MIND AND MATTER
What, then, is the probable essence of truth in Professor Haeckel's
philosophy? for it is not to be supposed that the speculations of an
eminent man are baseless, or that he has been led to his view of what
he conceives to be the truth by some wholly erroneous path; his
intuitive convictions are to be respected, for they are based on a far
wider experience and knowledge of fact than is given to the average
man; and for the average man to consider it likely that there is no
foundation whatever for the life convictions of a great specialist is
as foolish as to suppose it probable that they are certain and
infallible, or that they are uncritically to be accepted even in
regions beyond those over which his jurisdiction extends.
First as to the "law of substance," by which he sets so much store; the
fact which he is really, though indistinctly, trying to emphasise, is
what I have preferred to formulate as "the persistence of the really
existent," see page 34; and, with that modification, we can agree with
Haeckel, or with what I take to be his inner meaning, to some extent.
We may all fairly agree, I think, that whatever really and fundamentally
_exists_ must, so far as bare existence is concerned, be independent of
time. It may go through many changes, and thus have a history; that is
to say, must have definite time relations, so far as its changes are
concerned; but it can hardly be thought of as either going out of
existence, or as coming into existence, at any given period, though it
may completely change its form and accidents; everything basal must
have a past and a future of some kind or other, though any special
concatenation or arrangement may have a date of origin and of
destruction.
A crowd, for instance, is of this fugitive character: it assembles and
it disperses, its existence as a crowd is over, but its constituent
elements persist; and the same can be said of a planet or a sun. Yet
for some "soul" or underlying reality even in these temporary
accretions there is permanence of a sort:—Tyndall's "streak of morning
cloud," though it may have "melted into infinite azure," has not
thereby become non-existent, although as a visible object it has
disappeared from our ken and become a memory only. It is true that it
was a mere aggregate or accidental agglomeration—it had developed no
self-consciousness, nothing that could be called personality or
identity characterised it,—and so no individual persistence is to be
expected for it; yet even it—low down in the scale of being as it
is—even it has rejoined the general body of aqueous vapour whence,
through the incarnating influence of night, it arose. The thing that
_is_, both _was_ and _shall be_, and whatever does not satisfy this
condition must be an accidental or fugitive or essentially temporary
conglomeration or assemblage, and not one of the fundamental entities
of the universe. It is interesting to remember that this was one of the
opinions strongly held by the late Professor Tait, who considered that
persistence or conservation was the test or criterion of real
existence.
The question, How many fundamental entities in this sense there are,
and what they are, is a difficult one. Many people, including such
opposite thinkers as Tait and Haeckel, would say "matter" and "energy";
though Haeckel chooses, on his own account, to add that these two are
one. (Perhaps Professor Ostwald would agree with him there; though to
me the meaning is vague.) Physical science, pushed to the last resort,
would probably reply that, within its sphere of knowledge at the
present stage, the fundamental entities are _ether_ and _motion_; and
that of other things at present it knows next to nothing. If physical
science is interrogated as to the probable persistence, _i.e._, the
fundamental existence, of "life" or of "mind," it ought to reply that
it does not know; if asked about "personality," or "souls," or
"God,"—about all of which Professor Haeckel has fully-fledged
opinions—it would have to ask for a definition of the terms, and would
speak either not at all or with bated breath concerning them.
The possibility that "life" may be a real and basal form of existence,
and therefore persistent, is a possibility to be borne in mind. It may
at least serve as a clue to investigation, and some day may bear fruit;
at present it is no better than a working hypothesis. It is one that on
the whole commends itself to me; for I conceive that though we only
know of it as a function of terrestrial matter, yet that it has another
aspect too, and I say this because I see it arriving and
leaving—animating matter for a time and then quitting it, just as I
see dew appearing and disappearing on a plate. Apart from a solid
surface, dew cannot exist as such; and to a savage it might seem to
spring into and to go out of existence—to be an exudation from the
solid, and dependent wholly upon it; but we happen to know more about
it: we know that it has a permanent and continuous existence in an
imperceptible, intangible, supersensual form, though its visible
manifestation in the form of mist or dew is temporary and evanescent.
Perhaps it is permissible to trace in that elementary phenomenon some
superficial analogy to an incarnation.
The fact concerning life which lies at the root of Professor Haeckel's
doctrine about its origin, is that living beings have undoubtedly made
their appearance on this planet, where at one time they cannot be
suspected of having existed. Consequently that whatever life may be, it
is something which can begin to interact with the atoms of terrestrial
matter, at some period, or state of aggregation, or other condition of
elaboration,—a condition which may perhaps be rather definite, if only
we were aware of what it was. But that undoubted fact is quite
consistent with any view as to the nature of "life," and even with any
view as to the mode of its terrestrial commencement; there is nothing
in that to say that it is a function of matter alone, any more than the
wind is a function of the leaves which dance under its influence; there
is nothing even to contradict the notion that it sprang into existence
suddenly at a literal word of command. The improbability or absurdity
of such a conception as this last, except in the symbolism of poetry,
is extreme, and it is unthinkable by any educated person; but its
improbability depends upon other considerations than biologic ones, and
it is as repugnant to an enlightened Theology as to any other science.
