These are writers belonging to our own modern age, and they are men of
science. Both of them deny that the existence of other minds is a
thing that can be _proved_; but the one tells us that we are "justified
in assuming" their existence, and the other informs us that, although
"it may very well be" that no other mind exists, we may leave that
possibility out of count.
Neither position seems a sensible one. Are we justified in assuming
what cannot be proved? or is the argument "from analogy" really a proof
of some sort? Is it right to close our eyes to what "may very well
be," just because we choose to do so? The fact is that both of these
writers had the conviction, shared by us all, that there are other
minds, and that we know something about them; and yet neither of them
could see that the conviction rested upon an unshakable foundation.
Now, I have no desire to awake in the mind of any one a doubt of the
existence of other minds. But I think we must all admit that the man
who recognizes that such minds are not directly perceived, and who
harbors doubts as to the nature of the inference which leads to their
assumption, may, perhaps, be able to say that _he feels certain_ that
there are other minds; but must we not at the same time admit that he
is scarcely in a position to say: _it is certain_ that there are other
minds? The question will keep coming back again: May there not, after
all, be a legitimate doubt on the subject?
To set this question at rest there seems to be only one way, and that
is this: to ascertain the nature of the inference which is made, and to
see clearly what can be meant by _proof_ when one is concerned with
such matters as these. If it turns out that we have proof, in the only
sense of the word in which it is reasonable to ask for proof, our doubt
falls away of itself.
41. THE ARGUMENT FOR OTHER MINDS.--I have said early in this volume
(section 7) that the plain man perceives that other men act very much
as he does, and that he attributes to them minds more or less like his
own. He reasons from like to like--other bodies present phenomena
which, in the case of his own body, he perceives to be indicative of
mind, and he accepts them as indicative of mind there also. The
psychologist makes constant use of this inference; indeed, he could not
develop his science without it.
John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), whom it is always a pleasure to read
because he is so clear and straightforward, presents this argument in
the following form:[3]--
"By what evidence do I know, or by what considerations am I led to
believe, that there exist other sentient creatures; that the walking
and speaking figures which I see and hear, have sensations and
thoughts, or, in other words, possess Minds? The most strenuous
Intuitionist does not include this among the things that I know by
direct intuition. I conclude it from certain things, which my
experience of my own states of feeling proves to me to be marks of it.
These marks are of two kinds, antecedent and subsequent; the previous
conditions requisite for feeling, and the effects or consequences of
it. I conclude that other human beings have feelings like me, because,
first, they have bodies like me, which I know, in my own case, to be
the antecedent condition of feelings; and because, secondly, they
exhibit the acts, and other outward signs, which in my own case I know
by experience to be caused by feelings. I am conscious in myself of a
series of facts connected by a uniform sequence, of which the beginning
is modifications of my body, the middle is feelings, the end is outward
demeanor. In the case of other human beings I have the evidence of my
senses for the first and last links of the series, but not for the
intermediate link. I find, however, that the sequence between the
first and last is as regular and constant in those other cases as it is
in mine. In my own case I know that the first link produces the last
through the intermediate link, and could not produce it without.
Experience, therefore, obliges me to conclude that there must be an
intermediate link; which must either be the same in others as in
myself, or a different one. I must either believe them to be alive, or
to be automatons; and by believing them to be alive, that is, by
supposing the link to be of the same nature as in the case of which I
have experience, and which is in all respects similar, I bring other
human beings, as phenomena, under the same generalizations which I know
by experience to be the true theory of my own existence. And in doing
so I conform to the legitimate rules of experimental inquiry. The
process is exactly parallel to that by which Newton proved that the
force which keeps the planets in their orbits is identical with that by
which an apple falls to the ground. It was not incumbent on Newton to
prove the impossibility of its being any other force; he was thought to
have made out his point when he had simply shown that no other force
need be supposed. We know the existence of other beings by
generalization from the knowledge of our own; the generalization merely
postulates that what experience shows to be a mark of the existence of
something within the sphere of our consciousness, may be concluded to
be a mark of the same thing beyond that sphere."
