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THINKING AS A SCIENCE, BY HENRY HAZLITT
THINKING
AS A SCIENCE
BY
HENRY HAZLITT
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
Copyright, 1916
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
CONTENTS
I • The Neglect of Thinking • 1
II • Thinking With Method • 11
III • A Few Cautions • 51
IV • Concentration • 68
V • Prejudice and Uncertainty • 99
VI • Debate and Conversation • 129
VII • Thinking and Reading • 135
VIII • Writing One’s Thoughts • 191
IX • Things Worth Thinking About • 207
X • Thinking as an Art • 237
XI • Books on Thinking • 248
THINKING AS A SCIENCE
I
THE NEGLECT OF THINKING
Every man knows there are evils in the world which need setting right.
Every man has pretty definite ideas as to what these evils are. But
to most men one in particular stands out vividly. To some, in fact,
this stands out with such startling vividness that they lose sight of
other evils, or look upon them as the natural consequences of their own
particular evil-in-chief.
To the Socialist this evil is the capitalistic system; to the
prohibitionist it is intemperance; to the feminist it is the subjection
of women; to the clergyman it is the decline of religion; to Andrew
Carnegie it is war; to the staunch Republican it is the Democratic
Party, and so on, _ad infinitum_.
I, too, have a pet little evil, to which in more passionate moments
I am apt to attribute all the others. This evil is the neglect of
thinking. And when I say thinking I mean real thinking, independent
thinking, hard thinking.
You protest. You say men are thinking more now than they ever were.
You bring out the almanac to prove by statistics that illiteracy is
declining. You point to our magnificent libraries. You point to the
multiplication of books. You show beyond a doubt that people are
reading more now than ever before in all history. . . .
Very well, exactly. That is just the trouble. Most people, when
confronted with a problem, immediately acquire an inordinate desire to
“read-up” on it. When they get stuck mentally, the first thing such
people do is to run to a book. Confess it, have you not often been in
a waiting room or a Pullman, noticed people all about you reading, and
finding yourself without any reading matter, have you not wished that
you had some?—something to “occupy your mind”? And did it ever occur to
you that you had within you the power to occupy your mind, and do it
more profitably than all those assiduous readers? Briefly, did it ever
occur to you to _think_?
Of course you “thought”—in a sense. Thinking means a variety of
things. You may have looked out of your train window while passing a
field, and it may have occurred to you that that field would make an
excellent baseball diamond. Then you “thought” of the time when you
played baseball, “thought” of some particular game perhaps, “thought”
how you had made a grand stand play or a bad muff, and how one day it
began to rain in the middle of the game, and the team took refuge in
the carriage shed. Then you “thought” of other rainy days rendered
particularly vivid for some reason or other, or perhaps your mind came
back to considering the present weather, and how long it was going to
last. . . . And of course, in one sense you were “thinking.” But when
I use the word thinking, I mean thinking with a purpose, with an end
in view, thinking to solve a problem. I mean the kind of thinking that
is forced on us when we are deciding on a course to pursue, on a life
work to take up perhaps; the kind of thinking that was forced on us
in our younger days when we had to find a solution to a problem in
mathematics, or when we tackled psychology in college. I do not mean
“thinking” in snatches, or holding petty opinions on this subject and
on that. I mean thought on significant questions which lie outside the
bounds of your narrow personal welfare. This is the kind of thinking
which is now so rare—so sadly needed!
Of course before this can be revived we must arouse a desire for it. We
must arouse a desire for thinking for its own sake; solving problems
for the mere sake of solving problems. But a mere desire for thinking,
praiseworthy as it is, is not enough. We must know _how_ to think, and
to that end we must search for those rules and methods of procedure
which will most help us in thinking creatively, originally, and not
least of all surely, correctly.
When they think at all, the last thing men think about is their
own thoughts. Every sensible man realizes that the perfection of a
mechanical instrument depends to some extent upon the perfection of the
tools with which it is made. No carpenter would expect a perfectly
smooth board after using a dented or chipped plane. No gasolene engine
manufacturer would expect to produce a good motor unless he had the
best lathes obtainable to help him turn out his product. No watchmaker
would expect to construct a perfectly accurate timepiece unless he had
the most delicate and accurate tools to turn out the cogs and screws.
Before any specialist produces an instrument he thinks of the tools
with which he is to produce it. But men reflect continually on the
most complex problems—problems of vital importance to them—and expect
to obtain satisfactory solutions, without once giving a thought to
the manner in which they go about obtaining those solutions; without
a thought to their own mind, the tool which produces those solutions.
Surely this deserves at least some systematic consideration.