The mode in which biological speculation as to the probable development
of living out of dead matter, and the general relation of protoplasm to
physics and chemistry, can be surmised or provisionally granted,
without thereby concurring in any destructive criticism of other facts
and experiences, is explained in Chapter X. on "Life," further on: and
there I emphasise my agreement with parts of the speculative
contentions of Professor Haeckel on the positive side.
_Soul and Body._
Let us consider what are the facts scientifically known concerning the
interaction between mind and matter. Fundamentally they amount to this:
that a complex piece of matter, called the brain, is the organ or
instrument of mind and consciousness; that if it be stimulated mental
activity results; that if it be injured or destroyed no manifestation
of mental activity is possible. Moreover, it is assumed, and need not
be doubted, that a portion of brain substance is consumed, oxidised let
us say, in every act of mentation: using that term in the vaguest and
most general sense, and including in it unconscious as well as
conscious operations.
Suppose we grant all this, what then? We have granted that brain is the
means whereby mind is made manifest on this material plane, it is the
instrument through which alone we know it, but we have not granted that
mind is _limited_ to its material manifestation; nor can we maintain
that without matter the things we call mind, intelligence,
consciousness, have no sort of existence. Mind may be incorporate or
incarnate in matter, but it may also transcend it; it is through the
region of ideas and the intervention of mind that we have become aware
of the existence of matter. It is injudicious to discard our primary and
fundamental _awareness_ for what is after all an instinctive inference
or interpretation of certain sensations.
The realities underlying those sensations are only known to us by
inference, but they have an independent existence: in their inmost
nature they may be quite other than what they seem, and are in no way
dependent upon our perception of them. So, also, our actual personality
may be something considerably unlike that conception of it which is
based on our present terrestrial consciousness—a form of consciousness
suited to, and developed by, our temporary existence here, but not
necessarily more than a fraction of our total self.
Take an analogy: the eye is the organ of vision; by it we perceive
light. Stimulate the retina in any way, and we are conscious of the
sensation of light; injure or destroy the eye, and vision becomes
imperfect or impossible. If eyes did not exist we should probably know
nothing about light, and we might be tempted to say that light did not
exist. In a sense, to a blind race, light would not exist—that is to
say, there would be no sensation of light, there would be no sight; but
the underlying physical cause of that sensation—the ripples in the
ether—would be there all the time. And it is these ethereal ripples
which a physicist understands by the term "light." It is quite
conceivable that a race of blind physicists would be able to devise
experimental means whereby they could make experiments on what to us is
luminous radiation, just as we now make experiments on electric waves,
for which we have no sense organ. It would be absurd for a psychologist
to inform them that light did not exist because sight did not. The
_term_ might have to be reconsidered and redefined; indeed, most
likely a polysyllabic term would be employed, as is unfortunately usual
when a thing of which the race in general has no intimate knowledge
requires nomenclature. But the thing would be there, though its mode of
manifestation would be different; a term like "vision" might still be
employed, to signify our mode of perceiving and experiencing the agency
which now manifests itself to us through our eyes; and plants might
grow by the aid of that agency just as they do now.
So, also, brain is truly the organ of mind and consciousness, and to a
brainless race these terms, and all other terms, would be meaningless;
but no one is at liberty to assert, on the strength of that fact, that
the realities underlying our use of those terms have no existence apart
from terrestrial brains. Nor can we say with any security that the
stuff called "brain" is the only conceivable machinery which they are
able to utilise: though it is true that we know of no other. Yet it
would seem that such a proposition must be held by a materialist, or by
what can be implied by the term "monist," used in its narrowest and
most unphilosophic sense—a sense which would be better expressed by
the term materialistic-monist, with a limitation of the term matter to
the terrestrial chemical elements and their combinations, _i.e._, to
that form of substance to which the human race has grown accustomed—a
sense which tends to exclude ethereal and other generalisations and
unknown possibilities such as would occur to a philosophic monist of
the widest kind.
For that it may ultimately be discovered that there is some intimate
and necessary connection between a generalised form of matter and some
lofty variety of mind is not to be denied; though also it cannot be
asserted. It has been surmised, for instance, that just as the
corpuscles and atoms of matter, in their intricate movements and
relations, combine to form the brain cell of a human being; so the
cosmic bodies, the planets and suns and other groupings of the ether,
may perhaps combine to form something corresponding as it were to the
brain cell of some transcendent Mind. The idea is to be found in
Newton. The thing is a mere guess, it is not an impossibility, and it
cannot be excluded from a philosophic system by any negative statement
based on scientific fact. In some such sense as that, matter and mind
may be, for all we know, eternally and necessarily connected; they
can be different aspects of some fundamental unity; and a lofty kind
of monism can be true, just as a lofty kind of pantheism can be true.
