Few persons care to study logic, because everybody conceives himself to be proficient
enough in the art of reasoning already. But I observe that this satisfaction is limited to
one's own ratiocination, and does not extend to that of other men.
We come to the full possession of our power of drawing inferences the last of all our
faculties, for it is not so much a natural gift as a long and difficult art. The history
of its practice would make a grand subject for a book. The medieval schoolman, following
the Romans, made logic the earliest of a boy's studies after grammar, as being very easy.
So it was as they understood it. Its fundamental principle, according to them, was that
all knowledge rests on either authority or reason; but that whatever is deduced by reason
depends ultimately on a premise derived from authority. Accordingly, as soon as a boy was
perfect in the syllogistic procedure, his intellectual kit of tools was held to be
complete.
To Roger Bacon, that remarkable mind who in the middle of the thirteenth century was
almost a scientific man, the schoolmen's conception of reasoning appeared only an obstacle
to truth. He saw that experience alone teaches anything-a proposition which to us seems
easy to understand, because a distinct conception of experience has been handed down to us
from former generations; which to him also seemed perfectly clear, because its
difficulties had not yet unfolded themselves. Of all kinds of experience, the best, he
thought, was interior illumination, which teaches many things about nature which the
external senses could never discover, such as the transubstantiation of bread.
Four centuries later, the more celebrated Bacon, in the first book of his Novum
Organum, gave his clear account of experience as something which must be opened to verification
and re-examination. But, superior as Lord Bacon's conception is to earlier notions, a
modern reader who is not in awe of his grandiloquence is chiefly struck by the inadequacy
of his view of scientific procedure. That we have only to make some crude experiments, to
draw up briefs of the results in certain blank forms, to go through these by rule,
checking off everything disproved and setting down the alternatives, and that thus in a
few years physical science would be finished up-what an idea! "He wrote on science
like a Lord Chancellor," indeed, as Harvey, a genuine man of science, said.
The early scientists, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, Galileo, Harvey, and Gilbert,
had methods more like those of their modern brethren. Kepler undertook to draw a curve
through the places of stars; and his greatest service to science was in impressing on
men's minds that this was the thing to be done if they wished to improve astronomy; that
they were not to content themselves with inquiring whether one system of epicycles was
better than another but that they were to sit down by the figures and find out what the
curve, in truth, was. He accomplished this by his incomparable energy and courage,
blundering along in the most inconceivable way (to us), from one irrational hypothesis to
another, until, after trying twenty-two of these, he fell, by the mere exhaustion of his
invention, upon the orbit which a mind well furnished with the weapons of modern logic
would have tried almost at the outset.
In the same way, every work of science great enough to be remembered for a few
generations affords some exemplification of the defective state of the art of reasoning of
the time when it was written; and each chief step in science has been a lesson in logic.
It was so when Lavoisier and his contemporaries took up the study of Chemistry. The old
chemist's maxim had been Lege, lege, lege, labora, ora, et relege. Lavoisier's
method was not to read and pray, not to dream that some long and complicated chemical
process would have a certain effect, to put it into practice with dull patience,
after its inevitable failure to dream that with some modification it would have another
result, and to end by publishing the last dream as a fact: his way was to carry his mind
into his laboratory, and to make of his alembics and cucurbits instruments of thought,
giving a new conception of reasoning as something which was to be done with one's eyes
open, by manipulating real things instead of words and fancies.
The Darwinian controversy is, in large part, a question of logic. Mr. Darwin proposed
to apply the statistical method to biology. The same thing has been done in a widely
different branch of science, the theory of gases. Though unable to say what the movement
of any particular molecule of gas would be on a certain hypothesis regarding the
constitution of this class of bodies, Clausius and Maxwell were yet able, by the
application of the doctrine of probabilities, to predict that in the long run such and
such a proportion of the molecules would, under given circumstances, acquire such and such
velocities; that there would take place, every second, such and such a number of
collisions, etc.; and from these oppositions they were able to deduce certain properties
of gases, especially in regard to their heat-relations. In like manner, Darwin, while
unable to say what the operation of variation and natural selection in every individual
case will be, demonstrates that in the long run they will adapt animals to their
circumstances. Whether or not existing animal forms are due to such action, or what
position the theory ought to take, forms the subject of a discussion in which questions of
fact and questions of logic are curiously interlaced.
