effort may not produce results at the time, still if it had not been
made, the associate which finally comes to mind would probably never
have occurred at all. The reader has possibly found that when learning
some skilled movement, such as bicycle riding, skating or swimming, his
first attempts seemed without result, but after an interval of a week
or a month, when trying again, he suddenly discovered that he could do
what he wanted from the very start. Surely no one would contend that
this could happen without the previous effort!
I must also question Spencer’s remark that “with the cessation of
strain the true association of ideas has an opportunity of asserting
itself.” The brain has no hidden mechanism by which it can separate the
true from the false. To be sure, if we use no effort the most usual
and strongest associations will be more likely to assert themselves,
and it may be that often these will have more warrant than unusual and
weaker associations. Outside of this, there is no superiority.
But the main reason why we cannot follow the method of Herbert Spencer
is that we are not all Herbert Spencers. His thought naturally tended
to serious and useful channels. Consequently he did not have to force
it there. If the reader is one of those rare and fortunate beings whose
thoughts run only to useful subjects, and who always concentrate from
pure spontaneous interest, I sincerely advise him not to force himself.
And if such a being happens to be reading the present chapter I assure
him he is criminally wasting his time, and that he should drop the
book or turn to the next chapter with all possible haste. But if the
reader numbers himself with the miserable majority whose minds are ever
running away with them, he will find it necessary to use effort in
thinking—at least for a while.
One remark of Spencer is undoubtedly true. This is “that an effort
to arrive forthwith at some answer to a problem, acts as a distorting
factor in consciousness and causes error.” And here, strange to say,
his practice is in substantial agreement with the apparently opposite
method of John Stuart Mill. For note that Mill speaks of “again and
again returning to it [a puzzle] until it was cleared up.”
Both imply their agreement rather than state it outright; Spencer
by his use of the word “forthwith” and Mill by his words “again and
again.” Here the practice of both differs from that of the vast
majority of men. Yet neither thinker seemed to be clearly conscious how
it differed. The average man (that mythical creature!) when he has just
been confronted with a problem, may wrestle with it with all the vigor
of a great thinker. But as he sees difficulties multiplying about him,
he gradually becomes more and more discouraged. Finally he throws up
the problem in disgust, contenting himself with the reflection that it
cannot be solved, or that it will take somebody who knows more than he
to solve it.
A real thinker, however, if confronted with the same problem, will look
for a solution from every possible viewpoint. But failing an answer
he will not give up. Instead he will let the subject drop for a while,
say a couple of weeks or perhaps longer, and then refer to it again.
This time he will find that certain obscurities have become a little
clearer; that certain questions have been answered. He will again
attack his puzzle with energy. And if he does not obtain a complete
solution he will once more put it aside, returning to it after another
interval, until finally a satisfactory solution presents itself.
You may fail to see any difference between thinking for two hours
separated by two weeks, and thinking for two consecutive hours. As
an experiment, then, the next time you come across a puzzle which
you fail to solve at first tilt, write down all the unsatisfactory
solutions suggested, and all the questions, difficulties and objections
met with. You may leave this for a few weeks. When you return to it
a few of the difficulties will look less formidable, and some of the
questions will have practically answered themselves. (Of course some
of the difficulties may look more formidable, and a few new questions
may have arisen.) If a solution is not found at the second attempt,
the problem may again be sent to your mental waiting room. But if it is
only of reasonable difficulty a solution is bound, soon or late, to be
discovered.
It is difficult to say just what effects this change in thought, when
apparently one has engaged in no reflection during the interval. The
attempted solution probably gives a certain “set” to our minds. Without
being aware of it we observe facts relating to our problem. Ideas
which occur to us in other connections are unconsciously seen in their
bearing on the unsolved question. In short, “those proclivities of
thought which have probably been caused unawares by experience” make
themselves felt.