Some remarks of Ella Wheeler Wilcox under this head will bear quoting:
“Human thinking is still in as great a state of disorder and jumble
as language was before the alphabet, music before the scale was
discovered, printing before Gutenberg, or mathematics before Pythagoras
formulated its laws.” “This systematization of all thought,” she tells
us, would be “a more far reaching improvement than all the others, for
it will do for education, health, economics, government, etc., what the
alphabet did for language, movable type for printing and literature,
the scale for music, and the rules of arithmetic for calculation. Being
the exact counterpart of these in its particular field, its mission,
like theirs, will be to bring order out of chaos.”
I believe Miss Wilcox exaggerates matters. Incidentally I for one
do not pretend to have discovered anything revolutionary. But the
importance of the subject warrants its formulation into as near
scientific form as we can bring it.
I beg no one to get frightened. Science does not necessarily mean test
tubes and telescopes. I mean science in its broadest sense; and in
this sense it means nothing more than organized knowledge. If we are
to find rules and methods of procedure, these methods must come from
somewhere—must be based on certain principles—and these principles can
come only from close, systematic investigation.
It may indeed be urged that we can think best by disregarding all
“rules,” by not paying any attention to method. But the man who
maintains this must give reasons; and once he attempts this he himself
is bordering closely on the science of the matter. In short, the
settlement of even this question is part of the science of thinking.
And what is to be the nature of this science?
For our purposes, all sciences may be divided into two kinds:
_positive_ and _normative_. A positive science investigates the nature
of things as they are. It deals simply with matters of fact. Such a
science is physics, chemistry, psychology. A normative science is one
which studies things as they ought to be. As the name implies, it
seeks to establish a _norm_ or pattern which ought to be adhered to.
It studies means of reaching desired ends. To this class belong such
sciences as ethics, education, agriculture.
Now these normative sciences, with the exception of ethics, are nearly
always referred to either as “arts” or “applied sciences.” To both
of these terms I technically but strenuously object. I object to the
term “art” to designate any set of organized rules for doing a thing,
because “art” also means the actual doing of that thing. And this
thing may be done, and often is done, in total ignorance of the rules
governing it. A man may possess the art of swimming—he may be able to
swim—without any previous instruction, without any knowledge of how he
ought to hold his body, arms and legs; just as a dog may do the same
thing.
I object also to the term “applied science,” because to me this term
implies that the science it refers to is based on one positive science
only. I can think of no so-called applied science which is so based.
Hygiene, not alone dependent on physiology, must derive some of its
rules from the chemistry of foods, as well as from the sciences of
sanitation and ventilation, themselves normative. Agriculture is based
not only on biology and botany, but on chemistry and meteorology.
The science of thinking, then, if such a science there be, is
normative. Its purpose is to find those methods which will help us to
think constructively and correctly.
One more distinction and our preliminaries are over. There are two
other sciences with which the science of thinking is liable to become
confused; one positive, the other normative.
The positive science is that branch of psychology which deals with
the reasoning process and examines the basis of belief. We shall make
frequent use of this science in trying to find rules for thinking, but
it will not be the only science we shall use, nor will that science be
the subject of this book.
The normative science with which the science of thinking may become
confused is logic. Indeed, logic has sometimes been called the science
of thinking. Now for our purposes logic is a part of the science of
thinking, but it is not the part which we are primarily to consider.
Its function is merely negative; it consists in leading us from
error. The part of the science of thinking in which we are interested
deals with those positive rules which will help to make us creative
thinkers. . . .
Our ship is headed for the port Truth. Our mind is the engine, the
science of thinking the propeller, and logic the rudder. Without our
engine, the mind, the propeller of the science of thinking, which
transforms our mental energy most effectively into motion, would be
useless. Without the propeller, which gives motion, the rudder of logic
would be useless. But all three are needed to reach our goal.
* * * * *
And now I must bespeak a little patience. The next chapter, and the one
following it, are going to deal very largely with method and methods.
They will touch on classification, and a lot of other things to which
the plain man has an aversion; to which, at least, he usually evinces
no very active interest. But it is necessary to consider these things
in order to make our study complete.
II
THINKING WITH METHOD
Most of us, at those rare intervals when we think at all, do so in a
slipshod sort of way. If we come across a mental difficulty we try to
get rid of it in almost any kind of hit or miss manner. Even those few
of us who think occasionally for the mere sake of thinking, generally
do so without regard for method—indeed, are often unconscious that
method could be applied to our thought. But what is meant by method? I
may best explain by an example.
