actual realities, they are no less actual and concrete than are the
image and the concept of a tree in my brain. I have sufficiently
explained their origin and natural growth ("Ethical Problem," pp.
34-44), and feel that Professor Höffding's charge rests upon a
misunderstanding. It appears to me that his term "sympathy," which
he regards as the main element of ethical feelings leading to the
adoption of the principle of general welfare, is much more liable to
be interpreted in a mystical way. At least Schopenhauer's idea of
sympathy (which he calls _Mitleid_) is undoubtedly a very mysterious
thing, and its existence is supposed to be a direct manifestation of
the metaphysical. I do not say that Professor Höffding uses the word
sympathy in the sense of Schopenhauer's idea of _Mitleid_, but I am
sure that if he attempts to explain its natural origin, he will (in
order to remain positive and scientific) have to go over the same
ground and arrive at the same conclusion as I did, although he may
express himself in different words.
The truth is that man's ideas consist in representations of things and
of relations without him, and these ideas are not the product of his
individual exertions alone, they are the product of social work and
of the common activity and intercourse of human society. This is true
of language as a whole and of every single word which we use. This is
true of all conceptual thought and most so of all ethical impulses.
In spite of all individualism and in spite of the truth that lies in
certain claims of individualism as to personal liberty and freedom of
self-determination, I maintain that there is no individual in the sense
of a separate ego-existence. That which makes of us human beings is the
product of social life. I call the ideas and the impulses naturally
developing in this way, superindividual, and if we could take them out
of the soul of a man, he would cease to be a man. What is man but an
incarnation of mankind! Social intercourse and common work produce the
superindividual ideas and impulses in man, and these superindividual
ideas and impulses in their action constitute the life of society.
This view is not "a mystical personification of society" under the
simile of an organism, but it is a description of certain facts in the
development of the human soul.
Society is not an aggregation of individuals, it is constituted by the
superindividual element in the souls of individual men. The number of
people in a society is for ethical purposes unessential. Professor
Höffding accordingly makes an unimportant feature prominent, when he
says:
"The idea of society, if it is to be scientifically employed,
must always be so applied that at every point the definite
group of individuals which it represents may be established."
If the greatest happiness of the greatest number among a definite group
of individuals constitutes the morality of an act, would not the man
who falls among thieves be under the moral obligation to renounce his
property because the robbers constitute the majority?
If we leave the superindividual element out of sight, we shall
naturally fall into the error of counting the individuals and deciding
right and wrong by majority votes. The pleasure of a majority however
does not constitute justice, and the greatest happiness of the greatest
number is no criterion of that which is to be considered as morally
good.
Society in the sense of a mere number of individuals will by and by
create but does not constitute morality; nor can the majority of a
society propose a criterion. The nature of moral goodness is not a
matter of number nor of size nor of quantity. It must be sought in the
quality of our ideas and motives. Moral are those ideas which tend to
build up the life-totality of our souls so as to engender more and more
of mankind in man, or still broader expressed, so as to keep man in
harmony with the whole cosmos—with God.
VIII. THE POLICY OF THE ETHICAL SOCIETIES.
Professor Höffding considers it perfectly justified that the leaders
of the ethical societies "keep these institutions as independent as
possible not only of all dogmatic tendency of thought but also of
all unnecessary philosophical hypotheses and speculations." So do
we, for we object to dogmas, to hypotheses, and mere speculations.
We consider the era of dogmatic religion as past, and trust in the
rise of a religion based on truth, i. e. a natural and cosmical
religion which stands on facts verifiable by science. Every religion,
be it ever so adulterated by superstitions which as a rule, the less
tenable they appear, are the more tenaciously defended as infallible
dogmas—contains in its world-conception at least the germ of becoming
a cosmical religion. The development of all religions aims at one and
the same goal, namely the recognition of the truth and the aspiration
to live accordingly. Those religions which remain faithful to this
spirit of the religious sentiment will survive; they will drop the
errors of dogmatic belief, they will free themselves of the narrowness
of sectarianism and develop the cosmic religion of truth—of that one
and sole truth which need not shun the light of criticism and which is
at one with science.