It may be imagined that if we think too much we will be liable
permanently to injure our mighty intellects. This has sometimes
happened. But there is no serious danger of it. Thinking on one useful
subject for a long while will not hurt you any more than thinking on a
thousand different useless subjects for the same period. But of course
you should not try to concentrate when you are sleepy, when you have a
headache, when some other bodily pain distracts your attention, or when
your mind is in any way tired. If you attempt to concentrate at these
times you will endanger your mental and physical health. Not only this,
but the thinking done during such periods will be of such poor quality
that it will be practically useless if not harmful. This applies even
to cases where mental fatigue is almost inappreciable. Thinking done
in the evening seldom approaches in efficacy the thinking done in the
first hours of the morning. But you should always make sure your mind
is actually tired. It may merely be tired of a particular subject.
An objection of a different kind may be raised against concentrating
at every opportunity. It has often been noticed that names have been
recalled and problems solved when we were thinking of something
else. It may be urged that such solutions would not have occurred
when concentrating, because the exact associations which led up to
them would not have been present. This is occasionally true. But
there are still reasons why I must maintain my position. No matter
how well a man may have trained himself to concentrate, there will
always be short periods when his mind will wander, and these will
suffice for any accidental associations. Moreover, the fact that these
mind wandering periods _occasionally_ do good does not excuse their
existence. The most fallacious ideas, the most demoniacal practices,
the most despicable characters of history, have _occasionally_ done
good. The fact is that for every useful association which occurs during
mind wandering, ten associations just as useful will occur during
concentration. The only reason useful mind wandering associations
appear frequent is that they are unexpected, therefore more noticed
when they come.
It has been frequently said that many of the world’s greatest
inventions were due to accident. In a sense this is true. But the
accident was prepared for by previous hard thinking. It would never
have occurred had not this thinking taken place. It is said that the
idea of gravitation came to Newton because an apple fell on his head.
Perhaps. But apples had been falling ever since there were apple trees,
and had probably been falling on men’s heads ever since men had
acquired the habit of getting their heads in the way. The idea of the
steam engine is supposed to have come to Watt while observing a tea
kettle. But how many thousands before him had not seen steam coming
out of kettles? The idea of the pendulum for regulating time occurred
to Galileo from observing a swinging lantern in a cathedral. Think how
many others must have seen that lantern swinging! It is probable that
in all these cases the invention or idea had been prepared for, had
been all but formed, by downright hard thinking in previous periods of
concentration. All that was needed was the slightest unusual occurrence
to make the idea complete and conscious. The unusual occurrence, the
accident, which has so often received the credit for the invention or
the idea, merely made it come sooner, for with the thinking these men
did, it was bound to come eventually. . . .
Of course I really do not seriously expect anybody to concentrate at
every opportunity. I don’t myself. I merely wanted to establish the
fact that it’s the best thing. But every man, even the tired business
variety, should set aside at least half an hour a day, or three and
a half hours a week. I realize what a great hardship it is for some
people to devote one-forty-eighth of their time to such a useless
pastime as thinking. But if they will make the sacrifice for seven
consecutive days they will find themselves bearing up nobly at the end.
There is even a possibility that they may be encouraged to extend the
time.
V
PREJUDICE AND UNCERTAINTY
“From time to time there returns upon the cautious thinker, the
conclusion that, considered simply as a question of probabilities,
it is decidedly unlikely that his views upon any debatable topic are
correct. ‘Here,’ he reflects, ‘are thousands around me holding on
this or that point opinions differing from mine—wholly in most cases;
partially in the rest. Each is as confident as I am of the truth of
his convictions. Many of them are possessed of great intelligence;
and, rank myself high as I may, I must admit that some are my
equals—perhaps my superiors. Yet, while every one of us is sure he is
right, unquestionably most of us are wrong. Why should not I be among
the mistaken? True, I cannot realize the likelihood that I am so. But
this proves nothing; for though the majority of us are necessarily
in error, we all labor under the inability to think we are in error.