II
The object of reasoning is to find out, from the consideration of what we already know,
something else which we do not know. Consequently, reasoning is good if it be such
as to give a true conclusion from true premises, and not otherwise. Thus, the question of
validity is purely one of fact and not of thinking. A being the premises and B being the
conclusion, the question is, whether these facts are really so related that if A is B is.
If so, the inference is valid; if not, not. It is not in the least the question whether,
when the premises are accepted by the mind, we feel an impulse to accept the conclusion
also. It is true that we do generally reason correctly by nature. But that is an accident;
the true conclusion would remain true if we had no impulse to accept it; and the false one
would remain false, though we could not resist the tendency to believe in it.
We are, doubtless, in the main logical animals, but we are not perfectly so. Most of
us, for example, are naturally more sanguine and hopeful than logic would justify. We seem
to be so constituted that in the absence of any facts to go upon we are happy and
self-satisfied; so that the effect of experience is continually to counteract our hopes
and aspirations. Yet a lifetime of the application of this corrective does not usually
eradicate our sanguine disposition. Where hope is unchecked by any experience, it is
likely that our optimism is extravagant. Logically in regard to practical matters is the
most useful quality an animal can possess, and might, therefore, result from the action of
natural selection; but outside of these it is probably of more advantage to the animal to
have his mind filled with pleasing and encouraging visions, independently of their truth;
and thus, upon unpractical subjects, natural selection might occasion a fallacious
tendency of thought.
That which determines us, from given premises, to draw one inference rather than
another is some habit of mind, whether it be constitutional or acquired. The habit is good
or otherwise, according as it produces true conclusions from true premises or not; and an
inference is regarded as valid or not, without reference to the truth or falsity of its
conclusion specially, but according as the habit which determines it is such as to
produce true conclusions in general or not. The particular habit of mind which governs
this or that inference may be formulated in a proposition whose truth depends on the
validity of the inferences which the habit determines; and such a formula is called a guiding principle of inference. Suppose, for example, that we observe that a rotating disk of
copper quickly comes to rest when placed between the poles of a magnet, and we infer that
this will happen with every disk of copper. The guiding principle is that what is true of
one piece of copper is true of another. Such a guiding principle with regard to copper
would be much safer than with regard to many other substances-brass, for example.
A book might be written to signalize all the most important of these guiding principles
of reasoning. It would probably be, we must confess, of no service to a person whose
thought is directed wholly to practical subjects, and whose activity moves along
thoroughly beaten paths. The problems which present themselves to such a mind are matters
of routine which he has learned once for all to handle in learning his business. But let a
man venture into an unfamiliar field, or where his results are not continually checked by
experience, and all history shows that the most masculine intellect will ofttimes lose his
orientation and waste his efforts in directions which bring him no nearer to his goal, or
even carry him entirely astray. He is like a ship on the open sea, with no one on board
who understands the rules of navigation. And in such a case some general study of the
guiding principles of reasoning would be sure to be found useful.