We do not object to the ethical societies that they have no dogmas
and that they do not identify themselves with a special philosophy;
we object solely to their proposition to preach ethics without having
a religion, or without basing ethics upon a conception of the world.
And why do we object? Simply because it is impossible to preach ethics
without basing it upon a definite view of the world, for ethics is
nothing more or less than the endeavor to act according to a certain
conception, to realise it in deeds. Can you realise in deeds a
conception without having any? Can you live the truth without knowing
the truth? You must at least have an instinctive inkling of what the
truth is.
Mr. Salter separates the domains of ethics and science. He does not
believe that ethics can be established on science, for he declares that
science deals with facts, i. e. that which is, while ethics deals with
ideals, i. e. that which ought to be. "We have to believe in ethics if
we believe in them at all," Mr. Salter says, "not because they have the
fact on their side but because of their own intrinsic attractiveness
and authority."[134] This reminds me of one of Goethe and Schiller's
Xenions in which the German poets criticise the one-sided positions of
enthusiasts (_Schwärmer_) and philistines:
[134] _What Can Ethics Do For Us_, p. 5. By W. M. Salter. C.
H. Kerr, Chicago, 1891.
Had you the power, enthusiasts, to grasp your ideals completely,
Certainly you would revere Nature. For that is her due.
Had you the power philistines, to grasp the total of Nature,
Surely your path would lead up to th' idea's domain.
Ideals have no value unless they agree with the objective world-order
which is ascertained through inquiry into the facts of nature. Ideals
whose ultimate justification is intrinsic attractiveness and whose
authority is professedly not founded on reality but on rapt visions of
transcendental beauty, must be characterised as pure subjectivism. They
are not ideals but dreams.
The ethical societies have as yet—so far as I am aware of—not given
a clear and definite definition of good. Professor Adler treats
this question with a certain slight. Concerning the facts of moral
obligation he believes in "a general agreement _among good men and
women_ everywhere." (The italics are ours.) _The Open Court_ (in No.
140) has challenged _the Ethical Societies_, saying that "we should
be very much obliged to the _Ethical Record_, if it would give us a
simple, plain, and unmistakable definition of what the leaders of the
ethical movement understand by good, i. e. morally good." But this
challenge remained unanswered.
It will appear that as soon as good is defined not in tautologies,[135]
but in definite and unmistakable terms, the conception of good will
be the expression of a world-conception. Is it possible to do an act
which is not expressive of an opinion? And if an act is not expressive
of a clear opinion, it is based upon an instinctive, an unclear, and
undefined opinion. When the ethical societies declare that they do
not intend to commit themselves to religious or philosophical views,
they establish an anarchy of ethical conviction. Religion, as we have
defined it, is man's inmost and holiest conviction, in accord with
which he regulates his conduct. The ethical societies implicitly
declare that we can regulate our conduct without having any conviction.
[135] It is obvious that such definitions as "good is that
which produces welfare" are meaningless, so long as we are not
told what it is that makes a certain state _well_ faring or
_well_ being.
Is not an ethical society without any definite convictions upon which
to base its ethics like a ship without a compass in foggy weather?
The attitude of the ethical societies in not committing themselves to
any religious or philosophical view is after all—and how can it be
otherwise?—a palpable self-delusion, for their whole policy bears
unmistakably a definite and characteristic stamp. The leaders of the
ethical societies will most likely repudiate my interpretation of their
position, because it appears to me that they are not clear themselves
concerning the philosophical basis upon which they stand and thus (as I
am fully aware) many contradictory features appear by the side of those
which I should consider as most significant.
IX. PROFESSOR ADLER'S POSITION.
Professor Adler is the founder of the Ethical Societies, he is their
leader, and however much Mr. Salter, Dr. Coit, Mr. Sheldon, and Mr.