Is it not then foolish thus to trust myself? When I look back into
the past, I find nations, sects, philosophers, cherishing beliefs in
science, morals, politics, and religion, which we decisively reject.
Yet they held them with a faith quite as strong as ours; nay—stronger,
if their intolerance of dissent is any criterion. Of what little worth,
therefore, seems this strength of my conviction that I am right? A like
warrant has been felt by men all the world through; and, in nine cases
out of ten, has proved a delusive warrant. Is it not then absurd in me
to put so much faith in my judgments?’ ”[9]
I trust the reader will pardon this second rather extended quotation
from Herbert Spencer, but the thought expressed must be kept in mind if
we are to approach our present subject in the proper spirit. . . .
Our subject is prejudice. Our object is to free ourselves as much as
possible from our own prejudices. But before we can get rid of a thing
it is first necessary to recognize that thing when we see it.
Prejudice is often confused with intolerance. They are not the same. A
man may be prejudiced and not intolerant. You may think that your alma
mater, your city, or your country, is the greatest in the world, for
little other reason than simply that it is _yours_. Your opinion is
prejudiced. But you may not protest if any other man thinks that _his_
alma mater, or _his_ city, or _his_ country, is the best in the world.
In fact you may not have much respect for him if he doesn’t think so.
And your opinion is tolerant.
On the other hand, a man may be intolerant and not prejudiced. You may
decide, solely on the evidence and on grounds of pure reason, that
paper money—fiat money—is always a harmful form of currency, and you
may be justly wrathful against the man who advocates it. You may even
wish him suppressed. Yet you may be able to answer all his arguments.
But you fear that if he is allowed to air his views they will take hold
on minds as shallow as his own. You fear that once they have taken
root it will be difficult to dislodge them, and that in the meanwhile
they may do harm by being put into practice. You are intolerant. But
you are not prejudiced. It is well to remember this distinction when
accusations of prejudice are flying through the ozone.
One thing more must be kept in mind. Prejudice has less connection with
truth and falsity than is generally supposed. The fact that a man is
unprejudiced does not make his opinion right. And the fact that a man
is prejudiced does not necessarily make his opinion wrong; though it
must be admitted that if it is right it will be so only by accident.
It is often thought that prejudice can be immediately recognized. Locke
says, “Every one is forward to complain of the prejudices that mislead
other men or parties, as if he were free and had none of his own.
. . . This is the mote which every one sees in his brother’s eye, but
never regards the beam in his own.”[10] However, slight consideration
will convince us that because one man accuses another of prejudice, it
does not follow that the accused is guilty. The general practice is to
accuse of prejudice any one whose views happen to differ from our own.
Let us consider a formal dictionary definition of prejudice: “Judgment
formed without due examination; opinion adverse to anything, without
just grounds or sufficient knowledge.” This is not altogether
satisfactory. A man may form a judgment without sufficient knowledge
and still be unprejudiced. He may be perfectly open minded and willing
to change his opinion if other evidence is adduced. But even if the
formation of a judgment without sufficient knowledge is prejudice,
it is often justified. At all events, every one will agree that the
foregoing definition helps us little in discovering our own prejudices.
All of us, for instance, believe our judgment on any given question
has been formed with due examination, each being his own judge of what
constitutes “due.”
It is difficult to find any satisfactory definition. Perhaps the best
I can do is to point out various specific forms of prejudice and their
causes. The first form of prejudice I shall name consists in a love
for, and a desire to hold, some opinion. We may roughly ascribe this
desire to three causes:
(1) We desire an opinion to be right because we would be personally
benefited if it were. Promise a man that if he invests his money in
the Lookgood Gold Mine he will receive dividends of over 40 per cent.
annually, and he is in danger of becoming extremely gullible. He shirks
looking up the previous record of the promoters or directors because
he has a secret and indefined fear that if he does he will find their
pictures in the Rogues’ Gallery. Advertise in a magazine that any thin
man can gain seven to fourteen pounds a week by drinking Fattilac and
you will receive hundreds of answers enclosing the fifty cents for a
trial bottle. Not one desperately slim man in ten will stop to ask
himself how the miracle can be performed. In fact, he will do his
worst to argue himself into the matter. He will tell himself that
the advertisement is in a reliable magazine, that the company would
not dare to make an assertion like that unless it could make good,
that . . .
