and

are in a position to understand what is said. They deal with the most

fascinating of problems. It is only necessary to pierce through the

husk of words which conceals the thoughts of the philosopher, and we

shall find the kernel palatable, indeed. Nor are such studies

profitless, to take up our second point. Let us see what we may gain

from them.

Let us begin with logic--the traditional logic commonly taught to

beginners. Is it worth while to study this? Surely it is. No one who

has not tried to introduce the average under-graduate to logic can

realize how blindly he uses his reasoning powers, how unconscious he is

of the full meaning of the sentences he employs, how easily he may be

entrapped by fallacious reasonings where he is not set on his guard by

some preposterous conclusion touching matters with which he is familiar.

And he is not merely unconscious of the lapses in his processes of

reasoning, and of his imperfect comprehension of the significance of

his statements; he is unconscious also of the mass of inherited and

acquired prejudices, often quite indefensible, which he unquestioningly

employs as premises.

He fairly represents the larger world beyond the walls of the college.

It is a world in which prejudices are assumed as premises, and loose

reasonings pass current and are unchallenged until they beget some

unpalatable conclusion. It is a world in which men take little pains

to think carefully and accurately unless they are dealing with

something touching which it is practically inconvenient to make a

mistake.

He who studies logic in the proper way is not filling his mind with

useless facts; he is simply turning the light upon his own thinking

mind, and realizing more clearly what he has always done rather blindly

and blunderingly. He may completely forget the

"Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferioque prioris,"

and he may be quite unable to give an account of the moods and figures

of the syllogism; but he cannot lose the critical habit if he once has

acquired it, and he cannot but be on his guard against himself as well

as against others.

There is a keen pleasure in gaining such insight. It gives a feeling

of freedom and power, and rids one of that horrid sense that, although

this or that bit of reasoning is certainly bad, it is impossible to

tell just what is the matter with it. And as for its practical

utility, if it is desirable to get rid of prejudice and confusion, and

to possess a clear and reasonable mind, then anything that makes for

this must be of value.

Of the desirability that all who can afford the luxury of a liberal

education should do some serious reading in ethics, it seems hardly

necessary to speak. The deficiencies of the ethics of the unreflective

have already been touched upon in Chapter XVIII.

But I cannot forbear dwelling upon it again. What thoughtful man is

not struck with the variety of ethical standards which obtain in the

same community? The clergyman who has a strong sense of responsibility

for the welfare of his flock is sometimes accused of not sufficiently

realizing the importance of a frank expression of the whole truth about

things; the man of science, whose duty it seems to be to peer into the

mysteries of the universe, and to tell what he sees or what he guesses,

is accused of an indifference to the effect which his utterances may

have upon the less enlightened who hear him speak; many criticise the

lawyer for a devotion to the interests of his client which is at times

in doubtful harmony with the interests of justice in the larger sense;

in the business world commercial integrity is exalted, and lapses from

the ethical code which do not assail this cardinal virtue are not

always regarded with equal seriousness.

It is as though men elected to worship at the shrine of a particular

saint, and were inclined to overlook the claims of others. For all

this there is, of course, a reason; such things are never to be looked

upon as mere accident. But this does not mean that these more or less

conflicting standards are all to be accepted as satisfactory and as

ultimate. It is inevitable that those who study ethics seriously, who

really reflect upon ethical problems, should sometimes criticise the

judgments of their fellow-men rather unfavorably.

Of such independent criticism many persons have a strong distrust. I

am reminded here of an eminent mathematician who maintained that the

study of ethics has a tendency to distort the student's judgments as to

what is right and what is wrong. He had observed that there is apt to

be some divergence of opinion between those who think seriously upon

morals and those who do not, and he gave the preference to the

unthinking majority.

Now, there is undoubtedly danger that the independent thinker may be

betrayed into eccentricities of opinion which are unjustifiable and are

even dangerous. But it seems a strange doctrine that it is, on the

whole, safer not to think, but rather to drift on the stream of public

opinion. In other fields we are not inclined to believe that the

ignorant man, who has given no especial attention to a subject, is the

one likely to be right. Why should it be so in morals?