The subject could hardly be treated, however, without being first limited; since almost
any fact may serve as a guiding principle. But it so happens that there exists a division
among facts, such that in one class are all those which are absolutely essential as
guiding principles, while in the other are all those which have any other interest as
objects of research. This division is between those which are necessarily taken for
granted in asking whether a certain conclusion follows from certain premises, and those
which are not implied in that question. A moment's thought will show that a variety of
facts are already assumed when the logical question is first asked. It is implied, for
instance, that there are such states of mind as doubt and belief-that a passage from one
to the other is possible, the object of thought remaining the same, and that this
transition is subject to some rules which all minds are alike bound by. As these are facts
which we must already know before we can have any clear conception of reasoning at all, it
cannot be supposed to be any longer of much interest to inquire into their truth or
falsity. On the other hand, it is easy to believe that those rules of reasoning which are
deduced from the very idea of the process are the ones which are the most essential; and,
indeed, that so long as it conforms to these it will, at least, not lead to false
conclusions from true premises. In point of fact, the importance of what may be deduced
from the assumptions involved in the logical question turns out to be greater than might
be supposed, and this for reasons which it is difficult to exhibit at the outset. The only
one which I shall here mention is that conceptions which are really products of logical
reflections, without being readily seen to be so, mingle with our ordinary thoughts, and
are frequently the causes of great confusion. This is the case, for example, with the
conception of quality. A quality as such is never an object of observation. We can see
that a thing is blue or green, but the quality of being blue and the quality of being
green are not things which we see; they are products of logical reflections. The truth is
that common sense, or thought as it first emerges above the level of the narrowly
practical, is deeply inbued with that bad logical quality to which the epithet
metaphysical is commonly applied; and nothing can clear it up but a severe course
of logic.
III
We generally know when we wish to ask a question and when we wish to pronounce a
judgment, for there is a dissimilarity between the sensation of doubting and that of
believing.
But this is not all which distinguishes doubt from belief. There is a practical
difference. Our beliefs guide our desires and shape our actions. The Assassins, or
followers of the Old Man of the Mountain, used to rush into death at his least command,
because they believed that obedience to him would insure everlasting felicity. Had they
doubted this, they would not have acted as they did. So it is with every belief, according
to its degree. The feeling of believing is a more or less sure indication of there being
established in our nature some habit which will determine our actions. Doubt never has
such an effect.
Nor must we overlook a third point of difference. Doubt is an uneasy and dissatisfied
state from which we struggle to free ourselves and pass into the state of belief; while
the latter is a calm and satisfactory state which we do not wish to avoid, or to change to
a belief in anything else. On the contrary, we cling tenaciously, not merely to believing,
but to believing just what we do believe.
Thus, both doubt and belief have positive effects upon us, though very different ones.
Belief does not make us act at once, but puts us into such a condition that we shall
behave in a certain way, when the occasion arises. Doubt has not the least effect of this
sort, but stimulates us to action until it is destroyed. This reminds us of the irritation
of a nerve and the reflex action produced thereby; while for the analogue of belief, in
the nervous system, we must look to what are called nervous associations-for example, to
that habit of the nerves in consequence of which the smell of a peach will make the mouth
water.
IV
The irritation of doubt causes a struggle to attain a state of belief. I shall term
this struggle inquiry, though it must be admitted that this is sometimes not a very
apt designation.
The irritation of doubt is the only immediate motive for the struggle to attain belief.
It is certainly best for us that our beliefs should be such as may truly guide our actions
so as to satisfy our desires; and this reflection will make us reject any belief which
does not seem to have been so formed as to insure this result. But it will only do so by
creating a doubt in the place of that belief. With the doubt, therefore, the struggle
begins, and with the cessation of doubt it ends. Hence, the sole object of inquiry is the
settlement of opinion. We may fancy that this is not enough for us, and that we seek not
merely an opinion, but a true opinion. But put this fancy to the test, and it proves
ground-less; for as soon as a firm belief is reached we are entirely satisfied, whether
the belief be false or true. And it is clear that nothing out of the sphere of our
knowledge can be our object, for nothing which does not affect the mind can be a motive
for a mental effort. The most that can be maintained is that we seek for a belief that we
shall think to be true. But we think each one of our beliefs to be true, and,
indeed, it is mere tautology to say so.