But we may pass over the more obvious benefits, and proceed to those
causes of prejudice less consciously selfish or directly beneficial.
If an economist were to write a book attempting to prove that bankers
were really unnecessary and could be dispensed with, it is a rather
sure guess that a banker would not regard very highly the intellectual
powers of that economist. If he considered his arguments at all, it
would be only with the view of refuting them. In an even less conscious
way, a rich man is likely to oppose socialism or communism, not so much
because he has evidence of intrinsic worth against them, but because
he fears that if such systems of society were put into effect he would
lose most of his wealth. The man who has nothing is likely to look with
favor upon these schemes, because they offer him promise of better
things.
The mere fact that we are ignorant of a certain thing will prejudice us
against it, while knowledge of it will prepossess us in its favor. Ten
chances to one a person who has been taught Esperanto will favor the
adoption of an international language—and the adoption of Esperanto in
particular. Most of the remarks on the uselessness of the classics come
from those ignorant of them; while those who, in order to get a college
degree or for some like reason, have been forced to study Greek and
Latin, will generally always exaggerate their importance. Most of the
opposition to simplified spelling is due to the fact that having taken
the time and toil to master our atrociously inconsistent spelling,
people have a vague fear that if a phonetic system were adopted,
children, the ignorant classes and persons of poor memories would be
able to spell just as well as they, without one quarter the trouble of
learning. Not that they are conscious of this childish and unworthy
attitude, for usually they are not, but the motive is operative none
the less.
Of course in all the foregoing cases of prejudice, as in those to
follow, none of the victims ever uses any of his real reasons in
argument, though he will bring forward nearly every other reason on
earth to justify his belief. And to do him justice, it must be admitted
that he is often unaware of the true cause of his inclination to one
side rather than another.
Though it is less directly selfish, the patriotic bias may fairly be
classed with the prejudices we have just been considering. At this
time the most stupendous war of all history is raging. But I know of
no German or Austrian or Turk or Bulgarian who has so far admitted
that the British or the French or the Russians or the Italians or
the Belgians or the Servians or the Montenegrins or the Japanese can
by any possibility have right on their side, nor do I know of any
Japanese or Montenegrin or Servian or Belgian or Italian or Russian
or Frenchman or Englishman who believes that the Bulgarians or the
Turks or the Austrians or the Germans are in the right. Philosophers
and men of science are no exception; Münsterberg, Eucken and Haeckel
write publicly in favor of Germany and fifty of England’s foremost
authors unanimously sign a pronunciamento in support of their native
country—yet nobody is surprised.
(2) Another reason why we desire an opinion to be right is because we
already happen to hold it. As one writer expresses it, “We often form
our opinions on the slightest evidence, yet we are inclined to cling to
them with grim tenacity.” There are two reasons for this.
When we have formed an opinion on anything, the chances are that we
have communicated it to some one, and have thereby committed ourselves
to that side. Now to reverse an opinion is to confess that we were
previously wrong. To reverse an opinion is to lay ourselves open to the
charge of inconsistency. To be inconsistent—to admit that our judgments
are human and fallible—this is the last thing we can ever think of.
“Inconsistency,” said Emerson, “is the hobgoblin of little minds.” And
if by this he meant inconsistency in the sense of changing opinions
already formed, we must agree with him.
The hypothesis maker has a specific form of this fear of inconsistency.
This type of theorist makes a supposition to account for certain facts.