That the youth who goes to college to seek a liberal education has a

need of ethical studies becomes very plain when we come to a

realization of the curious limitations of his ethical training as

picked up from his previous experience of the world. He has some very

definite notions as to right and wrong. He is as ready to maintain the

desirability of benevolence, justice, and veracity, as was Bishop

Butler, who wrote the famous "Analogy "; although, to be sure, he is

most inarticulate when called upon to explain what constitutes

benevolence, justice, or veracity. But the strangest thing is, that he

seems to place some of the most important decisions of his whole life

quite outside the realm of right and wrong.

He may admit that a man should not undertake to be a clergyman, unless

he possesses certain qualifications of mind and character which

evidently qualify him for that profession. But he does not see why he

has not the right to become a wearisome professor or an incompetent

physician, if he chooses to enter upon such a career. Is a man not

free to take up what profession he pleases? He must take the risk, of

course; but if he fails, he fails.

And when he is asked to consider from the point of view of ethics the

question of marriage and its responsibilities, he is at first inclined

to consider the whole subject as rather a matter for jest. Has a man

not the right to marry or remain single exactly as he pleases? And is

he not free to marry any one whom he can persuade to accept him? To be

sure, he should be a little careful about marrying quite out of his

class, and he should not be hopelessly careless about money matters.

Thus, a decision, which may affect his whole life as much as any other

that he can be called upon to make, which may practically make it or

mar it, is treated as though it were not a matter of grave concern, but

a private affair, entailing no serious consequences to any one and

calling for no reflection.

I wish it could be said that the world outside of the college regarded

these matters in another light. But the student faithfully represents

the opinions current in the community from which he comes. And he

represents, unhappily, the teachings of the stage and of the world of

current fiction. The influence of these is too often on the side of

inconsiderate passion, which stirs our sympathy and which lends itself

to dramatic effect. With the writers of romance the ethical

philosophers have an ancient quarrel.

It may be said: But the world gets along very well as it is, and

without brooding too much upon ethical problems. To this we may

answer: Does the world get along so very well, after all? Are there no

evils that foresight and some firmness of character might have

obviated? And when we concern ourselves with the educated classes, at

least, the weight of whose influence is enormous, is it too much to

maintain that they should do some reading and thinking in the field of

ethics? should strive to attain to clear vision and correct judgment on

the whole subject of man's duties?

Just at the present time, when psychological studies have so great a

vogue, one scarcely feels compelled to make any sort of an apology for

them. It is assumed on all hands that it is desirable to study

psychology, and courses of lectures are multiplied in all quarters.

Probably some of this interest has its root in the fallacy touched upon

earlier in this chapter. The science of psychology has revolutionized

educational theory. When those of us who have arrived at middle life

look back and survey the tedious and toilsome path along which we were

unwillingly driven in our schoolboy days, and then see how smooth and

pleasant it has been made since, we are impelled to honor all who have

contributed to this result. Moreover, it seems very clear that

teachers of all grades should have some acquaintance with the nature of

the minds that they are laboring to develop, and that they should not

be left to pick up their information for themselves--a task

sufficiently difficult to an unobservant person.

These considerations furnish a sufficient ground for extolling the

science of psychology, and for insisting that studies in it should form

some part of the education of a teacher. But why should the rest of us

care for such studies?

To this one may answer, in the first place, that nearly all of us have,

or ought to have, some responsibility for the education of children;

and, in the second, that we deal with the minds of others every day in

every walk in life, and it can certainly do no harm to have our

attention called to the way in which minds function. To be sure, some

men are by nature tactful, and instinctively conscious of how things

strike the minds of those about them. But even such persons may gain

helpful suggestions, and, at least, have the habit of attention to the

mental processes of others confirmed in them. How often we are

impressed at church, at the public lecture, and in private

conversations, with the fact that the speaker lives in blissful

unconsciousness of what can be understood by or can possibly interest

his hearers! For the confirmed bore, there is, perhaps, no cure; but

it seems as though something might be done for those who are afflicted

to a minor degree.