That the settlement of opinion is the sole end of inquiry is a very important
proposition. It sweeps away, at once, various vague and erroneous conceptions of proof. A
few of these may be noticed here.
1. Some philosophers have imagined that to start an inquiry it was only necessary to
utter or question or set it down on paper, and have even recommended us to begin our
studies with questioning everything! But the mere putting of a proposition into the
interrogative form does not stimulate the mind to any struggle after belief. There must be
a real and living doubt, and without all this, discussion is idle.
2. It is a very common idea that a demonstration must rest on some ultimate and
absolutely indubitable propositions. These, according to one school, are first principles
of a general nature; according to another, are first sensations. But, in point of fact, an
inquiry, to have that completely satisfactory result called demonstration, has only to
start with propositions perfectly free from all actual doubt. If the premises are not in
fact doubted at all, they cannot be more satisfactory than they are.
3. Some people seem to love to argue a point after all the world is fully convinced of
it. But no further advance can be made. When doubt ceases, mental action on the subject
comes to an end; and, if it did go on, it would be without a purpose, except that of
self-criticism.
V
If the settlement of opinion is the sole object of inquiry, and if belief is of the
nature of a habit, why should we not attain the desired end, by taking any answer to a
question, which we may fancy, and constantly reiterating it to ourselves, dwelling on all
which may conduce to that belief, and learning to turn with contempt and hatred from
anything which might disturb it? This simple and direct method is really pursued by many
men. I remember once being entreated not to read a certain newspaper lest it might change
my opinion upon free-trade. "Lest I might be entrapped by its fallacies and
misstatements" was the form of expression. "You are not," my friend said,
"a special student of political economy. You might, therefore, easily be deceived by
fallacious arguments upon the subject. You might, then, if you read this paper, be led to
believe in protection. But you admit that free-trade is the true doctrine; and ,
you do not wish to believe what is not true." I have often known this system to be
deliberately adopted. Still oftener, the instinctive dislike of an undecided state of
mind, exaggerated into a vague dread of doubt, makes men cling spasmodically to the views
they already take. The man feels that if he only holds to his belief without wavering, it
will be entirely satisfactory. Nor can it be denied that a steady and immovable faith
yields great peace of mind. It may, indeed, give rise to inconveniences, as if a man
should resolutely continue to believe that fire would not burn him, or that he would be
eternally damned if he received his ingesta otherwise than through a stomach-pump.
But then the man who adopts this method will not allow that its inconveniences are greater
than its advantages. He will say, "I hold steadfastly to the truth and the truth is
always wholesome." And in many cases it may very well be that the pleasure he derives
from his calm faith over-balances any inconveniences resulting from its deceptive
character. Thus, if it be true that death is annihilation, then the man who believes that
he will certainly go straight to heaven when he dies, provided he have fulfilled certain
simple observances in this life, has a cheap pleasure which will not be followed by the
least disappointment. A similar consideration seems to have weight with many persons in
religious topics, for we frequently hear it said, "Oh, I could not believe so-and-so,
because I should be wretched if I did." When an ostrich buries its head in the sand
as danger approaches, it very likely takes the happiest course. It hides the danger, and
then calmly says there is no danger; and, if it feels perfectly sure there is none, why
should it raise its head to see? A man may go through life, systematically keeping out of
view all that might cause a change in his opinions, and if he only succeeds-basing his
method, as he does, on two fundamental psychological laws-I do not see what can be said
against his doing so. It would be an egotistical impertinence to object that his
procedure is irrational, for that only amounts to saying that his method of settling
belief is not ours. He does not propose to himself to be rational, and indeed, will often
talk with scorn of man's weak and illusive reason. So let him think as he pleases.