From somewhere or other, a man gets hold of the idea that the proper
subjects are not being taught in our schools and colleges. He asks
himself what the proper subjects would be. He considers how useless
his knowledge of Greek and Latin has been. He decides that these two
subjects should be eliminated. Then he thinks how he would have been
helped in business by a knowledge of bookkeeping, and he concludes
that this subject deserves a place in the curriculum. He has recently
received a letter from a college friend containing some errors in
spelling. He is convinced that this branch of knowledge is being left
in undeserved neglect. Or he is impressed by the spread of unsound
theories of money among the poorer classes, and he believes that
everybody should receive a thorough course in economics and finance.
And so he rambles on, now on this subject, now on that.
Compare this haphazard, aimless thinking with that of the man of
method. This man is confronted with the same general situation as our
first thinker, but he makes his problem a different one. He first asks
himself what end he has in view. He discovers that he is primarily
trying to find out not so much—what subjects should be taught in the
schools? as—what knowledge is of most worth? He puts the problem
definitely before himself in this latter form. He then sees that the
problem—what knowledge is of _most_ worth?, implies that what is
desired is not to find what subjects are of worth and what are not, but
what is the _relative_ value of subjects. His next step, obviously,
is to discover a standard by which the relative value of subjects can
be determined; and this, let us say, he finds in the help a knowledge
of these subjects gives to complete living. Having decided this, he
next classifies in the order of their importance the activities which
constitute human life, and follows this by classifying subjects as they
prepare for these activities.[1]
Needless to say, the results obtained by this thinker will be
infinitely more satisfactory than those arrived at by his unsystematic
brother. Method, then, is essential. But how are we to apply it in all
cases?
Now there are methods without number, and in many cases a problem will
require a method all its own; but we here purpose to take up only those
most general in application.
Before considering these methods of thinking, however, it would
be well to ask ourselves what thinking is. As stated before, the
term is loosely used to cover a wide range of mental processes.
These processes we may roughly divide into memory, imagination and
reasoning. It is the last only with which we have to deal. I admit that
development of the memory is desirable. I admit that development of the
imagination is equally desirable. But they are not the subject of this
book. By “thinking” I mean reasoning. And our present purpose is to
find the nature of this process.
Modern psychologists tell us that all reasoning begins in perplexity,
hesitation, doubt. “The process of reasoning is one of problem solving.
. . . The occasion for the reasoning is always a thwarted purpose.”[2]
It is essential we keep this in mind. It differs from the popular
conception even more than may appear at first sight. _If a man were to
know everything he could not think._ Nothing would ever puzzle him, his
purposes would never be thwarted, he would never experience perplexity
or doubt, he would have no problems. If we are to conceive of God as an
All-Knower, we cannot conceive of Him as a Thinking Being. Thinking is
reserved for beings of finite intelligence.
Were we to study the origin and evolution of thinking, we would
doubtless find that thinking arose in just this way—from thwarted
purposes. If our lives and the lives of our animal ancestors had always
run smoothly, if our every desire were immediately satisfied, if we
never met an obstacle in anything we tried to do, thinking would never
have appeared on this planet. But adversity forced us to it.
Tickle a frog’s left leg, and his right leg will immediately fly up
and scratch it. The action is merely what psychologists would call a
“reflex.” Absolutely no thinking takes place: the frog would do the
same thing if you removed its brain. And if you tickle its right leg
its left leg would fly up to scratch. But if you tickled both legs
at once they could not both fly up and scratch each other. It would
be a physical impossibility. Here, then, is a difficulty. The frog
hesitates; thinking steps upon the scene. After mature deliberation the
frog solves his problem: he holds his left leg still while he scratches
it with his right, then he holds his right leg still and scratches
that with his left.
We cannot, then, think on “general principles.” To try this is like
attempting to chew laughing gas. To think at all requires a purpose,
no matter how vague. The best thinking, however, requires a definite
purpose, and the more definite this purpose the more definite will be
our thinking. Therefore in taking up any special line of thought, we
must first find just what our end or purpose is, and thus get clearly
in mind what our problems are.
Advising a man to ask himself what his problems are may seem absurd.
But it is just this confusion as to what they want to know which
has driven men into error time and time again. The history of the
never-ending philosophical controversy between “materialism” and
“idealism” is largely a history of different ways of stating the issue;
the progress made is mainly due to the increasing definiteness with
which it has been stated.
One of the most frequent sources of confusion in stating questions
is in failure to distinguish between what is and what ought to be.
Considering woman suffrage a man will ask himself “What is woman’s
sphere?,” when he really wants to know not what woman’s sphere actually
is, but what it ought to be. Our first step, then, is to get our
problem or problems clearly in mind, and to state them as definitely as
possible. A problem properly stated is a problem partly solved.