Now, the plain man accepts the argument from analogy, here insisted
upon, every day of his life. He is continually forming an opinion as
to the contents of other minds on a basis of the bodily manifestations
presented to his view. The process of inference is so natural and
instinctive that we are tempted to say that it hardly deserves to be
called an inference. Certainly the man is not conscious of distinct
steps in the process; he perceives certain phenomena, and they are at
once illuminated by their interpretation. He reads other men as we
read a book--the signs on the paper are scarcely attended to, our whole
thought is absorbed in that for which they stand. As I have said
above, the psychologist accepts the argument, and founds his
conclusions upon it.
Upon what ground can one urge that this inference to other minds is a
doubtful one? It is made universally. We have seen that even those
who have theoretic objections against it, do not hesitate to draw it,
as a matter of fact. It appears unnatural in the extreme to reject it.
What can induce men to regard it with suspicion?
I think the answer to this question is rather clearly suggested in the
sentence already quoted from Professor Huxley: "It is wholly
impossible absolutely to prove the presence or absence of consciousness
in anything but one's own brain, though, by analogy, we are justified
in assuming its existence in other men."
Here Professor Huxley admits that we have something like a proof, for
he regards the inference as _justified_. But he does not think that we
have _absolute proof_--the best that we can attain to appears to be a
degree of probability falling short of the certainty which we should
like to have.
Now, it should be remarked that the discredit cast upon the argument
for other minds has its source in the fact that it does not satisfy a
certain assumed standard. What is that standard? It is the standard
of proof which we may look for and do look for where we are concerned
to establish the existence of material things with the highest degree
of certainty.
There are all sorts of indirect ways of proving the existence of
material things. We may read about them in a newspaper, and regard
them as highly doubtful; we may have the word of a man whom, on the
whole, we regard as veracious; we may infer their existence, because we
perceive that certain other things exist, and are to be accounted for.
Under certain circumstances, however, we may have proof of a different
kind: we may see and touch the things themselves. Material things are
open to direct inspection. Such a direct inspection constitutes
_absolute proof_, so far as material things are concerned.
But we have no right to set this up as our standard of absolute proof,
when we are talking about other minds. In this field it is not proof
at all. Anything that can be directly inspected is not another mind.
We cannot cast a doubt upon the existence of colors by pointing to the
fact that we cannot smell them. If they could be smelt, they would not
be colors. We must in each case seek a proof of the appropriate kind.
What have we a right to regard as absolute proof of the existence of
another mind? Only this: the analogy upon which we depend in making
our inference must be a very close one. As we shall see in the next
section, the analogy is sometimes very remote, and we draw the
inference with much hesitation, or, perhaps, refuse to draw it at all.
It is not, however, the _kind of inference_ that makes the trouble; it
is the lack of detailed information that may serve as a basis for
inference. Our inference to other minds is unsatisfactory only in so
far as we are ignorant of our own minds and bodies and of other bodies.
Were our knowledge in these fields complete, we should know without
fail the signs of mind, and should know whether an inference were or
were not justified.
And _justified_ here means proved--proved in the only sense in which we
have a right to ask for proof. No single fact is known that can
discredit such a proof. Our doubt is, then, gratuitous and can be
dismissed. We may claim that we have _verification_ of the existence
of other minds. Such verification, however, must consist in showing
that, in any given instance, the signs of mind really are present. It
cannot consist in presenting minds for inspection as though they were
material things.
One more matter remains to be touched upon in this section. It has
doubtless been observed that Mill, in the extract given above, seems to
place "feelings," in other words, mental phenomena, between one set of
bodily motions and another. He makes them the middle link in a chain
whose first and third links are material. The parallelist cannot treat
mind in this way. He claims that to make mental phenomena effects or
causes of bodily motions is to make them material.