And this brings me to another consideration, which is that a proper

study of psychology ought to be of service in revealing to a man his

own nature. It should show him what he is, and this is surely a first

step toward becoming something better. It is wonderful how blind men

may be with regard to what passes in their own minds and with regard to

their own peculiarities. When they learn to reflect, they come to a

clearer consciousness of themselves--it is as though a lamp were

lighted within them. One may, it is true, study psychology without

attaining to any of the good results suggested above; but, for that

matter, there is no study which may not be pursued in a profitless way,

if the teacher be sufficiently unskilled and the pupil sufficiently

thoughtless.

82. METAPHYSICS AND PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION.--Perhaps it will be said:

For such philosophical studies as the above a good defense may perhaps

be made, but can one defend in the same way the plunge into the

obscurities of metaphysics? In this field no two men seem to be wholly

agreed, and if they were, what would it signify? Whether we call

ourselves monists or dualists, idealists or realists, Lockians or

Kantians, must we not live and deal with the things about us in much

the same way?

Those who have dipped into metaphysical studies deeply enough to see

what the problems discussed really are; who have been able to reach the

ideas concealed, too often, under a rather forbidding terminology; who

are not of the dogmatic turn of mind which insists upon unquestioned

authority and is repelled by the uncertainties which must confront

those who give themselves to reflective thought,--these will hardly

need to be persuaded that it is desirable to give some attention to the

question: What sort of a world, after all, is this world in which we

live? What is its meaning?

To many men the impulse to peer into these things is over-powering, and

the pleasure of feeling their insight deepen is extremely keen. What

deters us in most instances is not the conviction that such

investigations are not, or should not be, interesting, but rather the

difficulty of the approach. It is not easy to follow the path which

leads from the world of common thought into the world of philosophical

reflection. One becomes bewildered and discouraged at the outset.

Sometimes, after listening to the directions of guides who disagree

among themselves, we are tempted to believe that there can be no

certain path to the goal which we have before us.

But, whatever the difficulties and uncertainties of our task, a little

reflection must show that it is not one which has no significance for

human life.

Men can, it is true, eat and sleep and go through the routine of the

day, without giving thought to science or religion or philosophy, but

few will defend such an existence. As a matter of fact, those who have

attained to some measure of intellectual and moral development do

assume, consciously or unconsciously, some rather definite attitude

toward life, and this is not independent of their conviction as to what

the world is and means.

Metaphysical speculations run out into the philosophy of religion; and,

on the other hand, religious emotions and ideals have again and again

prompted men to metaphysical construction. A glance at history shows

that it is natural to man to embrace some attitude toward the system of

things, and to try to justify this by reasoning. Vigorous and

independent minds have given birth to theories, and these have been

adopted by others. The influence of such theories upon the evolution

of humanity has been enormous.

Ideas have ruled and still rule the world, some of them very abstract

ideas. It does not follow that one is uninfluenced by them, when one

has no knowledge of their source or of their original setting. They

become part of the intellectual heritage of us all, and we sometimes

suppose that we are responsible for them ourselves. Has not the fact

that an idealistic or a materialistic type of thought has been current

at a particular time influenced the outlook on life of many who have

themselves devoted little attention to philosophy? It would be

interesting to know how many, to whom Spencer is but a name, have felt

the influence of the agnosticism of which he was the apostle.

I say this without meaning to criticise here any of the types of

doctrine referred to. My thesis is only that philosophy and life go

hand in hand, and that the prying into the deeper mysteries of the

universe cannot be regarded as a matter of no practical moment. Its

importance ought to be admitted even by the man who has little hope

that he will himself be able to attain to a doctrine wholly

satisfactory and wholly unshakable.

For, if the study of the problems of metaphysics does nothing else for

a given individual, it, at least, enables him to comprehend and

criticise intelligently the doctrines which are presented for his

acceptance by others. It is a painful thing to feel quite helpless in

the face of plausible reasonings which may threaten to rob us of our

most cherished hopes, or may tend to persuade us of the vanity of what

we have been accustomed to regard as of highest worth. If we are quite

unskilled in the examination of such doctrines, we may be captured by

the loosest of arguments--witness the influence of Spencer's argument

for the "Unknowable," in the "First Principles"; and if we are ignorant

of the history of speculative thought, we may be carried away by old

and exploded notions which pose as modern and impressive only because

they have been given a modern dress.