What we will do next depends on the nature of the question. In the
example “What knowledge is of most worth?” we proceeded to look for
a criterion of worthiness. And this was really a re-stating of the
question. For instead of asking ourselves “What knowledge is of most
worth?,” we began asking “What knowledge best prepares for complete
living?”
Our next move was to classify. This is essential not only to systematic
reasoning but to thinking of any kind. Classification is the process
of grouping objects according to common qualities. But as almost all
objects differ in some qualities and almost all have some qualities
in common, it follows that, contrary to common belief, _there is no
one classification absolutely essential to any group of objects_. An
infinite number of classifications may be made, because every object
has an infinite number of attributes, depending on the aspect we take
of it. Nor is any one aspect of a thing “truer” than any other. The
aspect we take depends entirely on the purpose we have in mind or the
problem we wish to solve. As William James pointed out:
“Now that I am writing it is essential that I conceive my paper as a
surface for inscription. If I failed to do that I should have to stop
my work. But if I wished to light a fire and no other materials were
by, the essential way of conceiving the paper would be as combustible
material; and I need then have no thought of any of its other
destinations. It is really all that it is: a combustible, a writing
surface, a thin thing, a hydrocarbonaceous thing, a thing eight inches
one way and ten another, a thing just one furlong east of a certain
stone in my neighbor’s field, an American thing, etc., etc., _ad
infinitum_.”[3]
And if the reader insist that these qualities are merely “accidental,”
and that what the thing really is, is just _paper_ and nothing else,
the reply is that the reader is intellectually petrified; that though
“paper” may be our commonest title for it and may suggest our usual
purpose with it, yet that purpose and this title and the properties
which this title suggest have in reality nothing sacramental about them.
So because you have classified something from one aspect do not
imagine that you are necessarily precluded from classifying it from
any other. A man who is studying the theory of money may divide the
medium of exchange into standard money and credit currency. But this
need not keep him from viewing it as coins, government notes, and
bank currency, nor should it prevent him from classifying it into,
say (1) hand-to-hand money, (2) written or printed orders of one
party to pay specified sums to another, and (3) book accounts.[4]
All these classifications will be true; all may be useful for a full
comprehension. Every classification should of course be logical; but it
is far more essential that it be utilizable.
And while we are treating of utility, we might note that this
_pragmatic_ method can be applied with profit to nearly all our
positive problems. Before starting to solve a question—while deciding,
for instance, on the validity of some nice distinction in logic—we
should ask ourselves, “What practical difference will it make if
I hold one opinion or the other? How will my belief influence my
action?”—(using the word “action” in its broadest sense). This may
often lead our line of inquiry into more fruitful channels, keep
us from making fine but needless distinctions, help us to word our
question more relevantly, and lead us to make distinctions where we
really need them.
We are now ready to consider in order a number of constructive methods
in thinking.
One method applicable to almost all problems is what we may call
either the _deductive_ or the _à priori_ method. This method reaches a
conclusion without observation or experiment. It consists in reasoning
from previous experience or from established principles to particular
facts. It may, however, be used to confirm observation and experiment
as well as to take their place. Take the all important questions in
biology of whether or not specific characteristics acquired by an
animal during its life time are inherited by offspring. The a priori
method would examine the structures of the body, the germ plasm from
which the offspring develops, and the relation between them, and would
ask just how a specific change in the body could affect the germ. If it
were found that the tissues that are to continue the race were set off
so completely from the structures of the body as to make inconceivable
any manner by which they could be influenced by changes in these
structures, then this method would decide that acquired characteristics
are not transmitted.
Let us take another example. Both the supporters and opponents of
woman suffrage have often decided the question without consulting at
all the actual results achieved in the States where women vote. They
have settled the question to their own satisfaction merely on a priori
grounds. They have considered woman’s supposed mental qualities as
compared with man’s, and have decided on her fitness for the ballot
solely from these considerations. It must be remembered, however, that
before women were admitted to suffrage anywhere, deductive or a priori
reasoning was the only kind possible.
It is often helpful to look at a problem from the viewpoint of
different sciences. A problem in political science will very likely
have an economic aspect, whether it concerns taxation, tariff, trusts
or the ownership of land, and so we may look at the question solely
from the viewpoint of economics. But the problem may also have an
ethical aspect. If it is proposed to pass a universal prohibition law,
you may ask, “Has the Government the right to interfere in this way
with personal liberty?” Again, we could take a psychological view: we
would decide from our knowledge of human nature just what the effect of
an alcohol prohibition law would be—whether it would not drive men to
even more dangerous drugs, such as morphine and opium.
And now we come to a whole host of effective methods, all of which may
be classed as comparative. The comparative method is as old as thought
itself, but it is strange that even scientists did not begin to use
it consciously and consistently until almost the present generation.
