Government?” Perhaps he will first of all consider certain different
specific activities which might possibly be supposed to come within
the sphere of governmental interference. He might ask himself, for
instance, “Should the Government interfere with freedom of contract?”
Notice that he has here temporarily made his problem narrower, he has
chosen to break it up in order to deal with it part by part. But even
when he came to cope with this smaller problem he would probably find
it necessary to break this up, and he would therefore take a specific
example. Suppose a man works for so much an hour, and that nine hours’
work a day gives him the minimum amount on which he can live and
support his family. Would it be wise to limit the legal working day of
such a man to eight hours? This problem practically answers itself,
and so further division is unnecessary. Of course the answer to this
does not determine the answer to the original question, for other parts
still remain to be considered.
In fact, much of the success of our thinking will depend upon just how
we divide our big problems into subsidiary problems, and just what our
subsidiary or subordinate problems are. This will depend to some extent
on our own natural sagacity, and to some extent on mere chance. No
rigid rules can be laid down. The only advice which can be offered is
that when a thinker breaks up a problem he should do so with an eye to
utility and definiteness.
John Stuart Mill, in an essay on Jeremy Bentham, pointed out that the
secret of the latter’s strength and originality of thought lay in his
method, which “may be shortly described as the method of detail; of
treating wholes by separating them into their parts, abstractions by
resolving them into things,—classes and generalities by distinguishing
them into the individuals of which they are made up; and breaking every
question into pieces before attempting to solve it.” The method was not
absolutely original with Bentham, but “whatever originality there was
in the method, in the subjects he applied it to, and in the rigidity
with which he adhered to it, there was the greatest.”
The systematic thinker is careful of the manner in which he marshals
his difficulties. He knows that certain problems should properly be
considered before certain others, and he saves himself labor and
sometimes error by considering them in that order. Before asking
himself how Government should cure a given social evil, he first asks
whether it is the duty or even the right of the State to attend to
that particular evil at all. In other words, before asking what the
State should do in any particular case, he considers first what the
proper sphere of government is. It must be admitted that a previous
question often cannot be discovered until one has actually attempted
the solution of a problem. In the foregoing instance, it would be
difficult to determine the proper sphere of government by any other
method than a consideration of particular cases where government
interference suggests itself.
In fact, it is only by deep reflection on a subject that we come to
realize most of the problems involved. You walk along the road with
your friend the botanist and he stops to pick what looks to you to be
a common wild flower. “Hm,” he muses, “I wonder how that got in this
part of the country?” Now that is no problem to you, simply because
you do not happen to know why that particular flower should _not_ be
there—and what men do not know about they take for granted. Knowledge
furnishes problems, and the discovery of problems itself constitutes an
intellectual advance.
Whenever you are thrashing out a subject, write down every problem,
difficulty and objection that occurs to you. When you get what you
consider a satisfactory solution, see whether or not it answers all of
them.
I have stated that method is essential to good thinking. I have given
rules and examples of methodic thinking. But I do not want to create
a false impression. If a man has not within him the materials of a
thinker, no amount of method can make him one. Half the thinking
process, as pointed out, depends on the occurrence of suggestions. The
occurrence of suggestions depends on how ideas are associated in a
man’s mind. While this depends to some extent on the education and the
whole past life and environment of the individual, it depends far more
on inborn mental qualities. All method can do is to awaken the most
fruitful associations of ideas already in mind. Hence the more methods
we adopt—the greater the number of views we take of any problem—the
more solutions will suggest themselves.
There is one further reason why we should take as many different
viewpoints as possible. In our example of the inheritance of acquired
characteristics in animals, if we had been sure that the results of our
deductive reasoning were correct, it would have been a sinful waste of
time to experiment. But when we attack a problem by several methods we
can compare the results from each. If these results agree we have good
evidence that our solution is correct. But if we have adopted quite a
number of viewpoints, and have not let the results of one influence
those of the next, they are almost certain to be at variance. This
means that we have erred in applying one or several methods. How are
we to find which of the methods it was, and how are we to prevent such
errors?
This is the subject of our next chapter.
III
A FEW CAUTIONS
Thus far we have considered only positive and constructive thinking,
and means for obtaining relevant suggestions. We have had almost
nothing to do with cautions, means for avoiding fallacy and error, and
means for testing the truth and value of suggestions. Most writers who
have discussed thinking have dwelt so much on the negative aspect—so
much on what we should not do—and have so slighted the question of
what we should do, that I have perhaps been led to adopt this order,
more from a feeling of revolt than because it is logically better. But
I believe I have logic on my side. Constructive methods make thinking
“go”; cautions steer it in the right path. An automobile without a
steering gear is almost as useless as one without a motor. But an
automobile can go without being steered, whereas it cannot be steered
unless it is going.
