Prof. Lloyd Morgan in his excellent work “Animal Life and Intelligence”
uses repeatedly the word “mind” as if it were a thing in itself.
Professor Morgan is a monist and he does not intend the word to mean a
thing in itself; yet such is the influence of language that we, all of
us, unless we are constantly on our guard, will inadvertently slip into
dualistic expressions. Professor Morgan says, with reference to certain
sensations of animals (p. 309):
‘From these stippled sensations the mind in all cases
elaborates a continuum.’
The unity which arises out of stippled sensations and which through
their interaction becomes a continuum is called mind. To speak of
mind as working out the continuum is mythological language, it is the
transformation of the abstract idea “mind” into a real and independent
thing whose existence is conceived to be independent of the reality from
which it has been abstracted.
Again, Professor Morgan says: “Our constructs are literally our
handiwork.” Our constructs, i. e. our mental signs constructed to
represent realities, constitute our soul; they are we ourselves.
Professor Morgan, as I understand him, does not believe in a mind
behind the psychical facts of mental activity, he does not assume the
pre-existence of mind to the continuum elaborated. His view of mind
appears to be the same as ours. The more noteworthy, then, is his usage
of the term “mind.” It is a remarkable instance of how language naturally
inveigles us into a belief in things in themselves. Words seem to denote
concrete existences and as soon as we use words in this way we are
entangled in dualism.
Prof. F. Max Müller as well as the late Prof. Thomas Hill Green,
the founder of the Oxford transcendentalist school, start from this
assumption, that man’s mental activity is performed by a something which
is quite distinct from it. This something is the thing in itself of the
human soul. Prof. F. Max Müller says:
“If mind is the name of the work, what is the name of the
worker?... It is what we may call the ego as personating the
self; it is what other philosophers call the monon. Let us
call therefore the worker who does the work of the mind in its
various aspects, the Monon or the Ego.”
This conception which asks for the worker of the work is based upon a
materialistic view of the human organism. An organism is not a dead
machine which must be set a-going by somebody who attends to it.
Organisms are active and not passive, they are living and not dead. Every
part of an organism is a worker and so is the whole. And if we speak of
its “life” we must bear in mind that “life” is an abstract which denotes
a certain inseparable quality of the organism. The work and the worker
are two abstracts of one and the same thing. The reality from which these
terms have been abstracted is “something working.” This something working
does not consist of a worker and his work, but the worker is in every
part of his work. The worker of our mental activity is the work itself.
Both are identical.
The objection is made: “Whence does the activity come which appears in
the realm of organised life.” The answer is: Activity is a universal
quality of all existence. There is no such a thing as absolutely
inert matter. Every chemical element combines with other elements
spontaneously, according to its inherent nature and not through the
influence of a worker manipulating its atoms. Spontaneity is a universal
feature of reality. Nature is throughout self-working activity. And this
its most remarkable character is preserved in its highest efflorescence
in the soul of man.
The present number of _The Monist_ contains a lucid presentation of the
transcendentalist position by Mr. F. C. Conybeare, an Oxford scholar and
a personal disciple of Professor Green, with special reference to the
views of Prof. William Kingdon Clifford. Mr. Conybeare, like Prof. F. Max
Müller, assumes a Self independent of the reality from which the idea of
self has been abstracted, and he attempts to prove the existence of this
self as follows:
“In truth there can be no relation of before and after between
the two terms except for a self which takes note of the one
disappearing and of the other appearing; and whenever we speak
of things following one another we tacitly presuppose a self
before whom the procession passes.”
The transcendentalist adopts, in the realm of psychology, the error
of atomism. If we accept the view that the world consists of isolated
atoms, we are at a loss how to bring the atoms into relations; the unity
of every group of atoms, every thing and every system of things will
become a mystery. And if we look upon feelings as unrelated things in
themselves, their connection becomes a deep problem. Mr. Conybeare solves
this problem of the connection that obtains among the feelings supposed
to be atomical, by postulating a relation-producing entity, called the
self. He says:
“No link is left, save a connecting self.”