Nowhere is it better illustrated than in modern psychology. Most of
the so-called branches of psychology are merely different forms of the
comparative method of treatment. “Abnormal psychology” is merely a
comparison of abnormal mental types with normal mental types for the
light they throw on each other. “Child study” is a comparison of the
mind of the child with that of the adult. “Animal psychology” is a
comparison of the actions of animals with each other and with those of
man. And none of these methods is of any value except in so far as it
makes use of comparison.
Often consciously used in the consideration of problems is the
so-called historical method. This method, as its name implies, consists
in obtaining knowledge of a thing by considering its past record. The
word history is popularly used in so narrow a sense, however, being
restricted only to the history of nations, and often merely to the
political history of nations, that we can avoid confusion by calling
this method the evolutionary. In the final analysis the method is
comparative, for it really consists in comparing a thing at one period
of development with itself at another period.
Let us take our example from political science. The historical
method, in its popular sense, has been so much used here, even to the
exclusion of other methods, that it would seem needless to speak of
it. But often the method has been abused and often it has not been
given broad enough treatment. It traces the growth of an institution,
or of an idea—personal liberty, say,—through successive periods.
It notes what the path has been, and judges of the probable future
tendency. But a far broader outlook than we get from this narrowly
conceived “historical” method is furnished by evolutionary sociology.
Here we inquire into the origin of society and of the various trades,
industries, professions and pursuits of all kinds, and to do this we go
far into prehistoric times.
Nowhere is the evolutionary method more strikingly seen than in
biology. Since Darwin’s great theory was promulgated the science has
gone forward by leaps and bounds. We have derived untold benefit from
a comparison of man and animals in the light of this hypothesis;
even study of the development of individual man has been aided. The
discovery of the _fact_ of evolution constituted an incalculable
advance, but the method for study which it furnished was of even
greater importance.
I have spoken of the comparison of man and animals “in the light of
this (evolutionary) hypothesis.” This brings us to a point which must
be kept in mind in practically all observation. We are often exhorted
to “observe.” Presumably we are to do this “on general principles.”
Such advice is about as foolish as asking us to think on general
principles. Imagine for the moment what would happen if you started
right now to “observe” as much as you could. You might begin with this
book and notice the size of the type, the amount of margin, the quality
of the paper, the dimensions of the page, the number of pages. But
you have by no means exhausted the number of properties possessed by
this book. You must observe that it is also combustible, that it is
destructible, that it is machine made, that it is American printed,
that it is such and such a price, that it weighs so many ounces,
that it is flat, that it is rectangular, that its thickness is so
much. . . .
The absurdity is obvious. If we started out merely to observe, with no
definite purpose in mind, we could keep it up forever. And get nowhere.
Nine out of every ten observations would never be put to use. We would
be sinfully wasting our time. To observe most profitably, just as to
think most profitably, we must have a definite purpose. This purpose
must be _to test the truth of a supposition_. A concrete example will
make this clear.
A man has been shipwrecked on an island and believes himself to be
alone there. One day, as he is walking along the beach, he discovers
footprints. How did they get there? His first assumption is that they
are his own. It occurs to him, however, that he had not been near this
spot for over a week, and that yesterday’s storm would have washed any
footprints away. This objection is confirmed by making a footprint
himself and comparing it with the one observed, and noticing that they
differ markedly. The footprints being those of some one else, how did
the man who made them get there? The first supposition is that he
came in a boat. The idea of a small boat is dismissed because of the
assumed great distance of this island from other land. Therefore the
man must have come in a large vessel. But the footprints lead to a wet
part of the sand and the tide is just going down. In this case they
are very recent—made not more than a half hour ago. This being so the
man who made them could not have had time to get back to any ship and
sail out of sight. If he came in a ship it should be still in view. The
discoverer of the footprints climbs a tree from which he can view the
sea around the entire island. He can sight no vessel. The supposition
or hypothesis that the unknown came in a ship is abandoned. Then the
suggestion comes that the unknown has been on the island during the
entire time that the shipwrecked man thought himself alone. This
suggestion is tested in a manner similar to the others. . . .
The example sums up roughly the general process of all thought, and
brings out the motive and value of observation. Let us analyze it.
The first thing to happen is the arousal of a feeling of perplexity,
the appearance of a problem. The man has been shambling along,
doubtless “thinking” in that loose sense referred to. He has perhaps
kicked several stones loose that would have set a geologist worrying,
and has picked branches from bushes which would have puzzled a
botanist. But this man has not had his curiosity aroused until he has
come to these footprints. His thinking starts with his perplexity.