We can, of course, refuse to listen to those who would talk with us.

But this savors of bigotry, and the world will certainly not grow

wiser, if men generally cultivate a blind adherence to the opinions in

which they happen to be brought up. A cautious conservatism is one

thing, and blind obstinacy is another. To the educated man (and it is

probable that others will have to depend on opinions taken at second

hand) a better way of avoiding error is open.

Finally, it will not do to overlook the broadening influence of such

studies as we are discussing. How dogmatically men are in the habit of

expressing themselves upon those obscure and difficult problems which

deal with matters that lie on the confines of human knowledge! Such an

assumption of knowledge cannot but make us uncomprehending and

unsympathetic.

There are many subjects upon which, if we hold an opinion at all, we

should hold it tentatively, waiting for more light, and retaining a

willingness to be enlightened. Many a bitter and fruitless quarrel

might be avoided, if more persons found it possible to maintain this

philosophical attitude of mind. Philosophy is, after all, reflection,

and the reflective man must realize that he is probably as liable to

error as are other men. He is not infallible, nor has the limit of

human knowledge been attained in his day and generation. He who

realizes this will not assume that his neighbor is always wrong, and he

will come to have that wide, conscientious tolerance, which is not

indifference, but which is at the farthest remove from the zeal of mere

bigotry.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHY WE SHOULD STUDY THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY

83. THE PROMINENCE GIVEN TO THE SUBJECT.--When one reflects upon the

number of lecture courses given every year at our universities and

colleges on the history of philosophy, one is struck by the fact that

philosophy is not treated as are most other subjects with which the

student is brought into contact.

If we study mathematics, or chemistry, or physics, or physiology, or

biology, the effort is made to lay before us in a convenient form the

latest results which have been attained in those sciences. Of their

history very little is said; and, indeed, as we have seen (section 6),

lectures on the history of the inductive sciences are apt to be

regarded as philosophical in their character and aims rather than as

merely scientific.

The interest in the history of philosophy is certainly not a

diminishing one. Text-books covering the whole field or a part of it

are multiplied; extensive studies are made and published covering the

work of individual philosophers; innumerable historical discussions

make their appearance in the pages of current philosophical journals.

No student is regarded as fairly acquainted with philosophy who knows

nothing of Plato and Aristotle, Descartes and Spinoza, Berkeley and

Hume, Kant and Hegel, and the rest. We should look upon him as having

a very restricted outlook if he had read only the works of the thinkers

of our own day; indeed, we should not expect him to have a proper

comprehension even of these, for their chapters must remain blind and

meaningless to one who has no knowledge of what preceded them and has

given birth to the doctrines there set forth.

It is a fair question to ask: Why is philosophy so bound up with the

study of the past? Why may we not content ourselves with what has up

to the present been attained, and omit a survey of the road along which

our predecessors have traveled?

84. THE ESPECIAL IMPORTANCE OF HISTORICAL STUDIES TO REFLECTIVE

THOUGHT.--In some of the preceding chapters dealing with the various

philosophical sciences, it has been indicated that, in the sciences we

do not regard as philosophical, men may work on the basis of certain

commonly accepted assumptions and employ methods which are generally

regarded as trustworthy within the given field. The value both of the

fundamental assumptions and of the methods of investigation appear to

be guaranteed by the results attained. There are not merely

observation and hypothesis; there is also verification, and where this

is lacking, men either abandon their position or reserve their judgment.

Thus, a certain body of interrelated facts is built up, the

significance of which, in many fields at least, is apparent even to the

layman. Nor is it wholly beyond him to judge whether the results of

scientific investigations can be verified. An eclipse, calculated by

methods which he is quite unable to follow, may occur at the appointed

hour and confirm his respect for the astronomer. The efficacy of a

serum in the cure of diseases may convince him that work done in the

laboratory is not labor lost.