And this assumed entity of a connecting self or ego is taken to be “the
heart and centre of reality.” Reality, that which we have to deal with
in real life and what is commonly called reality, appears as a second
class of reality in comparison with this assumed thing in itself of our
existence. The thing in itself is thus regarded as something realer than
real; it is conceived to be a reality of a higher degree.
Mr. Conybeare is very explicit in the explanation of his transcendental
“self.” He says:
“Feelings constitute a conscious self when they become the
feelings of a conscious self and not before, for except as
gathered up in the unity of a self which has [sic!] memory and
remains the same throughout its differences, feelings can be
neither new, nor repeated, nor joined by links.”
What does “self” mean? What can it mean? What is the “unity of the self”?
These are questions which have not been answered to our satisfaction
by the transcendentalists. Whenever they speak of the self, they lose
themselves in mysticism. Their “self” is an assumed entity which they
have carefully divested of everything real and actual. Their self is
transcendental and not a being of the world; it is a myth.
Let us describe the simplest possible instance of psychical activity.
An irritation takes place in some sentient substance. This irritation
produces an extra-commotion. We must say “extra-commotion” because
all sentient substance is in a state of constant activity. This
extra-commotion causes the sentient substance to assume a certain form,
and while it lasts, a certain and special feeling takes place in some
part of the sentient substance. This certain and special feeling ceases,
as soon as the extra-commotion, caused through the irritation, abates.
There can be no doubt that certain effects of this extra-commotion
remain. Its trace is left in the sentient substance and this trace is
preserved in the constant whirl of the sentient being’s normal activity.
Now, we suppose that an irritation of the same kind takes place in the
same sentient substance. This second irritation finds the substance no
longer in the same condition. It finds the sentient substance prepared
to receive it. The feeling which now appears is no longer a simple
feeling. The second irritation causes a commotion as much as the first,
and this commotion acts as a stimulant upon the trace left by the first
irritation. This trace being again in a state of extra-commotion is
revived and the same kind of feeling appears. Thus the second irritation
is accompanied by a state of awareness in which two feelings are blended,
the revival of the former feeling and the feeling of the present
irritation.
The preservation of traces left in sentient substance is the condition
of memory. We understand by memory the psychical aspect thereof, and the
act of reviving, so that their correspondent feelings will reappear, is
called recollection.
“Memory” has been the greatest stumbling-block to our psychologists as
well as to our philosophers. Even modern works written from a positive
standpoint treat memory frequently as a mysterious faculty of the mind.
Mr. Conybeare speaks of the self as _having_ memory, while in fact,
memory is one of the features, indeed the most important feature, of
mind-activity.
Says Mr. Conybeare:
“Such a feeling [of the togetherness of two feelings] would
involve memory and memory involves self-hood.”
Memory does not involve any transcendental self-hood. True self-hood,
viz. that which can reasonably be understood by self-hood, is not prior
to, not the cause of memory; self-hood, i. e. the personality of a man,
the organised unity of the psychical aspect of a human organism, is
consequent upon, it is the effect of, memory. Self-hood is the product of
memory.[48]
The self is also called the ego. What is the ego?
The ego is a Latin term used in philosophical language to denote the
pronoun “I,” and the pronoun “I” is quite a definite nerve-structure
situated in quite a definite place of the centre of language. As
all words, so also the term “I” is a symbol. Its general meaning is
unequivocal; it stands for the name of the speaker. It stands for Mr.
Brown, if Mr. Brown speaks of himself, for Mr. Smith, if Mr. Smith speaks
of himself, etc.
What does Mr. Brown mean when he says, “_I_ speak, _I_ act, _I_ will, _I_
feel pain, _I_ feel pleasure, _I_ intend,” etc.?
When Mr. Brown speaks, a certain number of word-structures in the
centre of language are in a state of commotion, innervating the muscles
of speech. Correspondent to this physiological process, a state of
consciousness obtains, which is an awareness of the situation. When
he adds: “I say this,” it is again a special nerve-structure that is
irritated into action and he might just as well say: “Mr. Brown says
this.” The idea of Mr. Brown, viz. of his own personality, is just as
much an idea as his idea of Mr. Smith. The main difference consists
in the fact that the idea of one’s own personality is very much more
important than the ideas representing other personalities.