But this method of fixing belief, which may be called the method of tenacity, will be
unable to hold its ground in practice. The social impulse is against it. The man who
adopts it will find that other men think differently from him, and it will be apt to occur
to him in some saner moment that their opinions are quite as good as his own, and this
will shake his confidence in his belief. This conception, that another man's thought or
sentiment may be equivalent to one's own, is a distinctly new step, and a highly important
one. It arises from an impulse too strong in man to be suppressed, without danger of
destroying the human species. Unless we make ourselves hermits, we shall necessarily
influence each other's opinions; so that the problem becomes how to fix belief, not in the
individual merely, but in the community.
Let the will of the state act, then, instead of that of the individual. Let an
institution be created which shall have for its object to keep correct doctrines before
the attention of the people, to reiterate them perpetually, and to teach them to the
young; having at the same time power to prevent contrary doctrines from being taught,
advocated, or expressed. Let all possible causes of a change of mind be removed from men's
apprehensions. Let them be kept ignorant, lest they should learn of some reason to think
otherwise than they do. Let their passions be enlisted, so that they may regard private
and unusual opinions with hatred and horror. Then, let all men who reject the established
belief be terrified into silence. Let the people turn out and tar-and-feather such men, or
let inquisitions be made into the manner of thinking of suspected persons, and, when they
are found guilty of forbidden beliefs, let them be subjected to some signal
punishment. When complete agreement could not otherwise be reached, a general massacre of
all who have not thought in a certain way has proved a very effective means of settling
opinion in a country. If the power to do this be wanting, let a list of opinions be drawn
up, to which no man of the least independence of thought can assent, and let the faithful
be required to accept all these propositions, in order to segregate them as radically as
possible from the influence of the rest of the world.
This method has, from the earliest times, been one of the chief means of upholding
correct theological and political doctrines, and of preserving their universal or catholic
character. In Rome, especially, it has been practiced from the days of Numa Pompilius to
those of Pius Nonus. This is the most perfect example in history; but wherever there is a
priesthood-and no religion has been without one-this method has been more or less made use
of. Wherever there is aristocracy, or a guild, or any association of a class of men whose
interests depend or are supposed to depend on certain propositions, there will be
inevitably found some traces of this natural product of social feeling. Cruelties always
accompany this system; and when it is consistently carried out, they become atrocities of
the most horrible kind in the eyes of any rational man. Nor should this occasion surprise,
for the officer of a society does not feel justified in surrendering the interests of that
society for the sake of mercy, as he might his own private interests. It is natural,
therefore, that sympathy and fellowship should thus produce a most ruthless power.
In judging this method of fixing belief, which may be called the method of authority,
we must, in the first place, allow its immeasurable mental and moral superiority to the
method of tenacity. Its success is proportionally greater; and in fact it has over and
over again worked the most majestic results. The mere structures of stone which it has
caused to be put together-in Siam, for example, in Egypt, and in Europe-have many
of them a sublimity hardly more than rivaled by the greatest works of nature. And, except
the geological epochs, there are no periods of time so vast as those which are measured by
some of these organized faiths. If we scrutinize the matter closely, we shall find that
there has not been one of their creeds which has remained always the same; yet the change
is so slow as to be imperceptible during one person's life, so that individual belief
remains sensibly fixed. For the mass of mankind, then, there is perhaps no better method
than this. If it is their highest impulse to be intellectual slaves, then slaves they
ought to remain.
But no institution can undertake to regulate opinions upon every subject. Only the most
important ones can be attended to, and on the rest men's minds must be left to the action
of natural causes. This imperfection will be no source of weakness so long as men are in
such a state of culture that one opinion does not influence another-that is, so long as
they cannot put two and two together. But in the most priest-ridden states some
individuals will be found who are raised above that condition. These men possess a wider
sort of social feeling; they see that men in other countries and in other ages have held
to very different doctrines from those which they themselves have been brought up to
believe; and they cannot help seeing that it is the mere accident of their having been
taught as they have, and of their having been surrounded with the manners and associations
they have, that has caused them to believe as they do and not far differently. And their
candor cannot resist the reflection that there is no reason to rate their own views at a
higher value than those of other nations and other centuries; and this gives rise to
doubts in their minds.