Must, then, the parallelist abandon the argument for other minds? Not
at all. The force of the argument lies in interpreting the phenomena
presented by other bodies as one knows by experience the phenomena of
one's own body must be interpreted. He who concludes that the relation
between his own mind and his own body can best be described as a
"parallelism," must judge that other men's minds are related to their
bodies in the same way. He must treat his neighbor as he treats
himself. The argument from analogy remains the same.
42. WHAT OTHER MINDS ARE THERE?--That other men have minds nobody
really doubts, as we have seen above. They resemble us so closely,
their actions are so analogous to our own, that, although we sometimes
give ourselves a good deal of trouble to ascertain what sort of minds
they have, we never think of asking ourselves whether they have minds.
Nor does it ever occur to the man who owns a dog, or who drives a
horse, to ask himself whether the creature has a mind. He may complain
that it has not much of a mind, or he may marvel at its
intelligence--his attitude will depend upon the expectations which he
has been led to form. But regard the animal as he would regard a
bicycle or an automobile, he will not. The brute is not precisely like
us, but its actions bear an unmistakable analogy to our own; pleasure
and pain, hope and fear, desire and aversion, are so plainly to be read
into them that we feel that a man must be "high gravel blind" not to
see their significance.
Nevertheless, it has been possible for man, under the prepossession of
a mistaken philosophical theory, to assume the whole brute creation to
be without consciousness. When Descartes had learned something of the
mechanism of the human body, and had placed the human soul--_hospes
comesque corporis_--in the little pineal gland in the midst of the
brain, the conception in his mind was not unlike that which we have
when we picture to ourselves a locomotive engine with an engineer in
its cab. The man gives intelligent direction; but, under some
circumstances, the machine can do a good deal in the absence of the
man; if it is started, it can run of itself, and to do this, it must go
through a series of complicated motions.
Descartes knew that many of the actions performed by the human body are
not the result of conscious choice, and that some of them are in direct
contravention of the will's commands. The eye protects itself by
dropping its lid, when the hand is brought suddenly before it; the foot
jerks away from the heated object which it has accidentally touched.
The body was seen to be a mechanism relatively independent of the mind,
and one rather complete in itself. Joined with a soul, the circle of
its functions was conceived to be widened; but even without the
assistance of the soul, it was thought that it could keep itself busy,
and could do many things that the unreflective might be inclined to
attribute to the efficiency of the mind.
The bodies of the brutes Descartes regarded as mechanisms of the same
general nature as the human body. He was unwilling to allow a soul to
any creature below man, so nothing seemed left to him save to maintain
that the brutes are machines without consciousness, and that their
apparently purposive actions are to be classed with such human
movements as the sudden closing of the eye when it is threatened with
the hand. The melancholy results of this doctrine made themselves
evident among his followers. Even the mild and pious Malebranche could
be brutal to a dog which fawned upon him, under the mistaken notion
that it did not really hurt a dog to kick it.
All this reasoning men have long ago set aside. For one thing, it has
come to be recognized that there may be consciousness, perhaps rather
dim, blind, and fugitive, but still consciousness, which does not get
itself recognized as do our clearly conscious purposes and volitions.
Many of the actions of man which Descartes was inclined to regard as
unaccompanied by consciousness may not, in fact, be really unconscious.
And, in the second place, it has come to be realized that we have no
right to class all the actions of the brutes with those reflex actions
in man which we are accustomed to regard as automatic.
The belief in animal automatism has passed away, it is to be hoped,
never to return. That lower animals have minds we must believe. But
what sort of minds have they?
It is hard enough to gain an accurate notion of what is going on in a
human mind. Men resemble each other more or less closely, but no two
are precisely alike, and no two have had exactly the same training. I
may misunderstand even the man who lives in the same house with me and
is nearly related to me. Does he really suffer and enjoy as acutely as
he seems to? or must his words and actions be accepted with a discount?