After this doubt has been aroused the most obvious solution suggests
itself—“my own footprints.” But if true, this suggestion involves the
co-existence of other facts, some of which are known and some of which
may be determined. Thus, _if_ they were his own footprints, it must,
among other things, necessarily follow (1) that he had been at that
spot before, (2) that nothing had happened since that time to remove
the prints, (3) that the footprints corresponded to his own. The first
consequence involved—that he had been there before—was a fact, but
the others were not, and so the suggestion was dropped. Then a second
hypothesis occurred—“the man came in a ship”—and this was tried out
in a similar way. Notice that in each case the consequences dependent
on the truth of the suggestion are tried out (1) by memory, (2) by
observation or experiment. Memory came when he thought of the last time
he had walked near the beach and of yesterday’s storm. Observation came
when he compared his footprint with the one seen, when he followed the
footprints along the sand and noticed where they led, when he climbed a
tree and looked for a ship. There were a number of other things which
he could have observed. He might have noticed the texture of the sand,
what kind of a tree he was climbing, what sort of clouds were in the
sky. But he did not observe these interesting things simply because
they would throw no light on the truth or falsity of his supposition.
In another problem one of these facts might have been of value.
It is almost possible to sum up the whole process of thinking as the
occurrence of suggestions for the solution of difficulties and the
testing out of those suggestions. The suggestions or suppositions
are tested by observation, memory, experiment. Supposition and
observation alternate. The first facts observed—in the case foregoing,
the footprints—make the problem, they suggest the supposition. A
supposition is that the man came in a boat. _If_ the man came in a boat
such and such would be the case—the boat would still be visible, etc.
If the boat is not visible the supposition is given up and another one
made; if the boat is visible the supposition is confirmed. This is a
case of simple and rudimentary thinking, but it illustrates roughly the
process of thought on even the most complicated problems of science.
The methods we have been discussing may all be considered simply as
means for helping good suggestions occur to us.
Let us illustrate by considering a few methods of rather restricted
application. We are often aided in the solution of a problem by asking
its opposite. If we ask ourselves “What constitutes gracefulness?” we
may find ourselves at a loss for suggestions, because gracefulness
always seems “so natural.” But if we ask its opposite, “What
constitutes awkwardness?,” suggestions are more apt to occur. If we
find, for instance, that awkwardness consists in undue bodily effort
in making a movement, we may assume that gracefulness consists in ease
of movement. In the same way the question of what makes us forget may
be helped by asking ourselves what makes us remember, and light may be
thrown on the causes of success in business and in life by a study of
the causes of failure.
The method of analogy likewise encourages suggestions. Analogy consists
in noting certain likenesses between things, and assuming that they
also possess other common qualities. Striking use of analogy is made
in dealing with the planet Mars. At each pole there are great white
patches. The size of these varies markedly with the seasons, which
suggests that like the earth, Mars has great areas of ice and snow at
its two poles which melt and re-form. The general surface is reddish,
but three-eighths of it is covered by blue-green tracts, and these are
usually inferred to be seas. These again are connected by an intricate
system of blue-green lines, which some scientists believe to be
canals, but on this there is much controversy. In Mars we have at once
an illustration of the possibilities and dangers of analogy.
In the whole discussion of constructive method thus far, I have left
out the two most common and useful methods of all. The first of
these we may designate by a somewhat formidable title: _empirical
observation_. Empirical, at least for our present purposes, means
merely that which comes within experience. But the term is generally
opposed to scientific. Thus Dewey gives an example: “A says, ‘It will
probably rain to-morrow.’ B asks, ‘Why do you think so?’ And A replies,
‘Because the sky was lowering at sunset.’ When B asks, ‘What has that
to do with it?’ A responds, ‘I do not know, but it generally does rain
after such a sunset.’ He does not perceive any _connection_ between
the appearance of the sky and the coming rain; he is not aware of any
continuity in the facts themselves—any law or principle, as we usually
say. He simply, from frequently recurring conjunction of the events,
has associated them so that when he sees one he thinks of the other.”[5]
This, however, is not what I mean to imply by the term empirical
observation. I mean rather thinking on the basis merely of facts
which occur in the natural course of events, which have not been
systematically produced by ourselves or others for the purpose
of solving a problem. Logicians usually call this method simply
_observation_, and oppose it to experiment. But I object to calling
this simply observation because experiment itself is really
observation, only in one case we observe merely events which happen to
occur, and in the other we observe the results of events _which we have
made occur_. The true way of distinguishing these two methods would
be to call one _empirical observation_, and the other _experimental
observation_.