Weston may disagree from him in minor matters, his views are decisive
in the management, and the policy of the whole movement depends on
him. Through his indefatigable zeal in the holy cause of ethics, his
unflinching courage in the defense of what he regards as right, his
energetic devotion to his ideals, and through the influence of his
powerful oratory he has made the ethical societies what they now
are. He determines their character and he is the soul of the whole
movement. Now it is true that Professor Adler has never presented us
with a systematic philosophy, but all his activity, his speeches, his
poems, and the plans of his enterprises represent a very definite
philosophical conception, which, to give it a name, may briefly be
called Kantian Agnosticism.
Professor Adler is an agnostic, although not after the pattern of
Spencer or Huxley. His agnosticism has been impressed upon his mind by
Kant.
I expect that Mr. Adler will repudiate the name of agnostic, and it is
quite indifferent with what name he may characterise his views. His
position remains the same, whatever name he may choose to call it, if
he chooses any; and he will choose none for he is too consistent an
agnostic to define his position by a name.
It devolves upon me to prove my assertion and I hope to be able to do
so.
Professor Adler looks upon ethics as something which lies outside the
pale of human knowledge. He says in one of his lectures:
"And now one point more of utmost importance. If there be an
existence corresponding to our highest idea, as we have said
there is, yet we know not what kind of existence that may
be ... why then should we speak of it at all, why should we
try to mention in words an existence which we cannot know? I
will answer why. Because it is necessary to remind mankind
constantly that _there is an existence which they do not
know_.... Because otherwise the sense of mystery will fade out
of human lives...."
Is "the sense of mystery" really a necessary element in human lives to
make men aware of the grandeur of the universe. Is there no holiness
in clearness of thought, and is ethics only sacred if it is surrounded
with the hazy halo of an unknowable transcendentalism?
If our moral ideal does not come by the special revelation of God, as
the dogmatic religions maintain, and if we cannot find it in nature, if
it is beyond the ken of human cognition, if it is unascertainable by
science, whence does it come? Professor Adler says:
"We must, indeed, be always on our guard, lest we confuse the
idea of the Perfect with notions of the good derived from
human experience. This has been the mistake of theology in
the past, the point wherein every theodicy has invariably
broken down. When we think of the Perfect we think of a
transcendental state of existence, when we think of the moral
law in its completeness we think of a transcendental law,
a law which can only be wholly fulfilled in the regions of
the Infinite, but which can never be fully realised within
the conditions of space and time. The formula of that law
when applied to human relations, yields the specific moral
commandments, but these commandments can never express the
full content, can never convey the far off spiritual meanings
of the supreme law itself. The specific commandments do,
indeed, partake of the nature of the transcendental law, they
are its effects. The light that shines through them comes from
beyond, but its beams are broken as they pass our terrestrial
medium, and the full light in all its glory we can never see."
In this passage I believe to recognise the influence of Kant's
transcendentalism. I differ from Professor Adler's conception of
Kantian transcendentalism, but that is of no account here. One point
only is of consequence. Professor Adler uses the word transcendental in
the sense of transcendent and thus he changes the ethics of pure reason
into mysticism. Professor Adler says:
"Though I can never be scientifically certain, I can be
_morally_ sure that the mystery of the universe is to be read
in terms of moral perfection."
I do not deny that moral instinct ripens quicker than scientific
comprehension. Why? Because in a time when science is not as yet so
far advanced as to understand the operations of the moral law, those
people who instinctively obey the rules that can be derived from the
moral law, will survive and all the rest will go to the wall. But
the fact that we can have a reliable moral guide in an instinctive
certainty which is generally called conscience, even before we attain
to scientific clearness, does not prove that science will be forever
excluded from the world of moral ideals.
Professor Adler's agnosticism found a very strong expression in a poem
which resembles in its tone and ideas the church hymns of the New
Jerusalem. The poem is very unequivocal on the point that moral action
is comparable to building an ideal city, the plan of which is unknown
to the builders. Professor Adler says:
"Have you heard the Golden City
Mentioned in the legends old?
Everlasting light shines o'er it,
Wondrous tales of it are told.
Only righteous men and women
Dwell within its gleaming wall;
Wrong is banished from its borders,
Justice reigns supreme o'er all.
Do you ask, Where is that City,
Where the perfect Right doth reign?