It seems evident that the several sciences do really rise on stepping

stones of their dead selves, and that those selves of the past are

really dead and superseded. Who would now think of going back for his

science to Plato's "Timaeus," or would accept the description of the

physical world contained in the works of Aristotle? What chemist or

physicist need busy himself with the doctrine of atoms and their

clashings presented in the magnificent poem of Lucretius? Who can

forbear a smile--a sympathetic one--when he turns over the pages of

Augustine's "City of God," and sees what sort of a world this

remarkable man believed himself to inhabit?

It is the historic and human interest that carries us back to these

things. We say: What ingenuity! what a happy guess! how well that was

reasoned in the light of what was actually known about the world in

those days! But we never forget that what compels our admiration does

so because it makes us realize that we stand in the presence of a great

mind, and not because it is a foundation-stone in the great edifice

which science has erected.

But it is not so in philosophy. It is not possible to regard the

philosophical reflections of Plato and of Aristotle as superseded in

the same sense in which we may so regard their science. The reason for

this lies in the difference between scientific thought and reflective

thought.

The two have been contrasted in Chapter II of this volume. It was

there pointed out that the sort of thinking demanded in the special

sciences is not so very different from that with which we are all

familiar in common life. Science is more accurate and systematic, it

has a broader outlook, and it is free from the imperfections which

vitiate the uncritical and fragmentary knowledge which experience of

the world yields the unscientific. But, after all, the world is much

the same sort of a world to the man of science and to his uncritical

neighbor. The latter can, as we have seen, understand what, in

general, the former is doing, and can appropriate many of his results.

On the other hand, it often happens that the man who has not, with

pains and labor, learned to reflect, cannot even see that the

philosopher has a genuine problem before him. Thus, the plain man

accepts the fact that he has a mind and that it knows the world. That

both mental phenomena and physical phenomena should be carefully

observed and classified he may be ready to admit. But that the very

conceptions of mind and of what it means to know a world are vague and

indefinite in the extreme, and stand in need of careful analysis, he

does not realize.

In other words, he sees that our knowledge needs to be extended and

rendered more accurate and reliable, but he does not see that, if we

are to think clearly and consciously, all our knowledge needs to be

gone over in a different way. In common life it is quite possible to

use in the attainment of practical ends knowledge which has not been

analyzed and of the full meaning of which we are ignorant. I hope it

has become evident in the course of this volume that something closely

analogous is true in the field of science. The man of science may

measure space and time, and may study the phenomena of the human mind,

without even attempting to answer all the questions which may be raised

as to what is meant, in the last analysis, by such concepts as space,

time, and the mind.

That such concepts should be analyzed has, I hope, been made clear, if

only that erroneous and misleading notions as to these things should be

avoided. But when a man with a genius for metaphysical analysis

addresses himself to this task, he cannot simply hand the results

attained by his reflections over to his less reflective fellow-man.

His words are not understood; he seems to be dealing with shadows, with

unrealities; he has passed from the real world of common thought into

another world which appears to have little relation to the former.

Nor can verification, indubitable proof, be demanded and furnished as

it can in many parts of the field cultivated by the special sciences.

We may judge science fairly well without ourselves being scientists,

but it is not possible to judge philosophy without being to some extent

a philosopher.

In other words, the conclusions of reflective thought must be judged by

following the process and discovering its cogency or the reverse.

Thus, when the philosopher lays before us an argument to prove that we

must regard the only ultimate reality in the world as unknowable, and

must abandon our theistic convictions, how shall we make a decision as

to whether he is right or is wrong? May we expect that the day will

come when he will be justified or condemned as is the astronomer on the

day predicted for an eclipse? Neither the philosophy of Locke, nor

that of Descartes, nor that of Kant, can be vindicated as can a

prediction touching an eclipse of the sun. To judge these men, we must

learn to think with them, to survey the road by which they travel; and

this we cannot do until we have learned the art.

Whether we like to admit it or not, we must admit, if we are

fair-minded and intelligent, that philosophy cannot speak with the same

authority as science, where science has been able to verify its

results. There are, of course, scientific hypotheses and speculations

which should be regarded as being quite as uncertain as anything

brought forward by the philosophers. But, admitting this, the fact

remains that there is a difference between the two fields as a whole,

and that the philosopher should learn not to speak with an assumption

of authority. No final philosophy has been attained, so palpably firm

in its foundation, and so admittedly trustworthy in its construction,

that we are justified in saying: Now we need never go back to the past

unless to gratify the historic interest. It is a weakness of young

men, and of older men of partisan temper, to feel very sure of matters

which, in the nature of things, must remain uncertain.