But the miserable degraded monism and lower pantheism, which limits
the term "god" to that part of existence of which we are now
aware—sometimes, indeed, to a fraction only of that—which limits the
term "mind" to that of which we are ourselves conscious, and the term
"matter" to the dust of the earth and the other visible bodies, is a
system of thought appropriate, perhaps, to a fertile and energetic
portion of the nineteenth century, but not likely to survive as a
system of perennial truth.
The term "organ" itself should have given pause to anyone desirous of
promulgating a scheme such as that.
"Organ" is a name popularly given to an instrument of music. Without
it, or some other instrument, no material manifestation or display of
music is possible; it is an instrument for the incarnation of
music—the means whereby it interacts with the material world and
throws the air and so our ears into vibration, it is the means whereby
we apprehend it. Injure the organ and the music is imperfect; destroy
it and it ceases to be possible. But is it to be asserted on the
strength of that fact that the term "music" has no significance apart
from its material manifestation? Have the ideas of Sir Edward Elgar no
reality apart from their record on paper and reproduction by an
orchestra? It is true that without suitable instruments and a suitable
sense organ we should know nothing of music, but it cannot be supposed
that its underlying essence would be therefore extinct or non-existent
and meaningless. Can there not be in the universe a multitude of things
which matter as we know it is incompetent to express? Is it not the
complaint of every genius that his material is intractable, that it is
difficult to coerce matter as he knows it into the service of mind as
he is conscious of it, and that his conceptions transcend his powers of
expression?
The connection between soul and body, or more generally between
spiritual and material, has been illustrated by the connection between
the meaning of a sentence and the written or spoken word conveying that
meaning. The writing or the speaking may be regarded as an incarnation
of the meaning, a mode of stating or exhibiting its essence. As
delivered, the sentence must have time relations; it has a beginning,
middle, and end; it may be repeated, and the same general meaning may
be expressed in other words; but the intrinsic meaning of the sentence
itself need have no time relations, it may be true _always_, it may
exist as an eternal "now," though it may be perceived and expressed by
humanity with varying clearness from time to time.
The soul of a thing is its underlying permanent reality—that which
gives it its meaning and confers upon it its attributes. The body is an
instrument or mechanism for the manifestation or sensible presentation
of what else would be imperceptible. It is useless to ask whether a
soul is immortal—a soul is always immortal "where a soul can be
discerned": the question to ask concerning any given object is whether
it has a soul or meaning or personal underlying reality at all.
Those who think that reality is limited to its terrestrial
manifestation doubtless have a philosophy of their own, to which they
are entitled and to which at any rate they are welcome; but if they set
up to teach others that monism signifies a limitation of mind to the
potentialities of matter as at present known; if they teach a pantheism
which identifies God with nature in this narrow sense; if they hold
that mind and what they call matter are so intimately connected that no
_transcendence_ is possible; that, without the cerebral hemispheres,
consciousness and intelligence and emotion and love, and all the higher
attributes towards which humanity is slowly advancing, would cease to
be; that the term "soul" signifies "a sum of plasma-movements in the
ganglion cells"; and that the term "God" is limited to the operation of
a known evolutionary process, and can be represented as "the infinite
sum of all natural forces, the sum of all atomic forces and all ether
vibrations," to quote Professor Haeckel (_Confession of Faith_, p. 78);
then such philosophers must be content with an audience of uneducated
persons, or, if writing as men of science, must hold themselves liable
to be opposed by other men of science, who are able, at any rate in
their own judgment, to take a wider survey of existence, and to
perceive possibilities to which the said narrow and over-definite
philosophers were blind.
_Life and Guidance._
Matter possesses energy, in the form of persistent motion, and it is
propelled by force; but neither matter nor energy possesses the power
of automatic guidance and control. Energy has no directing power (this
has been elaborated by Croll and others: see, for instance, p. 24, and
a letter in _Nature_, vol. 43, p. 434, thirteen years ago, under the
heading "Force and Determinism"). Inorganic matter is impelled solely
by pressure from behind, it is not influenced by the future, nor does
it follow a preconceived course nor seek a predetermined end.
An organism animated by mind is in a totally different case. The
intangible influences of hunger, of a call, of perception of something
ahead, are then the dominant feature. An intelligent animal which is
being pushed is in an ignominious position and resents it; when led, or
when voluntarily obeying a call, it is in its rightful attitude.