I must answer, I must tell you,
That you seek its site in vain.
You may roam o'er hill and valley,
You may pass o'er land and sea,
You may search the wide earth over,—
'T is a City yet to be!
We are builders of that City,—
All our joys and all our groans
Help to rear its shining ramparts;
All our lives are building-stones.
* * * * *
_What that plan may be we know not._[136]
How the seat of Justice high,
How the City of our vision
Will appear to mortal eye,—
That no mortal eye can picture,
That no mortal tongue can tell.
We can barely dream the glories
Of the Future's citadel."
[136] The italics are ours.
How great an importance is attributed to this song by the leaders of
the ethical movement may be learned from Mr. Salter's opinion of it.
Mr. Salter says in criticising Unitarianism:
"Not from Unitarianism, not from Christianity, has come the
song that best utters and almost chants this thought [of
an ideal fellowship]. It is from Felix Adler, upon whom, I
sometimes think, more than upon any other man of our day, the
mantle and prophetic spirit of Channing have fallen, and whose
words, I almost believe, are those which Jesus himself would
utter, should he come and put his solemn thought and passion
into the language of to-day."
Agnosticism is in our opinion no sound basis upon which to erect
ethics. The unknowable is like quicksand, it gives way under our
feet. The ethics of agnosticism must necessarily become mysticism.
The ethereal dreams of mysticists need no solid basis, they hover in
the air. Mr. Spencer who for some reason or other tried to escape
the consequences of his agnosticism in the ethical field, adopted
Utilitarianism, basing his moral maxims not upon the unknowable, as
consistency would require, but upon the principle of the greatest
happiness for the greatest number.
Professor Adler is not a Spencerian agnostic and here lies the strength
of his ethics. Although he does not attain to a clear and scientific
conception of the origin and natural growth of morality, he sounds
no uncertain voice with regard to the Happiness Principle. He has
on several occasions, like his great master Kant, uncompromisingly
rejected any Hedonism or Eudæmonism. Among all societies aspiring
to foster moral ideals, the societies for ethical culture are
distinguished for their seriousness and ardor; and there can be no
doubt about the cause: it is the spirit of Professor Adler's zeal not
to give way to a hedonistic conception of ethics.
X. THE UNITY OF THE ETHICAL PROBLEM.
We conclude. Although the ethical problem can and must be split up in
innumerable different problems, we should never lose sight of its unity.
Our age is a period of specialisation, of a division of labor and
of detail work. This is true. But the more will it be necessary
to survey the whole field and keep in mind the unity of which all
piecemeal efforts are but parts. As soon as we lose sight of the
unity in a certain system of problems, we are most liable to drop
into inconsistencies. This is true of all things, of every science in
particular, and of philosophy, the science of the sciences, also. It is
no less true of ethics. We cannot engage, with any hope of success, in
any of the diverse ethical questions unless we have first solved _the_
ethical problem.
EDITOR.
ON THOUGHT AND LANGUAGE.
A LECTURE DELIVERED BEFORE THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY OF GLASGOW, ON
JAN. 21, 1891.
It seems impossible to many people to look upon language as anything
but an instrument of thought. In one sense this is perfectly true. We
think by means of words, just as we see by means of eyes, and hear by
means of ears, and walk by means of legs. But could we walk without our
legs, or see without our eyes? We can walk with artificial legs, no
doubt, and so we can think and speak in foreign languages, and in every
kind of artificial sign-language. But as artificial legs presuppose
natural legs, foreign and artificial languages presuppose our own
natural language.
When we speak of instruments we mean generally such things as knives
with which we cut, or pens with which we write. They are instruments
which are useful, but they are not indispensable, and can be replaced
by other instruments. This does not, however, apply to eyes, ears,
or language, and in order to mark that distinction the former are
generally called instruments, the latter organs.
Now, if we call language the organ of thought, we, no doubt, admit
that we can distinguish between the _organon_, that which works, and
the _ergon_, i. e. the work which it performs. But it does by no
means follow that therefore the _ergon_ could ever exist without the
_organon_. We can easily distinguish between the act of spoken thought
and the organ of spoken thought, but it does by no means follow that
therefore the act of spoken thought could ever exist without the organ
of spoken thought.