Since these things are so, and since men possess the power of

reflection in very varying degree, it is not surprising that we find it

worth while to turn back and study the thoughts of those who have had a

genius for reflection, even though they lived at a time when modern

science was awaiting its birth. Some things cannot be known until

other things are known; often there must be a vast collection of

individual facts before the generalizations of science can come into

being. But many of the problems with which reflective thought is still

struggling have not been furthered in the least by information which

has been collected during the centuries which have elapsed since they

were attacked by the early Greek philosophers.

Thus, we are still discussing the distinction between "appearance" and

"reality," and many and varied are the opinions at which philosophers

arrive. But Thales, who heads the list of the Greek philosophers, had

quite enough material, given in his own experience, to enable him to

solve this problem as well as any modern philosopher, had he been able

to use the material. He who is familiar with the history of philosophy

will recognize that, although one may smile at Augustine's accounts of

the races of men, and of the spontaneous generation of small animals,

no one has a right to despise his profound reflections upon the nature

of time and the problems which arise out of its character as past,

present, and future.

The fact is that metaphysics does not lag behind because of our lack of

material to work with. The difficulties we have to face are nothing

else than the difficulties of reflective thought. Why can we not tell

clearly what we mean when we use the word "self," or speak of

"knowledge," or insist that we know an "external world"? Are we not

concerned with the most familiar of experiences? To be sure we

are--with experiences familiarly, but vaguely and unanalytically, known

and, hence, only half known. All these experiences the great men of

the past had as well as we; and if they had greater powers of

reflection, perhaps they saw more deeply into them than we do. At any

rate, we cannot afford to assume that they did not.

One thing, however, I must not omit to mention. Although one man

cannot turn over bodily the results of his reflection to another, it by

no means follows that he cannot give the other a helping hand, or warn

him of dangers by himself stumbling into pitfalls, as the case may be.

We have an indefinite advantage over the solitary thinkers who opened

up the paths of reflection, for we have the benefit of their teaching.

And this brings me to a consideration which I must discuss in the next

section.

85. THE VALUE OF DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW.--The man who has not read is

like the man who has not traveled--he is not an intelligent critic, for

he has nothing with which to compare what falls within the little

circle of his experiences. That the prevailing architecture of a town

is ugly can scarcely impress one who is acquainted with no other town.

If we live in a community in which men's manners are not good, and

their standard of living not the highest, our attention does not dwell

much upon the fact, unless some contrasted experience wakes within us a

clear consciousness of the difference. That to which we are accustomed

we accept uncritically and unreflectively. It is difficult for us to

see it somewhat as one might see it to whom it came as a new experience.

Of course, there may be in the one town buildings of more and of less

architectural beauty; and there may be in the one community differences

of opinion that furnish intellectual stimulus and keep awake the

critical spirit. Still, there is such a thing as a prevalent type of

architecture, and there is such a thing as the spirit of the times. He

who is carried along by the spirit of the age may easily conclude that

what is, is right, because he hears few raise their voices in protest.

To estimate justly the type of thought in which he has been brought up,

he must have something with which to compare it. He must stand at a

distance, and try to judge it as he would judge a type of doctrine

presented to him for the first rime. And in the accomplishment of this

task he can find no greater aid than the study of the history of

philosophy.

It is at first something of a shock to a man to discover that

assumptions which he has been accustomed to make without question have

been frankly repudiated by men quite as clever as he, and, perhaps,

more critical. It opens the eyes to see that his standards of worth

have been weighed by others and have been found wanting. It may well

incline him to reexamine reasonings in which he has detected no flaw,

when he finds that acute minds have tried them before, and have

declared them faulty.

Nor can it be without its influence upon his judgment of the

significance of a doctrine, when it becomes plain to him that this

significance can scarcely be fully comprehended until the history of

the doctrine is known. For example, he thinks of the mind as somehow

in the body, as interacting with it, as a substance, and as immaterial.