The essence of mind is design and purpose. There are some who deny that
there is any design or purpose in the universe at all: but how can that
be maintained when humanity itself possesses these attributes? (_cf._
pp. 54, 74). Is it not more reasonable to say that just as we are
conscious of the power of guidance in ourselves, so guidance and
intelligent control may be an element running through the universe, and
may be incorporated even in material things?
A traveller who has lost his way in a mountain district, coming across
a path, may rejoice, saying, "This will guide me home." A materialist,
if he were consistent, should laugh such a traveller to scorn, saying,
"What guidance or purpose can there be in a material object? there is
no guidance or purpose in the universe; things _are_ because they
cannot be otherwise, not because of any intention underlying them. How
can a path, which is little better than the absence of grass or the
wearing down of stones, know where you live or guide you to any desired
destination? Moreover, whatever knowledge or purpose the path exhibits
must be _in the path_, must be a property of the atoms of which it is
composed. To them some fraction of will, of power, of knowledge, and
of feeling _may_ perhaps be attributed, and from their aggregation
something of the same kind may perhaps be deduced. If the traveller can
decipher that, he may utilise the material object to his advantage; but
if he conceives the path to have been made with any teleological object
or intelligent purpose, he is abandoning himself to superstition, and
is as likely to be led by it to the edge of a precipice as to anywhere
else. Let him follow his superstition at his peril!"
This is not a quotation, of course: but it is a parable.
Matter is the instrument and vehicle of mind; incarnation is the mode
by which mind interacts with the present scheme of things, and thereby
the element of guidance is supplied; it can, in fact, be embodied in an
intelligent arrangement of inert inorganic matter. Even a mountain path
exhibits the property of guidance, and has direction: it is an
incorporation of intelligence, though itself inert.
Direction is not a function of energy. The energy of sound from an
organ is supplied by the blower of the bellows, which may be worked by
a mechanical engine; but the melody and harmony, the sequence and
co-existence of notes, are determined by the dominating mind of the
musician: not necessarily of the executant alone, for the composer's
mind may be evoked to some extent even by a pianola. The music may be
said to be incarnate in the roll of paper which is ready to be passed
through the instrument. So also can the conception of any artist
receive material embodiment in his work, and if a picture or a
beautiful building is destroyed it can be made to rise again from its
ashes provided the painter or the architect still lives: in other
words, his thought can receive a fresh incarnation; and a perception of
the beautiful form shall hereafter, in a kindred spirit, arouse similar
ideas.
There is thus a truth in materialism, but it is not a truth readily to
be apprehended and formulated. Matter may become imbued with life, and
full of vital association; something of the personality of a departed
owner seems to cling sometimes about an old garment, its curves and
folds can suggest him vividly to our recollection. I would not too
blatantly assert that even a doll on which much affection had been
lavished was wholly inert and material in the inorganic sense. The
tattered colours of a regiment are sometimes thought worthy to be hung
in a church. They are a symbol truly, but they may be something more. I
have reason to believe that a trace of individuality can cling about
terrestrial objects in a vague and almost imperceptible fashion, but to
a degree sufficient to enable those traces to be detected by persons
with suitable faculties.
There is a deep truth in materialism; and it is the foundation of the
material parts of worship—sacraments and the like. It is possible to
exaggerate their efficacy, but it is also possible to ignore it too
completely. The whole universe is metrical, everything is a question of
degree. A property like radio-activity or magnetism, discovered
conspicuously in one form of matter, turns out to be possessed by
matter of every kind, though to very varying extent.
So it would appear to be with the power possessed by matter to
incarnate and display mind.
There are grades of incarnation: the most thorough kind is that
illustrated by our bodies; in them we are incarnate, but probably not
even in that case is the incarnation complete. It is quite credible
that our whole and entire personality is never terrestrially manifest.
There are grades of incarnation. Some of the personality of an Old
Master is locked up in a painting: and whoever wilfully destroys a
great picture is guilty of something akin to murder, namely, the
premature and violent separation of soul and body. Some of the soul of
a musician can be occluded in a piece of manuscript, to be deciphered
thereafter by a perceptive mind.
Matter is the vehicle of mind, but it is dominated and transcended by
it. A painting is held together by cohesive forces among the atoms of
its pigments, and if those forces rebelled or turned repulsive the
picture would be disintegrated and destroyed; yet those forces did not
make the picture. A cathedral is held together by inorganic forces, and
it was built in obedience to them, but they do not explain it. It may
owe its existence and design to the thought of someone who never
touched a stone, or even of someone who was dead before it was begun.
In its symbolism it represents One who was executed many centuries ago.
Death and Time are far from dominant.
Are we so sure that when we truly attribute a sunset, or the moonlight
rippling on a lake, to the chemical and physical action of material
forces—to the vibrations of matter and ether as we know them, that we
have exhausted the whole truth of things? Many a thinker, brooding over
the phenomena of Nature, has felt that they represent the thoughts of a
dominating unknown Mind partially incarnate in it all.