The greater the difference between us, the more danger that I shall
misjudge him. It is to be expected that men should misunderstand
women; that men and women should misunderstand children; that those who
differ in social station, in education, in traditions and habits of
life, should be in danger of reading each other as one reads a book in
a tongue imperfectly mastered. When these differences are very great,
the task is an extremely difficult one. What are the emotions, if he
has any, of the Chinaman in the laundry near by? His face seems as
difficult of interpretation as are the hieroglyphics that he has pasted
up on his window.
When we come to the brutes, the case is distinctly worse. We think
that we can attain to some notion of the minds to be attributed to such
animals as the ape, the dog, the cat, the horse, and it is not nonsense
to speak of an animal psychology. But who will undertake to tell us
anything definite of the mind of a fly, a grasshopper, a snail, or a
cuttlefish? That they have minds, or something like minds, we must
believe; what their minds are like, a prudent man scarcely even
attempts to say. In our distribution of minds may we stop short of
even the very lowest animal organisms? It seems arbitrary to do so.
More than that; some thoughtful men have been led by the analogy
between plant life and animal life to believe that something more or
less remotely like the consciousness which we attribute to animals must
be attributed also to plants. Upon this belief I shall not dwell, for
here we are evidently at the limit of our knowledge, and are making the
vaguest of guesses. No one pretends that we have even the beginnings
of a plant psychology. At the same time, we must admit that organisms
of all sorts do bear some analogy to each other, even if it be a remote
one; and we must admit also that we cannot _prove_ plants to be wholly
devoid of a rudimentary consciousness of some sort.
As we begin with man and descend the scale of beings, we seem, in the
upper part of the series, to be in no doubt that minds exist. Our only
question is as to the precise contents of those minds. Further down we
begin to ask ourselves whether anything like mind is revealed at all.
That this should be so is to be expected. Our argument for other minds
is the argument from analogy, and as we move down the scale our analogy
grows more and more remote until it seems to fade out altogether. He
who harbors doubts as to whether the plants enjoy some sort of psychic
life, may well find those doubts intensified when he turns to study the
crystal; and when he contemplates inorganic matter he should admit that
the thread of his argument has become so attenuated that he cannot find
it at all.
43. THE DOCTRINE OF MIND-STUFF.--Nevertheless, there have been those
who have attributed something like consciousness even to inorganic
matter. If the doctrine of evolution be true, argues Professor
Clifford,[4] "we shall have along the line of the human pedigree a
series of imperceptible steps connecting inorganic matter with
ourselves. To the later members of that series we must undoubtedly
ascribe consciousness, although it must, of course, have been simpler
than our own. But where are we to stop? In the case of organisms of a
certain complexity, consciousness is inferred. As we go back along the
line, the complexity of the organism and of its nerve-action insensibly
diminishes; and for the first part of our course we see reason to think
that the complexity of consciousness insensibly diminishes also. But
if we make a jump, say to the tunicate mollusks, we see no reason there
to infer the existence of consciousness at all. Yet not only is it
impossible to point out a place where any sudden break takes place, but
it is contrary to all the natural training of our minds to suppose a
breach of continuity so great."
We must not, says Clifford, admit any breach of continuity. We must
assume that consciousness is a complex of elementary feelings, "or
rather of those remoter elements which cannot even be felt, but of
which the simplest feeling is built up." We must assume that such
elementary facts go along with the action of every organism, however
simple; but we must assume also that it is only when the organism has
reached a certain complexity of nervous structure that the complex of
psychic facts reaches the degree of complication that we call
Consciousness.
So much for the assumption of something like mind in the mollusk, where
Clifford cannot find direct evidence of mind. But the argument does
not stop here: "As the line of ascent is unbroken, and must end at last
in inorganic matter, we have no choice but to admit that every motion
of matter is simultaneous with some . . . fact or event which might be
part of a consciousness."
Of the universal distribution of the elementary constituents of mind
Clifford writes as follows: "That element of which, as we have seen,
even the simplest feeling is a complex, I shall call _Mind-stuff_. A
moving molecule of inorganic matter does not possess mind or
consciousness; but it possesses a small piece of mind-stuff. When
molecules are so combined together as to form the film on the under
side of a jellyfish, the elements of mind-stuff which go along with
them are so combined as to form the faint beginnings of Sentience.