But while with automobiles we can clearly divide moving from steering,
we cannot do this with thinking. The two processes are so inextricably
bound up, that we cannot engage in one without engaging in the other;
we cannot even speak of one without implying the other. I have divided
them for convenience of exposition. But in the last chapter we were
forced to deal slightly with cautions, and here we shall have to
consider constructive methods to some extent.
A case in point is classification. In taking this up from a
constructive standpoint, I remarked that all classifications ought to
be logical. But I did not say what I meant by logical, nor did I tell
how a logical classification could be secured. The two most prominent
errors made in classifying are (1) not making classifications mutually
exclusive, (2) not making them cover all the objects or phenomena
supposed to be classified.
The first error is the less common, for though occurring among all
thinkers, it is comparatively infrequent among those who proceed with
caution. It is, moreover, more easily discovered than the second.
Consider the classification of constructive methods into comparison,
observation, and experiment. It is apparent that these methods overlap.
We cannot compare without observing, much of our observation involves
comparison, when we experiment we must of course observe the results
obtained, and the results are usually always compared. All three
methods could be classed under observation. It is well to remember,
however, that the first classification may be useful—even more so than
one strictly logical, and that the nature of a subject will often make
impracticable, divisions which do not overlap in some degree.
The second error—that of not making a classification cover all the
objects or phenomena it is supposed to cover—is not so easy to
detect. It is one to which the greatest philosophers have been heir.
Some of our Socialist friends say there are but two kinds of people:
capitalists and laborers, “the people who live on others and the people
who are lived on.” They overlook that class of farmers who own a little
piece of land and do their own tilling. Even if they insist that such a
class “is rapidly becoming extinct,” the fact remains that it is still
with us and must be taken into account.
All classifications are made with a certain number of facts in mind,
and fortunate is he who happens to have just the right facts. We cannot
hold many facts in mind at once, and we often generalize upon thousands
of things by taking a supposedly representative dozen. To avoid error
all we can do is to keep constantly on the lookout for examples,
especially those which apparently will not fit into our generalization.
If they go in without straining anything, our classification receives
added warrant. But sometimes you will find that where you have three
classes a new fact will necessitate a fourth, and that often it will
overturn your whole beautiful structure.
There is another phase of thinking, which while chiefly cautionary, is
also in part constructive. We have so often been warned to “avoid the
treachery of words” and to “define all our terms” that a repetition
of the advice seems unnecessary. But we cannot overlook the excellent
counsel of Blaise Pascal. He urges that we not only define our terms,
but that whenever we use them we mentally substitute the definition.
However, this needs to be qualified. If every time we used a term we
stopped to substitute its definition, our thought might be exact but
would hardly move forward very rapidly. It will usually be sufficient
simply to substitute the definition a few times, for after doing this
we shall gradually come to know exactly what we mean by a term, and
further substitution would merely waste time. Of course, all this need
be applied only to terms new, technical or equivocal; or those used in
a mooted proposition.
I have spoken of analogy as a constructive method. This, however,
should be used only for suggestion, for it is most dangerous. Often
we use an analogy and are quite unaware of it. Thus many social
and political thinkers have called society an “organism,” and have
proceeded to deal with it as if it were a large animal. They have
thought not in terms of the actual phenomena under consideration,
but in terms of the analogy. In so far as the terms of the analogy
were more concrete than those of the phenomena, their thinking has
been made easier. But no analogy will ever hold good throughout, and
consequently these thinkers have often fallen into error.
The quickest way to detect error in analogy is to carry it out as far
as it will go—and further. Every analogy will break down somewhere. Any
analogy if carried out far enough becomes absurd. We are most likely to
err when we carry an analogy too far, but not to the point where the
absurdity is apparent. Take the analogy employed in our first chapter,
comparing thinking and a ship. For the sake of the image I shall make
this a motor-boat. We might carry this out further. We might compare
the effect on the mind of books and experience to the fuel used for the
engine. The brain, transforming outward experience into thought, might
be paralleled with a carburetor transforming fuel into usable form.
An idea may be compared to a spark. All this is very fascinating. It
may even lead to suggestions of real value. But it is bound soon or
late to develop into the ludicrous. The analogy in question, however,
does not need to be developed to be confuted. For unless a boat has a
propeller and a rudder, its engine is useless. A mind is capable of
attaining truth without even being aware of the existence of a science
of thinking or of logic.