It may seem unfair in this argument to call thought "spoken thought."
It looks like begging the whole question. But it really is not so. By
calling thought "spoken thought," we only supply a deficiency of our
modern languages. If we were Greeks, we should use the simple word
_Logos_, and instead of begging the question, we should show that our
proposition is, really self-evident, or, it may be, even tautological,
namely that _logos_ is impossible without _logos_.
Here we can see at once how intimately thought is connected with
language, how it is dependent on it, or, more correctly, how
inseparable the two really are. If, like the Greeks, we had a word
such as logos, we should probably never have doubted that what we call
speech and thought are but two sides of the same thing. And the same
lesson is taught us again and again, if only we are inclined to listen
to it.
Suppose we had no such word as _matter_, would not our whole system of
thought be different? Matter is not an object, perceived by our senses.
We may even go further and say that matter by itself never exists. This
or that matter exists, chemical substances, say, gold or silver, oxygen
or hydrogen, exist; but matter, which some philosophers look upon as
the most certain and concrete of all things, is simply an abstraction,
something that may be predicated of many things, but that is never
found by itself _in rerum naturâ_.
Some people define matter as what is ponderable and impenetrable, but
here again, nothing exists that is simply ponderable, or impenetrable.
It is always something else; it is iron, wood, stone, vapor, gas, but
never matter, _pur et simple_.
It is clear, therefore, that matter is made by us, and that without
some such word as matter, we could never have the faintest idea or
concept of matter. For how should we call it? On the other hand, it
is equally clear that we could not have the word matter, without the
concept of matter. For what would be the use of it? Now, what follows
from this apparent dilemma? If the concept cannot be prior to the
name and the name cannot be prior to the concept, they must needs be
simultaneous, or, more correctly, they must be the same thing under two
aspects.
From an historical point of view, that is, if we consider the genesis
of words and concepts, not in modern times, but during that period when
words and concepts were framed for the first time, we are bound to
admit that the word is really the _prius_. That period may be ever so
far distant, but it was nevertheless a very real and truly historical
period.
How did man arrive at such a word as matter? The word itself tells its
own story. It came to us from French, it came into French from Latin.
In Latin _materies_ or _materia_ still means wood and timber, though it
has also assumed the meaning of matter, like the Greek ὕλη, which means
both wood and matter. The process by which _materies_ came to mean
matter is clear. If _materies_ meant originally the wood out of which a
hut, a table, a chair, or a stick was made, it was naturally applied to
other substances also, such as stone, bricks, or metal when used in the
making of huts, tables, chairs, or sticks. In the same way we speak of
a pen, i. e. a quill, though we mean a steel pen.
When the original special meaning of wood thus disappeared, there
remained only the meaning of building material, material, and, at last,
of matter and substance. We say now, What is the matter? What does
it matter? but we little think of the solid beams out of which such
expressions were hewn and fashioned. In this sense, therefore, we may
say that historically the word _materies_ came first, meaning a beam,
and that gradually it shed its various attributes, one after the other,
till there remained nothing but its trunk, and that is what we now mean
by matter.
Here, therefore, we see the process of generalisation which is very
important, particularly in the later periods of language and thought.
But it is the greatest mistake to suppose that language, such as we
know it, what we might call historical language, always begins with
the particular and then proceeds to the general. Adam Smith was one of
the ablest defenders of the theory that the _Primum Cognitum_ and the
_Primum Appellatum_ must have been the particular. But all the facts of
language are dead against this theory. And yet, that theory has once
more been put forward by a philosopher who prides himself on nothing
so much as that his philosophy rests throughout on positive facts. I
do not blame a philosopher who is ignorant of the results obtained by
the Science of Language, so long as he abstains from touching on the
subject. But constantly to appeal to language, and yet to ignore what
has been achieved by comparative philologists, is unpardonable. No one
is a greater sinner in that respect than Mr. Herbert Spencer.