The nervous structure representing the feeling of the idea “I” must be
the centre of innumerable nervous tracts connecting it with all those
activities which when performed are thought of as done by ourselves.
The “I do this” is almost constantly ready to fill the present state
of consciousness and to accompany any action performed through the
innervation of other brain structures.
Sentient substance is not always actually feeling. It is feeling only
when in a state of extra-commotion. Systems of sentient substance
are called organisms; all its structures are interconnected and most
so those structures in which sentiency as well as motory impulses
are differentiated—viz. the nervous structures. The extra-commotions
which agitate the different nervous structures, the memories of
former sense-perceptions, of sounds, of words, of ideas depend upon
the conditions of the moment. Now this and now another structure will
represent the summit of commotion and the feeling of the strongest
commotion at a given time will under normal conditions appear as the
contents of consciousness. It is as it were the focus in which the
attention of the whole organism is centralised. That which appears in
the focus is clear and distinct, while the other weaker feelings rapidly
disappear into the undistinguishable general feeling of the organism as a
whole, commonly called cœnæsthesis or _Gemeingefühl_.
The centre of attention is constantly changing; yet whenever a thinking
creature stops to ask himself, who is doing this? Who is willing this?
Who is thinking this? the answer is given: “I am doing this; I am willing
this; I am thinking this.” The structure of the little pronoun “I” seems
to be the most ticklish of all; it is always ready to force itself into
the foreground.
The answer, “I am doing this,” proposes the _totum pro parte_. The
whole personality is supposed to do what a part of it is performing.
The hands are executing this work; these hands of course are innervated
from certain regions of the brain. Some parts of the personality are
in a relative rest and have nothing to do with the work presently on
hand. A commotion in a certain number of brain-structures represents the
physiological aspect of a deliberation, perhaps the planning of some
action. Psychologically considered certain ideas appear successively
and sometimes simultaneously in the focus of consciousness. The ideas
disagree and other ideas replace them until a combination is formed in
which the ideas do agree. This state of agreement brings a temporary
peace into the tumult of conflicting ideas; the plan is ready; it may
pass into action at once, or, perhaps, the ego-structure will appear in
consciousness and will quietly think: “I will do it.”
When certain motory nerve-structures are innervated, they cause under
normal conditions their respective muscles to contract, they produce
motion. Under normal conditions the nervous process accompanying the idea
“I will raise my arm” serves as an irritation upon the cortical centre of
arm-raising, yet it is not the “I” that in some mystical way raises the
arm. The idea “I” has as little and as much to do with this discharge of
energy as any other idea. The idea “I” is not the power behind the veil
that produces the will.
What is will? As soon as some plan of action is joined with the idea
that it should be executed, supposing it be not counteracted by any
stronger idea that it should not be done, this combination represents
a will. A will accordingly is the psychological aspect of an incipient
action, and it is usually, or if it is not it can always be accompanied
with the thought “I will it.” But this accompanying thought however is
not the energy displayed in the act of willing.
The “I will it,” or “I do it,” or “I perceive it” being always ready to
appear together with the strongest idea in the field of consciousness,
the term “ego” has acquired a specialised meaning. It means that part of
a man’s personality which at the time is the contents of the “I will,” or
“I think,” i. e. it is his present state of consciousness. Every organism
is a coherent system and thus all the feelings of an organism naturally
blend into a unity. The strongest feeling however appears in the normal
state of waking in a distinct clearness thus representing a centre of
consciousness.
However, whether we use the term “ego” in the sense of the idea “I”
meaning the whole personality of the speaker, or in the sense of the
present centre of consciousness, it designates in either case a definite
reality, the origin and action of which are natural facts and as plain as
any other psychological phenomena.
Neither the ego-idea nor the centre of consciousness are transcendental.
The former is as little mystical as are the ideas dog, horse, man, etc.;
the latter no less miraculous than any other feeling or display of
sentiency.