This empirical method—if indeed I am justified in calling it a
_method_—is the most common in all thinking. To give examples of it
would be to show how men generally think. But the method has real
value, and may even be the most important of all, for if we thought
without it our ideas would doubtless be original, but very dangerous.
Let us apply it to some of the problems considered under other methods.
Empirical observation is used where experiment is impossible—often,
unfortunately, where experiment is merely inconvenient. In political
science the empirical method would consist in noting the effect of
certain laws,—e.g., tariffs of different countries and of the same
country at different periods—and noting economic conditions at the time
the different tariffs were in effect. Allowance would be made for other
factors which could influence the country’s economic condition and the
effect of the tariff could then be determined.
The empirical method of dealing with meteorology, the science of
weather, would consist in making a study of cloud formations, wind
velocity, moisture in the air, temperature, etc., and noting what
conditions usually or perhaps invariably followed certain of these
conditions. From this, conclusions could be drawn as to what weather
to expect following certain conditions.
But valuable as empirical observation is, and often as we must use it,
it should never be employed when we can experiment. When the empirical
method is rightly used allowance always has to be made for certain
irrelevant factors. But “making allowances” is always sheer guess
work. _The experimental method consists not in making allowances for
certain factors, but in eliminating those factors._ In our example
from political science experiment is practically impossible, because
the factors which may influence economic conditions are innumerable,
and even were they few, no country could survive the dangers of being
experimented upon—to say nothing of its permitting it. Experiment is
similarly impossible in dealing with weather conditions directly. It is
impossible in astronomy.
But it could be applied quite easily to most questions. Suppose you
wanted to determine beyond question which of two methods of teaching a
given subject was the better. We shall assume for the moment that you
have unlimited time and money to experiment. It may be thought that
we could settle this simply by teaching one person according to one
method and another person according to the other, and that we could
determine the relative merits of each method from the progress made by
each pupil. This, however, would be practically of no use whatever.
One pupil might be naturally brighter than the other, and so would
naturally learn quicker, even were he taught by an inferior method.
To make the experiment of any use we should first take two _groups_
of pupils—the larger the better. For it is obvious that if we take a
great number of pupils and place them in two groups the differences
between the individuals will tend to offset one another. Let us say the
subject is one in which the progress can be quantitatively measured,
say typewriting, and let us suppose there are fifty pupils in each
group. If after a given time _all_ the pupils in one group had attained
a greater speed with accuracy than _all_ the pupils in the other,
the test would be almost unquestionable. This would be even more
conclusive if the groups were reasonably well balanced. For if all of
one group were men and all of the other were boys, the men might make
more rapid progress than the boys even with a less efficient system.
But it should be easy to divide classes and groups so as to have a
reasonable balance of intelligence between them. The probable result
of any experiment would be that in neither class would all the pupils
make more progress than all the pupils of the other, though you might
find that the preponderating majority in one class improved faster than
those in the other, and this would probably be sufficient to indicate
the superiority of one method, even though one or two pupils in the
second group progressed faster than one or two in the first.
I say “probably” because there are still many irrelevant factors which
might influence the result. For instance, if you had a different
teacher for each group, one group might make greater progress not
because of the method but because of the teacher. This means either
that one teacher should teach both groups, or that we should multiply
the number of groups and the number of teachers, and have half the
teachers teaching half the groups by one method, and the other half
teaching by the other method. Of course here too the more we could
multiply the number the better it would be. Even then there might be
some reasonable question as to the validity of the experiment, for it
might be that one method would tend to encourage faster progress at
the beginning, but that the other would lead to greater progress in
the long run. This could be determined only by carrying our experiment
over a long period. And we might still have irrelevant factors, for the
machines on which one group learnt to typewrite might be superior to
those on which the other group learnt, and this factor would have to be
eliminated in a similar way to the others.
The experimental method has been well summed up by Thomson and Tait in
their _Natural Philosophy_:
“In all cases when a particular agent or cause is to be studied,
experiments should be arranged in such a way as to lead if possible
to results depending on it alone; or, if this cannot be done, they
should be arranged so as to increase the effects due to the cause to be
studied till these so far exceed the unavoidable concomitants, that the
latter may be considered as only disturbing, not essentially modifying
the effects of the principal agent.”
In all experiments one must exercise ingenuity in finding other causes
besides the one to be studied which may possibly influence a result,
and in eliminating these. It might benefit the reader considerably if
he were to think out for himself how he would apply experiment in its
most thoroughgoing form to solve a given question, say the inheritance
of acquired characteristics.
* * * * *
I have now cited enough methods to at least indicate what “thinking
with method” means. To satisfy a certain human craving all of these
have been named, though sometimes arbitrarily. Of course each may have
to be modified to some extent to adjust it to different problems. I
must repeat: there are methods numberless, and some problems will
require methods all their own.
