I
Until humanism and psychology are more suitably defined than they are
at present the task of establishing their relations is hazardous.
Psychology is still in a primitive state: its basic problems and
principles are disputed, its relation to the other sciences is
undetermined, and its method is loose and unsystematic. That it may be
a science, however, is indubitable. The constitution of human nature
is open to analysis: human behaviour no less than the stars and plants
may be observed and hypothesis may be employed to order its seeming
irregularities. But the common scientific ground of purpose which
underlies the differences of psychological theories does not unite the
humanists, and the problem of stating the nature and scope of humanism
is correspondingly difficult. The absence of a common scientific
ground, of an accepted subject matter and a technique, enables any
man interested in human activities to call himself a humanist and to
maintain his contention, whereas no man, unless technically trained,
will consider himself a psychologist. He may observe society and
deliver himself of apothegms and epigrams that characterise people
truly--like the French moralists, La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, and
Joubert. He may trace the influence of ideas on conduct, as Mr. Babbitt
has done. But that is ethics and philosophy, not psychology. Psychology
limits itself to studying how human beings behave and to reducing their
most complex actions to primitive elements. Ethics evaluates their
activities and judges them. So, however confusing the positions of
contemporary psychologists and humanists, if we keep in mind the formal
aspects of psychology and ethics, a study of the relations of the two
may be instructive.
Upon psychology as a science, as upon physics and chemistry, humanism
can have nothing to say. It may examine the logic of psychology and
criticise its presuppositions, although that is properly the task of
the cosmologist, like Mr. Whitehead. But towards the conclusion of
psychology, the “laws” it may formulate, humanism’s only possible
attitude is one of interested acceptance. An ethics should not
prescribe the limits of science, nor dictate the nature of its results.
And if the science deals successfully with human actions, ethics,
instead of criticising, should respect its results, that ideals may not
be founded on ignorance and fancy but rather on knowledge.
Unfortunately, the amount of psychology which is scientific and
relevant to human nature is small. Much of it reduces to physiology.
The chemistry of the glands and blood, the nature of sensation,
feeling, emotion, and of the thinking processes, and those
predispositions of the body which we call instincts are ultimately
problems of physiology and await the development of that science for
their solution. What distinguishes psychology from physiology is the
study of behaviour in society: the transmutation of the instincts and
temperament into habits and sentiments. Of psychology proper we have,
so far, elaborate programmes, a bewildering variety of theories,--part
epistemology, part logic, part metaphysics, and part mythology,--a
vast accumulation of data, some classifications, and hardly any
science. Yet the studies of “types,” “personality,” “culture forms,”
and particularly the researches of psychiatrists contain many accurate
descriptions of human behaviour. Their endeavour to explain the most
sublimated actions, by reference to the constitution of the organism
and to the determining factors of its environment, approaches sound
science.
But “behaviour in society” and “the determining factors of environment”
are vague phrases. If there is to be a science of behaviour and society
two conditions are necessary: first, that the organisms in spite of
individual variations should be essentially the same; and second, that
the environment to which they react should be stable and limited. For
if each organism were essentially unique there would be no basis for
the science of psychology, and if the environment were constantly
changing there would be no conditions and no control for studying
the organism. But human environment, the totality of forces which
affect us and help satisfy our needs, is not stable and limited. It is
plastic and relative. Tradition and convention are added to the forces
composing an animal’s environment. These multiply the possibilities of
behaviour indefinitely. In proportion as a man frees himself from a
blind adherence to custom, the more personal his environment will be.
To know such a man’s environment is to become acquainted with a unique
world. It is to know not only his ancestry, his history, his habits,
his occupation, and his social milieu, but also his purposes, the ends
which he consciously seeks and which are the meaning of his actions to
him. It is to know his mind. But a mind, being unique, can never be
absolutely known. Even if it were completely revealed in behaviour,
conversation, and writing, and if all the occasions that have served to
form it were discovered, one could never be certain to capture a man’s
understanding of his words, or his interpretation of his attitude and
actions.
Behaviourists are therefore right in excluding consciousness, purpose,
and mind from psychology. These are inaccessible to science: first,
because they can never be precisely seized; and second, because they
introduce an indefinite number of objects which preclude a limited and
stable environment. Mind can reflect upon all objects of experience,
and these in turn can become objectives of action. So soon as this
happens the exact control which experimental science demands is
prevented and the progress of psychology is blocked. It thus seems
impossible for psychology to deal with the most interesting aspect
of human behaviour, those where action is guided and dominated by
thought and is not blindly reflexive. To avoid this limitation of
psychology certain behaviourists, in the name of what they conceive
to be mechanism, have denied the efficacy of purpose and mind
altogether. According to the argument, consciousness, purpose, and
mind are waste products, attendant upon natural processes, like sparks
from a locomotive. Or they are like the decorations on illuminated
manuscripts, illustrating the text, and quite superfluous. Otherwise
they would be forces, inexplicably interfering with natural processes.
These arguments fail by misconstruing the notion of purpose, which is
not a force but an end. Purpose does not direct action but _is_ the
direction which action takes. It is the rational explication of the
objects of our desires and wishes. The end has no initial power, but,
once thought has discerned it as the true object of our desires and
they have attached themselves to it, as a lover to his mistress, so
that satisfaction cannot be found elsewhere, then the end acquires a
deputed power which it may never surrender. Since purpose defines the
objects of desire which thereby become objectives of action, it is a
determining factor of human behaviour, and the so-called mechanistic
arguments against it are invalid. Yet, since science deals with
material and efficient causes only, psychologists are compelled to
disregard formal and final causes, purposes, and ends.