They will further perceive that such doubts as these must exist in their minds with
reference to every belief which seems to be determined by the caprice either of themselves or of those who originated the popular opinions. The willful adherence to a belief,
and the arbitrary forcing of it upon others, must, therefore, both be given up and a new
method of settling opinions must be adopted, which shall not only produce an impulse to
believe, but shall also decide what proposition it is which is to be believed. Let the
action of natural preferences be unimpeded, then, and under their influence let men
conversing together and regarding matters in different lights, gradually develop beliefs
in harmony with natural causes. This method resembles that by which conceptions of art
have been brought to maturity. The most perfect example of it is to be found in the
history of metaphysical philosophy. Systems of this sort have not usually rested upon
observed facts, at least not in any great degree. They have been chiefly adopted because
their fundamental propositions seemed "agreeable to reason." This is an apt
expression; it does not mean that which agrees with experience, but that which we find
ourselves inclined to believe. Plato, for example, finds it agreeable to reason that the
distances of the celestial spheres from one another should be proportional to the
different lengths of strings which produce harmonious chords. Many philosopher's have been
led to their main conclusions by considerations like this; but this is the lowest and
least developed form which the method takes, for it is clear that another man might find
Kepler's [earlier] theory, that the celestial spheres are proportional to the inscribed
and circumscribed spheres of the different regular solids, more agreeable to his reason. But the shock of opinions will soon lead men to rest on preferences of a far more
universal nature. Take, for example, the doctrine that man only acts selfishly-that is,
from the consideration that acting in one way will afford him more pleasure than acting in
another. This rests on no fact in the world, but it has had a wide acceptance as being the
only reasonable theory.
This method is far more intellectual and respectable from the point of view of reason
than either of the others which we have noticed. But its failure has been the most
manifest. It makes of inquiry something similar to the development of taste; but taste,
unfortunately, is always more or less a matter of fashion, and accordingly, metaphysicians
have never come to any fixed agreement, but the pendulum has swung backward and forward
between a more material and a more spiritual philosophy, from the earliest times to the
latest. And so from this, which has been called the a priori method, we are driven,
in Lord Bacon's phrase, to a true induction. We have examined into this a priori method as something which promised to deliver our opinions from their accidental and
capricious element. But development, while it is a process which eliminates the effect of
some casual circumstances, only magnifies that of others. This method, therefore, does not
differ in a very essential way from that of authority. The government may not have lifted
its finger to influence my convictions; I may have been left outwardly quite free to
choose, we will say, between monogamy and polygamy, and appealing to my conscience only, I
may have concluded that the latter practice is in itself licentious. But when I come to
see that the chief obstacle to the spread of Christianity among a people of as high
culture as the Hindoos has been a conviction of the immorality of our way of treating
women, I cannot help seeing that, though governments do not interfere, sentiments in their
development will be very greatly determined by accidental causes. Now, there are some
people, among whom I must suppose that my reader is to be found, who, when they see that
any belief of theirs is determined by any circumstance extraneous to the facts, will from
that moment not merely admit in words that that belief is doubtful, but will experience a
real doubt of it, so that it ceases in some degree at least to be a belief.
To satisfy our doubts therefore, it is necessary that a method should be found by which
our beliefs may be caused by nothing human, but by some external permanency-by something
upon which our thinking has no effect. Some mystics imagine that they have such a method
in a private inspiration from on high. But that is only a form of the method of tenacity,
in which the conception of truth as something public is not yet developed. Our external
permanency would not be external, in our sense, if it was restricted in its influence to
one individual. It must be something which affects, or might affect, every man. And,
though these affects are necessarily as various as are individual conditions, yet the
method must be such that the ultimate conclusion of every man shall be the same, or would
be the same if inquiry were sufficiently persisted in. Such is the method of science. Its
fundamental hypothesis, restated in more familiar language, is this: There are real
things, whose characters are entirely independent of our opinions about them; those
realities affect our senses according to regular laws, and, though our sensations are as
different as our relations to the objects, yet, by taking advantage of the laws of
perception, we can ascertain by reasoning how things really are, and any man, if he have
sufficient experience and reason enough about it, will be led to the one true conclusion.