When the molecules are so combined as to form the brain and nervous
system of a vertebrate, the corresponding elements of mind-stuff are so
combined as to form some kind of consciousness; that is to say, changes
in the complex which take place at the same time get so linked together
that the repetition of one implies the repetition of the other. When
matter takes the complex form of a living human brain, the
corresponding mind-stuff takes the form of a human consciousness,
having intelligence and volition."
This is the famous mind-stuff doctrine. It is not a scientific
doctrine, for it rests on wholly unproved assumptions. It is a play of
the speculative fancy, and has its source in the author's strong desire
to fit mental phenomena into some general evolutionary scheme. As he
is a parallelist, and cannot make of physical phenomena and of mental
one single series of causes and effects, he must attain his end by
making the mental series complete and independent in itself. To do
this, he is forced to make several very startling assumptions:--
(1) We have seen that there is evidence that there is consciousness
somewhere--it is revealed by certain bodies. Clifford assumes
consciousness, or rather its raw material, _mind-stuff_, to be
everywhere. For this assumption we have not a whit of evidence.
(2) To make of the stuff thus attained a satisfactory evolutionary
series, he is compelled to assume that mental phenomena are related to
each other much as physical phenomena are related to each other. This
notion he had from Spinoza, who held that, just as all that takes place
in the physical world must be accounted for by a reference to physical
causes, so all happenings in the world of ideas must be accounted for
by a reference to mental causes, _i.e._ to ideas. For this assumption
there is no more evidence than for the former.
(3) Finally, to bring the mental phenomena we are familiar with,
sensations of color, sound, touch, taste, etc., into this evolutionary
scheme, he is forced to assume that all such mental phenomena are made
up of elements which do not belong to these classes at all, of
something that "cannot even be felt." For this assumption there is as
little evidence as there is for the other two.
The fact is that the _mind-stuff_ doctrine is a castle in the air. It
is too fanciful and arbitrary to take seriously. It is much better to
come back to a more sober view of things, and to hold that there is
evidence that other minds exist, but no evidence that every material
thing is animated. If we cannot fit this into our evolutionary scheme,
perhaps it is well to reexamine our evolutionary scheme, and to see
whether some misconception may not attach to that.
[1] "Collected Essays," Vol. I, p. 219, New York, 1902.
[2] "On the Nature of Things-in-Themselves," in "Lectures and Essays,"
Vol. II.
[3] "Examination of Sir William Hamilton's Philosophy," Chapter XII.
[4] "On the Nature of Things-in-Themselves."
CHAPTER XI
OTHER PROBLEMS OF WORLD AND MIND
44. IS THE MATERIAL WORLD A MECHANISM?--So far we have concerned
ourselves with certain leading problems touching the external world and
the mind,--problems which seem to present themselves unavoidably to those
who enter upon the path of reflection. And we have seen, I hope, that
there is much truth, as well as some misconception, contained in the
rather vague opinions of the plain man.
But the problems that we have taken up by no means exhaust the series of
those that present themselves to one who thinks with patience and
persistency. When we have decided that men are not mistaken in believing
that an external world is presented in their experience; when we have
corrected our first crude notions of what this world is, and have cleared
away some confusions from our conceptions of space and time; when we have
attained to a reasonably clear view of the nature of the mind, and of the
nature of its connection with the body; when we have escaped from a
tumble into the absurd doctrine that no mind exists save our own, and
have turned our backs upon the rash speculations of the adherents of
"mind-stuff"; there still remain many points upon which we should like to
have definite information.
In the present chapter I shall take up and turn over a few of these, but
it must not be supposed that one can get more than a glimpse of them
within such narrow limits. First of all we will raise the question
whether it is permissible to regard the material world, which we accept,
as through and through a mechanism.