Another way to find whether an analogy is fallacious is to see whether
you can discover a counter analogy. Surely this is the most effective
practice in refuting analogy in argument. This suggests the case of
the man who had a ticket from New York to Chicago, and tried to use it
from Chicago to New York. The railroad refused to accept it, whereupon
the man brought suit. The lawyer for the defendant, in the heat of
the debate, said, “Why, a man might just as well pay for a barrel of
potatoes and then demand a barrel of apples!” Whereupon the attorney
for the plaintiff replied, “It would be rather like a grocer selling
a man a barrel of potatoes and then trying to compel him to eat them
from the top down, refusing to allow him to turn the barrel upside
down and begin eating them from the bottom up.” It is best to avoid
analogy except for purposes of suggestion, or as a rhetorical device
for explaining an idea already arrived at by other means.
I have been forced to defend my advice to take as many viewpoints
as possible, by pointing out that the conclusions obtained from
these viewpoints might disagree; in fact would be almost sure to
disagree. Of course, this disagreement might be avoided if we allowed
the conclusions reached by one method or viewpoint to influence our
conclusions in another. But if we do this we give our problem more
shallow treatment, and we are not so sure of a result when we get it.
When a mathematician adds a column of figures from the top down, he
confirms by re-adding from the bottom up. He knows that if he added
in the same manner the second time he would be liable to fall into
the same errors. And in thinking, when we leave one method and take
up another, we should try to forget entirely the first conclusion and
begin on the problem as if we had never taken it up before. After we
have taken up all the applicable methods, then, and then only, should
we begin to compare conclusions.
Time forbids doing this with all problems. Time forbids even attacking
all problems from different points of view. But there are some
problems where this unquestionably ought to be done. The problem
of whether or not characteristics acquired during the life time of
one individual may be inherited by his offspring, if dealt with at
all, is too important to be left to the a priori method alone. This
problem asks whether the children of educated parents will necessarily
be innately superior to the children of uneducated parents; it asks
whether the man of today is superior to the ancient Greek, or even the
present day savage; or, assuming that the negro race is inferior to the
white race, it asks whether generations of education will bring it to
the white race level or leave it unchanged; it asks whether the hope
of improving the human race lies in education or eugenics. No question
can be more important than this in its practical bearings. The answer
to it will profoundly influence our opinions in education, psychology,
ethics, economics, political science—even philosophy and metaphysics.
The answer we obtain to this question from deductive reasoning, no
matter how unanswerable or conclusive it may seem, should be checked
up by nothing short of the most thoroughgoing experiment.
Unfortunately the experiments needed for this particular question
cannot be carried on by the layman. It is equally to be regretted that
scientists have been none too thorough in carrying them out themselves.
But we should remember that any result we arrive at should be subject
to revision, and that if we take up this problem at all, we should at
least make it our duty to read about and criticise all the experiments
that come to our notice.
A question has perhaps just occurred to the reader. If the deductive
method is to be checked up by experiment, and the results of the
experiment are always to be taken, why not experiment first, and omit
theory altogether?
Leaving aside the fact that theory is the best guide for
experiment—that were it not for theory and the problems and hypotheses
that come out of it, we would not know the points we wanted to verify,
and hence would experiment aimlessly—a more serious objection is that
experiment is seldom if ever perfect, for it nearly always involves
some unverified assumption. I have referred to empirical observation
and experiment as two different methods. But the difference is
mainly, if not solely, one of degree. If we experimented to find out
whether acquired characteristics were inherited, it is obvious that
our experiments would have to be confined to animals. If we found,
let us say, that no acquired characteristic was ever transmitted
to offspring, we could not say that this would be equally true of
man, but would be justified in concluding only that the acquired
characteristics of _animals_ are not transmitted to descendants. Nay,
we could not go even this far. We would have to confine ourselves
to the statement that certain acquired characteristics of the few
score animals we had experimented upon were not transmissible. But
even this statement would involve assumption. We could say only
that certain acquired characteristics of the few score animals we
had experimented upon had not been transmitted in these particular
instances. We would have to limit ourselves to a bare statement of
fact; we could draw no conclusion whatever. But if we had attacked
this problem from the deductive standpoint, and had concluded that
owing to certain conditions holding alike in all animals and in man,
acquired characteristics _could not possibly_ be transmitted, we would
have sufficient ground for deriving from our experiments a broad
generalization.
Experiment and deduction are not the only methods which can be checked
up against each other. We can do likewise with the comparative and
the experimental, the historical and the theoretical—in fact, all
viewpoints applicable to any one problem.