The new conception here involved is that of reality. It may be asked how I know that there
are any realities. If this hypothesis is the sole support of my method of inquiry, my
method of inquiry must not be used to support my hypothesis. The reply is this: If
investigation cannot be regarded as proving that there are real things, it at least does
not lead to a contrary conclusion; but the method and the conception on which it is based
remain ever in harmony. No doubts of the method, therefore, necessarily arise from its
practice, as is the case with all the others. (2) The feeling which gives rise to any
method of fixing belief is a dissatisfaction at two repugnant propositions. But
here already is a vague concession that there is some one thing to which a proposition
should conform. Nobody, therefore, can really doubt that there are realities, or, if he
did, doubt would not be a source of dissatisfaction. The hypothesis, therefore, is one
which every mind admits. So that the social impulse does not cause men to doubt it. (3)
Everybody uses the scientific method about a great many things, and only ceases to use it
when he does not know how to apply it. (4) Experience of the method has not led us to
doubt it but, on the contrary, scientific investigation has had the most wonderful
triumphs in the way of settling opinion. These afford the explanation of my not doubting
the method or the hypothesis which it supposes; and not having any doubt, nor believing
that anybody else whom I could influence has, it would be the merest babble for me to say
more about it. If there be anybody with a living doubt upon the subject, let him consider
it.
To describe the method of scientific investigation is the object of this series of
papers. At present I have only room to notice some points of contrast between it and other
methods of fixing belief.
This is the only one of the four methods which presents any distinction of a right and
a wrong way. If I adopt the method of tenacity and shut myself out from all influences,
whatever I think necessary to doing this is necessary according to that method. So with
the method of authority: the state may try to put down heresy by means which, from a
scientific point of view, seems very ill calculated to accomplish its purposes; but the
only test on that method is what the state thinks, so that it cannot pursue the
method wrongly. So with the a priori method. The very essence of it is to think as
one is inclined to think. All metaphysicians will be sure to do that, however they may be
inclined to judge each other to be perversely wrong. The Hegelian system recognizes every
natural tendency of thought as logical, although it is certain to be abolished by
counter-tendencies. Hegel thinks there is a regular system in the succession of these
tendencies, in consequence of which, after drifting one way and the other for a long time,
opinion will at last go right. And it is true that metaphysicians get the right ideas at
last; Hegel's system of Nature represents tolerably the science of his day; and one may be
sure that whatever scientific investigation has put out of doubt will presently receive a
priori demonstration on the part of the metaphysicians. But with the scientific method
the case is different. I may start with known and observed facts to proceed to the
unknown; and yet the rules which I follow in doing so may not be such as investigation
would approve. The test of whether I am truly following the method is not an immediate
appeal to my feelings and purposes, but, on the contrary, itself involves the application
of the method. Hence it is that bad reasoning as well as good reasoning is possible; and
this fact is the foundation of the practical side of logic.