When he meets with certain allied facts for which the supposition
apparently does not account, he either ignores said facts, or cuts and
trims them, or bullies them into his theory. Hypotheses _per se_ have
never done any harm. In fact they are indispensable in all thought,
especially as an aid to observation. But it is the desire to prove an
hypothesis correct, simply because it is _our_ hypothesis, or because
it is a fascinating hypothesis, which has done harm. Darwin says that
he had made it a habit “whenever a published fact, a new observation
or thought came across me, which was opposed to my general results, to
make a memorandum of it without fail and at once; for I had found by
experience that such facts and thoughts were far more apt to escape
from the memory than favorable ones.”
The second reason for desiring to cling to an opinion because we
already hold it is one which could probably best be explained by
physiological psychology and a study of the brain. We feel almost
a physical pain when a tenet we have long cherished is torn up and
exposed. The longer we hold an opinion, the harder it is for us to
get rid of it. In this respect it is similar to habit. Nor is the
comparison an analogy merely. An opinion is a habit of thought. It
has the same basis in the brain, and is subject to the same laws, as
a habit of action. It is well known that the opinions of a man over
forty are pretty well set. The older a man grows, the harder it is for
him to change an opinion—or for others to change it for him.
The side of a controversy we see first is usually the side we see
last. This is because the arguments we meet do not have to shake up
or dislodge anything in our brain (unless we are very critical, and
we generally aren’t). But once let an opinion gain entrance, and any
opinion contrary to it will have to dislodge the old one before it can
find a place for itself.
And as Mark Twain has remarked, “When even the brightest mind in our
world has been trained from childhood in a superstition of any kind,
it will never be possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine
sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any
circumstance which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of
that superstition.” Of course Mark Twain was wrong. Of course we are
The Reasoning Race, as he cynically intimates we are not. To religion,
for instance, the most important question which can engage our
understanding, each of us always gives independent thought. It is a
mere accident, of course, that almost all of the 400,000,000 Chinamen
are Buddhists. It is a mere accident that the overwhelming mass of East
Indians are Brahmans. It is only by chance that practically all Turks,
Persians and Arabians are Mohammedans. And it merely happened to happen
that England is Protestant and Ireland is Catholic. . . . But it is
unsafe to bring this question of religion too near home.
We now come to our third cause of desire:
(3) We desire an opinion to be wrong because we would be forced to
change other opinions if it were not; or we desire an opinion to be
right because then we would be able to retain our other opinions.
This is a most widespread form of prejudice. But I believe it is,
fortunately, the most defensible. Its defensibility, however, depends
mainly on the opinions we fear to change. These we may divide into two
kinds:
(a) Those which have been formed without thought; borrowed opinions,
etc. The greatest opposition to the theory of evolution came from
those conservative Christians who saw that it undermined any literal
interpretation of Genesis. If these Christians had investigated the
sources of that book, had considered its probable authority, had given
thought to the possibility of inspired writing, and had finally decided
in favor of the Biblical narrative; then—right or not—their opposition
to Darwin’s theory would have been free at least from this sort of
prejudice. But most of this opposition had come from persons who had
not thought of Genesis, but had accepted it from the first, because it
had been dogmatically hammered into their heads since childhood. Hence
it was prejudice, pure and simple.
(b) The second kind of opinions we fear to change are those resting
mainly upon evidence. William James gives an example:
“Why do so few ‘scientists’ even look at the evidence for telepathy,
so-called? Because they think, as a leading biologist, now dead, once
said to me, that even if such a thing were true, scientists ought to
band together to keep it suppressed and concealed. It would undo the
uniformity of nature, and all sorts of other things without which
scientists cannot carry on their pursuits.”[11] Darwin writes that when
a youth he told Sedgwick the geologist of how a tropical Volute shell
had been found in a gravel pit near Shrewsbury. Sedgwick replied that
some one must have thrown it there, and added that if it were “really
imbedded there, it would be the greatest misfortune to geology, as it
would overthrow all that we know about the superficial deposits of the
Midland Counties”—which belonged to the glacial period.[12]