* * * * *
When you encounter a question about which there is a controversy, and
where the adherents of both sides nearly equal each other in number
and intellectual status, you may be almost certain that each side has
caught sight of some truth, but that neither has seen the whole truth;
and you should endeavor to unite both sides by a broader and deeper
solution. A classic philosophical example of this method is Herbert
Spencer’s attempt to reconcile science and religion, and his effort
to unite the “intuitional” and “experiential” schools of thought. The
intuitionists maintained that the mind had from birth intuitions by
which it knew certain truths independently of experience. Such truths
as the axiom that a straight line is the shortest distance between two
points, or that it is morally wrong to do certain acts, were regarded
as among these intuitions. The “empiricists” or “sensationalists,” on
the other hand, maintained that all our knowledge—even of such a fact,
for instance, as that two and two are four, where we cannot conceive
otherwise—is learned solely from the individual’s experience, taken in
its broadest sense. Herbert Spencer thought he recognized some truth
in both these doctrines, and came forward with the theory that there
are certain truths which are intuitions so far as the individual is
concerned, but that these intuitions have been inherited from our
ancestors, were originally built up through the ages, and represent
the accumulated experience of the race. Whatever may be thought of
Spencer’s success in this case, the value of the method itself is
undoubted. It was frequently used by Kant, Hegel, Fichte and other
German philosophers.
I have remarked that it is almost possible to sum up the entire process
of thinking as the occurrence of suggestions for the solution of
difficulties and the testing out of those suggestions. The constructive
methods discussed were called means for making good suggestions occur
to us. From this standpoint the cautions with which we have just been
dealing may be considered as tests of suggestions.
Let us refer back to the analysis of thinking given in the case of the
man who discovered footprints on the beach. Even there, in order to
give any adequate idea of his thought process, I was obliged to show
that for various reasons he rejected certain suggested solutions. But
this negative method could be more fully developed. Because the man
rejected a certain solution, it does not follow that it was necessarily
wrong. Suppose the final suggestion—that the unknown had been on the
island all the time—were to have been tested out, and that certain
further facts were discovered which tended to disprove it; the man
might find it necessary to look for still another solution. But suppose
this were not forthcoming, suppose that all the possibilities had been
exhausted. It would be necessary to return to some of the original
suggestions. He would have to see whether an error had been made in
testing them. In rejecting the suggestion of a small boat he may have
overestimated the distance of this island from other land. He may have
underestimated the difficulties that a man in a small boat is capable
of surmounting. In rejecting the supposition of a ship, he may have
erred in his judgment of the time the footprints had been on the beach,
or of the time it would take a large vessel to get out of sight.
What is essential is that all suggestions be tested out, either by
memory, observation or experiment, in all their implications, and that
the tendency be resisted to accept the first solution that suggests
itself. For the uncritical thinker will always jump at the first
suggestion, unless an objection actually forces itself into view.
Remaining in a state of doubt is unpleasant. The longer the doubt
remains the more unpleasant it becomes. But the man who is willing
to accept this unpleasantness, the man who is willing carefully
to observe, or experiment if need be, to test the validity of his
suggestions, will finally arrive at a solution much deeper, and one
which will give him far more satisfaction, than the superficial answer
obtained by the man of careless habits of thought.
Thomas A. Edison says he always rejects an easy solution of any problem
and looks for something difficult. But the inventor has one great
advantage over any other kind of thinker. He can test his conclusion
in a tangible way. If his device works, his thinking was right; if his
device doesn’t work, his thinking was wrong. But the philosopher, the
scientist, the social reformer, has no such satisfactory test. His only
satisfaction is the feeling that his results harmonize with all his
experience. The more critical he has been in arriving at those results,
the more deep and permanent will be that feeling, the more valuable
will be his thoughts to himself and to the world. . . .
Even in the first chapter I intimated that logic would constitute a
part of the science of thinking. I intimated, moreover, that it would
constitute almost the whole of what may be called the negative side
of thinking—those rules which serve to steer thought aright. Though
cautionary, the advice given in this chapter is not usually given in
books on logic. But though I cannot overemphasize the importance of a
knowledge of logic, I cannot deal with it here. The science can receive
justice only in a book devoted entirely to it.
If he has not already done so the would-be thinker should study a work
on logic, for unless the present book is supplemented by some treatise
on that science it cannot be regarded as complete.
In order not to confuse the reader I shall recommend only one book.
In order to encourage him I shall recommend a small book, one not so
deep as to be incomprehensible or repulsive to the beginner, but at the
same time one which is recognized as a standard treatise:—_Elementary
Lessons in Logic_, by Stanley Jevons.
IV
CONCENTRATION
What is the hardest task in the world? To think.—EMERSON.