It is not to be supposed that the first three methods of settling opinion present no
advantage whatever over the scientific method. On the contrary, each has some peculiar
convenience of its own. The a priori method is distinguished for its comfortable
conclusions. It is the nature of the process to adopt whatever belief we are inclined to,
and there are certain flatteries to one's vanities which we all believe by nature, until
we are awakened from our pleasing dream by rough facts. The method of authority will
always govern the mass of mankind; and those who yield the various forms of organized
force in the state will never be convinced that dangerous reasoning ought not to be
suppressed in some way. If liberty of speech is to be untrammeled from the grosser forms
of constraint, then uniformity of opinion will be secured by a moral terrorism to which
the respectability of society will give its thorough approval. Following the method of
authority is the path of peace. Certain non-conformities are permitted; certain
others (considered unsafe) are forbidden. These are different in different countries and
in different ages; but, wherever you are let it be known that you seriously hold a tabooed
belief, and you may be perfectly sure of being treated with a cruelty no less brutal but
more refined than hunting you like a wolf. Thus, the greatest intellectual benefactors of
mankind have never dared, and dare not now, to utter the whole of their thought; and thus
a shade of prima facie doubt is cast upon every proposition which is considered
essential to the security of society. Singularly enough, the persecution does not all come
from without; but a man torments himself and is oftentimes most distressed at finding
himself believing propositions which he has been brought up to regard with aversion. The
peaceful and sympathetic man will, therefore, find it hard to resist the temptation to
submit his opinions to authority. But most of all I admire the method of tenacity for its
strength, simplicity, and directness. Men who pursue it are distinguished for their
decision of character, which becomes very easy with such a mental rule. They do not waste
time in trying to make up their minds to what they want, but, fastening like lightning
upon whatever alternative comes first, they hold to it to the end, whatever happens,
without an instant's irresolution. This is one of the splendid qualities which generally
accompany brilliant, unlasting success. It is impossible not to envy the man who can
dismiss reason, although we know how it must turn out at last.
Such are the advantages which the other methods of settling opinions have over
scientific investigation. A man should consider well of them; and then he should consider
that, after all, he wishes his opinions to coincide with the fact, and that there is no
reason why the results of those first three methods should do so. To bring about this
effect is the prerogative of the method of science. Upon such considerations he has to
make his choice a choice which is far more than the adoption of any intellectual
opinion, which is one of the ruling decisions of his life, to which when once made he is
bound to adhere. The force of habit will sometimes cause a man to hold on to old beliefs
after he is in a condition to see that they have no sound basis. But reflection upon the
state of the case will overcome these habits, and he ought to allow reflection full
weight. People sometimes shrink from doing this, having an idea that beliefs are wholesome
which they cannot help feeling rest on nothing. But let such persons suppose an analogous
though different case from their own. Let them ask themselves what they would say to a
reformed Mussulman who should hesitate to give up his old notions in regard to the
relations of the sexes; or to a reformed Catholic who should still shrink from the Bible.
Would they not say that these persons ought to consider the matter fully, and clearly
understand the new doctrine, and then ought to embrace it in its entirety? But, above all,
let it be considered that what is more wholesome than any particular belief is integrity
of belief; and that to avoid looking into the support of any belief from a fear that it
may turn out rotten is quite as immoral as it is disadvantageous. The person who confesses
that there is such a thing as truth, which is distinguished from falsehood simply by this,
that if acted on it should, on full consideration, carry us to the point we aim at and not
astray, and then, though convinced of this, dares not know the truth and seeks to avoid
it, is in a sorry state of mind, indeed.
Yes, the other methods do have their merits: a clear logical conscience does cost
something-just as any virtue, just as all that we cherish, costs us dear. But, we should
not desire it to be otherwise. The genius of a man's logical method should be loved and
reverenced as his bride, whom he has chosen from all the world. He need not condemn the
others; on the contrary, he may honor them deeply, and in doing so he only honors her the
more. But she is the one that he has chosen, and he knows that he was right in making that
choice. And having made it, he will work and fight for her, and will not complain that
there are blows to take, hoping that there may be as many and as hard to give, and will
strive to be the worthy knight and champion of her from the blaze of whose splendors he
draws his inspiration and his courage.
Source:
This text is part of the Internet
Modern History Sourcebook. The Sourcebook is a collection of public domain and
copy-permitted texts for introductory level classes in modern European and World history.
Unless otherwise indicated the specific electronic form of the document is copyright.
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© Paul Halsall, August 1998