In the course of his reading it begins to dawn upon his consciousness

that he has not thought all this out for himself; he has taken these

notions from others, who in turn have had them from their predecessors.

He begins to realize that he is not resting upon evidence independently

found in his own experience, but has upon his hands a sheaf of opinions

which are the echoes of old philosophies, and whose rise and

development can be traced over the stretch of the centuries. Can he

help asking himself, when he sees this, whether the opinions in

question express the truth and the whole truth? Is he not forced to

take the critical attitude toward them?

And when he views the succession of systems which pass in review before

him, noting how a truth may be dimly seen by one writer, denied by

another, taken up again and made clearer by a third, and so on, how can

he avoid the reflection that, as there was some error mixed with the

truth presented in earlier systems, so there probably is some error in

whatever may happen to be the form of doctrine generally received in

his own time? The evolution of humanity is not yet at an end; men

still struggle to see clearly, and fall short of the ideal; it must be

a good thing to be freed from the dogmatic assumption of finality

natural to the man of limited outlook. In studying the history of

philosophy sympathetically we are not merely calling to our aid critics

who possess the advantage of seeing things from a different point of

view, but we are reminding ourselves that we, too, are human and

fallible.

86. PHILOSOPHY AS POETRY, AND PHILOSOPHY AS SCIENCE.--The recognition

of the truth that the problems of reflection do not admit of easy

solution and that verification can scarcely be expected as it can in

the fields of the special sciences, need not, even when it is brought

home to us, as it is apt to be, by the study of the history of

philosophy, lead us to believe that philosophies are like the fashions,

a something gotten up to suit the taste of the day, and to be dismissed

without regret as soon as that taste changes.

Philosophy is sometimes compared with poetry. It is argued that each

age must have its own poetry, even though it be inferior to that which

it has inherited from the past. Just so, it is said, each age must

have its own philosophy, and the philosophy of an earlier age will not

satisfy its demands. The implication is that in dealing with

philosophy we are not concerned with what is true or untrue in itself

considered, but with what is satisfying to us or the reverse.

Now, it would sound absurd to say that each age must have its own

geometry or its own physics. The fact that it has long been known that

the sum of the interior angles of a plane triangle is equal to two

right angles, does not warrant me in repudiating that truth; nor am I

justified in doing so, and in believing the opposite, merely because I

find the statement uninteresting or distasteful. When we are dealing

with such matters as these, we recognize that truth is truth, and that,

if we mistake it or refuse to recognize it, so much the worse for us.

Is it otherwise in philosophy? Is it a perfectly proper thing that, in

one age, men should be idealists, and in another, materialists; in one,

theists, and in another, agnostics? Is the distinction between true

and false nothing else than the distinction between what is in harmony

with the spirit of the times and what is not?

That it is natural that there should be such fluctuations of opinion,

we may freely admit. Many things influence a man to embrace a given

type of doctrine, and, as we have seen, verification is a difficult

problem. But have we here, any more than in other fields, the right to

assume that a doctrine was true at a given time merely because it

_seemed_ to men true at that time, or because they found it pleasing?

The history of science reveals that many things have long been believed

to be true, and, indeed, to be bound up with what were regarded as the

highest interests of man, and that these same things have later been

discovered to be false--not false merely for a later age, but false for

all time; as false when they were believed in as when they were

exploded and known to be exploded. No man of sense believes that the

Ptolemaic system was true for a while, and that then the Copernican

became true. We say that the former only _seemed_ true, and that the

enthusiasm of its adherents was a mistaken enthusiasm.

It is well to remember that philosophies are brought forward because it

is believed or hoped that they are true. A fairy tale may be recited

and may be approved, although no one dreams of attaching faith to the

events narrated in it. But a philosophy attempts to give us some

account of the nature of the world in which we live. If the

philosopher frankly abandons the attempt to tell us what is true, and

with a Celtic generosity addresses himself to the task of saying what

will be agreeable to us, he loses his right to the title. It is not

enough that he stirs our emotions, and works up his unrealities into

something resembling a poem. It is not primarily his task to please,

as it is not the task of the serious worker in science to please those

whom he is called upon to instruct. Truth is truth, whether it be

scientific truth or philosophical truth. And error, no matter how

agreeable or how nicely adjusted to the temper of the times, is always

error. If it is error in a field in which the detection and exposure

of error is difficult, it is the more dangerous, and the more should we

be on our guard against it.