But what is important is that every problem should be dealt with by
as many methods as possible. Doubtless you have used, at some time or
other in the course of your thinking, nearly every one of the methods
I have so far suggested. But the point is not that you have never used
these methods at all, but that you have not used them often enough. You
were unaware what method you were using. Consequently you used it only
occasionally. You used it only when you stumbled on it accidentally. To
formulate methods is to bring them to your attention, so that you may
use them always, thoroughly, correctly, consistently.
We have treated political science from most angles. We have applied
more than one method to several other problems. To still further
clarify, exemplify and impress this point, I shall show the application
of method to one more subject.
Suppose you wanted to invent a system of shorthand, and wanted to make
it as perfect as possible. How would you go about it?
Your first step should be to restate your question most advantageously.
You want to create certain characters or symbols, which will (1) take
the shortest time to write, (2) will be easily recognized by yourself
or others, even if written carelessly, and (3) which will not be so
numerous or so complex as to be difficult to learn. You may decide that
such symbols would have even further requirements. Next you should
decide on the methods to use in attacking your problem—this in order
not to forget any. Now assume you have decided on these methods and
that the first is the a priori. Your conclusion might be that it would
be impossible to have a different symbol for every word, and that it
is necessary to have some sort of alphabet. Should this alphabet be
based on that used in longhand? That is, should merely a simpler symbol
stand in place of each letter? Or should a different symbol represent
each sound? Or would it be possible to have a different elementary
symbol for each syllable? Having decided the basis for your symbols or
characters, you will know at least approximately the number required.
Your problem will then become that of making the characters as simple
as possible, so that they may be written most quickly; and yet as
different from each other as possible so that if written carelessly
(as they will be when written swiftly), they may be easily recognized.
You might try writing down all the simplest symbols you can think of.
Or you might ask yourself whether there is any fundamental geometrical
figure from which you can derive your symbols. Or you might study the
simplest and easiest movements of the hand, and base your characters on
these.
This a priori method is most apt of all to provoke real thinking. It
should therefore be taken up before any of the others. Not only is it
best for making you think deeply, but it will be more likely than any
of the others to make you think originally. However, whether attended
by great or little success, this method should be followed by others.
Not the least fruitful of these would be the evolutionary. This, of
course, would consist in studying the history of shorthand, finding out
the direction in which it has been tending, and thus anticipating in
some degree its future development. As this method is comparative we
would naturally be led from it to comparing the shorthand systems of
to-day, and assaying the good and bad qualities of each. These could
only be assayed if we knew something of shorthand theory, and thus our
experience with the deductive or a priori method would be of service.
Implied in here is a method of different nature than any we have yet
discussed, but one of immense help. In turning from the deductive
method to a study of shorthand systems which others have developed,
you have an opportunity to compare the results of your own thinking
with those obtained by others. If you have failed to solve the question
in as good a manner as these others, you can ask yourself wherein and
why your own reflections and ingenuity fell short. If you follow this
method with all problems—i.e., thinking a thing out for yourself before
looking up what others have thought—you will soon improve your thinking
surprisingly. The method is capable of application in every problem,
from inventing an adding machine to trying to find how the plumber got
that $3.46 on the bill.
But to return to shorthand. We still have the empirical and
experimental methods. In this particular case the difference between
them would be simply one of degree. We could find, for instance, what
systems were used by the fastest shorthand writers; but we could get
nothing conclusive from this, for we would have to make allowance for
the natural ability and length of training of these writers. From
merely looking at two outlines or characters, it is often difficult to
tell which can be written faster. This could only be tested by writing
hundreds in a row and finding the time it took to write the same number
of each. Of course such experiment is capable of indefinite expansion.
In dealing with method heretofore, I have at times come dangerously
near to making a false assumption. I have been talking as if a man
who took up political science, shorthand, or any other subject, were
dealing with only one problem. As a matter of fact he is dealing with
a whole series of problems. Just how many it is difficult to say,
because no problem worthy of the name is an indivisible unit, and
may always be broken into smaller problems. The whole science of
æsthetics is included in the simple question “What is beauty?”, the
science of ethics is merely the answer to “What is right conduct?”,
and metaphysics may be reduced to the problem “What is reality?” But
when we come to deal with any of these we instinctively break them up
into smaller and more concrete problems, making the treatment easier,
just as a general attempts to split his enemy’s forces, so that he can
annihilate one section at a time. Often, indeed, the very division of
the larger problem into smaller problems constitutes its solution, for
we finally come to a problem which practically answers itself, and
which we recognize as being included in, or a particular form of, some
more general problem to which we already know the answer.