We may, then, accept the lesson of the history of philosophy, to wit,

that we have no right to regard any given doctrine as final in such a

sense that it need no longer be held tentatively and as subject to

possible revision; but we need not, on that account, deny that

philosophy is, what it has in the past been believed to be, an earnest

search for truth. A philosophy that did not even profess to be this

would not be listened to at all. It would be regarded as too trivial

to merit serious attention. If we take the word "science" in the broad

sense to indicate a knowledge of the truth more exact and satisfactory

than that which obtains in common life, we may say that every

philosophy worthy of the name is, at least, an attempt at scientific

knowledge. Of course, this sense of the word "science" should not be

confused with that in which it has been used elsewhere in this volume.

87. HOW TO READ THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY.--He who takes up the history

of philosophy for the first time is apt to be impressed with the fact

that he is reading something that might not inaptly be called the

history of human error.

It begins with crude and, to the superficial spectator, seemingly

childish attempts in the field of physical science. There are clever

guesses at the nature of the physical world, but the boldest of

speculations are entered upon with no apparent recognition of the

difficulty of the task undertaken, and with no realization of the need

for caution. Somewhat later a different class of problems makes its

appearance--the problems which have to do with the mind and with the

nature of knowledge, reflective problems which scarcely seem to have

come fairly within the horizon of the earliest thinkers.

These problems even the beginner may be willing to recognize as

philosophical; but he may conscientiously harbor a doubt as to the

desirability of spending time upon the solutions which are offered.

System rises after system, and confronts him with what appear to be new

questions and new answers. It seems as though each philosopher were

constructing a world for himself independently, and commanding him to

accept it, without first convincing him of his right to assume this

tone of authority and to set up for an oracle. In all this conflict of

opinions where shall we seek for truth? Why should we accept one man

as a teacher rather than another? Is not the lesson to be gathered

from the whole procession of systems best summed up in the dictum of

Protagoras: "Man is the measure of all things"--each has his own truth,

and this need not be truth to another?

This, I say, is a first impression and a natural one. I hasten to add:

this should not be the last impression of those who read with

thoughtful attention.

One thing should be emphasized at the outset: nothing will so often

bear rereading as the history of philosophy. When we go over the

ground after we have obtained a first acquaintance with the teachings

of the different philosophers, we begin to realize that what we have in

our hands is, in a sense, a connected whole. We see that if Plato and

Aristotle had not lived, we could not have had the philosophy which

passed current in the Middle Ages and furnished a foundation for the

teachings of the Church. We realize that without this latter we could

not have had Descartes, and without Descartes we could not have had

Locke and Berkeley and Hume. And had not these lived, we should not

have had Kant and his successors. Other philosophies we should

undoubtedly have had, for the busy mind of man must produce something.

But whatever glimpses at the truth these men have vouchsafed us have

been guaranteed by the order of development in which they have stood.

They could not independently have written the books that have come down

to us.

This should be evident from what has been said earlier in this chapter

and elsewhere in this book. Let us bear in mind that a philosopher

draws his material from two sources. First of all, he has the

experience of the mind and the world which is the common property of us

all. But it is, as we have seen, by no means easy to use this

material. It is vastly difficult to reflect. It is fatally easy to

misconceive what presents itself in our experience. With the most

earnest effort to describe what lies before us, we give a false

description, and we mislead ourselves and others.

In the second place, the philosopher has the interpretations of

experience which he has inherited from his predecessors. The influence

of these is enormous. Each age has, to a large extent, its problems

already formulated or half formulated for it. Every man must have

ancestors, of some sort, if he is to appear upon this earthly stage at

all; and a wholly independent philosopher is as impossible a creature

as an ancestorless man. We have seen how Descartes (section 60) tried

to repudiate his debt to the past, and how little successful he was in

doing so.