There can be little doubt that there is a tendency on the part of men of
science at the present day so to regard it. It should, of course, be
frankly admitted that no one is in a position to prove that, from the
cosmic mist, in which we grope for the beginnings of our universe, to the
organized whole in which vegetable and animal bodies have their place,
there is an unbroken series of changes all of which are explicable by a
reference to mechanical laws. Chemistry, physics, and biology are still
separate and distinct realms, and it is at present impossible to find for
them a common basis in mechanics. The belief of the man of science must,
hence, be regarded as a faith; the doctrine of the mechanism of nature is
a working hypothesis, and it is unscientific to assume that it is
anything more.
There can be no objection to a frank admission that we are not here
walking in the light of established knowledge. But it does seem to savor
of dogmatism for a man to insist that no increase in our knowledge can
ever reveal that the physical world is an orderly system throughout, and
that all the changes in material things are explicable in terms of the
one unified science. Earnest objections have, however, been made to the
tendency to regard nature as a mechanism. To one of the most curious of
them we have been treated lately by Dr. Ward in his book on "Naturalism
and Agnosticism."
It is there ingeniously argued that, when we examine with care the
fundamental concepts of the science of mechanics, we find them to be
self-contradictory and absurd. It follows that we are not justified in
turning to them for an explanation of the order of nature.
The defense of the concepts of mechanics we may safely leave to the man
of science; remembering, of course, that, when a science is in the
making, it is to be expected that the concepts of which it makes use
should undergo revision from time to time. But there is one general
consideration that it is not well to leave out of view when we are
contemplating such an assault upon the notion of the world as mechanism
as is made by Dr. Ward. It is this.
Such attacks upon the conception of mechanism are not purely destructive
in their aim. The man who makes them wishes to destroy one view of the
system of things in order that he may set up another. If the changes in
the system of material things cannot be accounted for mechanically, it is
argued, we are compelled to turn for our explanation to the action and
interaction of minds. This seems to give mind a very important place in
the universe, and is believed to make for a view of things that
guarantees the satisfaction of the highest hopes and aspirations of man.
That a recognition of the mechanical order of nature is incompatible with
such a view of things as is just above indicated, I should be the last to
admit. The notion that it is so is, I believe, a dangerous error. It is
an error that tends to put a man out of sympathy with the efforts of
science to discover that the world is an orderly whole, and tempts him to
rejoice in the contemplation of human ignorance.
But the error is rather a common one; and see to what injustice it may
lead one. It is concluded that the conception of _matter_ is an obscure
one; that we do not know clearly what we mean when we speak of the _mass_
of a body; that there are disputes as to proper significance to be given
to the words _cause_ and _effect_; that the _laws of motion_, as they are
at present formulated, do not seem to account satisfactorily for the
behavior of all material particles. From this it is inferred that we
must give up the attempt to explain mechanically the order of physical
things.
Now, suppose that it were considered a dangerous and heterodox doctrine,
that the changes in the system of things are due to the activities of
minds. Would not those who now love to point out the shortcomings of the
science of mechanics discover a fine field for their destructive
criticism? Are there no disputes as to the ultimate nature of mind? Are
men agreed touching the relations of mind and matter? What science even
attempts to tell us how a mind, by an act of volition, sets material
particles in motion or changes the direction of their motion? How does
one mind act upon another, and what does it mean for one mind to act upon
another?
If the science of mechanics is not in all respects as complete a science
as it is desirable that it should be, surely we must admit that when we
turn to the field of mind we are not dealing with what is clear and free
from difficulties. Only a strong emotional bias can lead a man to dwell
with emphasis upon the difficulties to be met with in the one field, and
to pass lightly over those with which one meets in the other.
One may, however, refuse to admit that the order of nature is throughout
mechanical, without taking any such unreasonable position as this. One
may hold that many of the changes in material things do not _appear_ to
be mechanical, and that it is too much of an assumption to maintain that
they are such, even as an article of faith. Thus, when we pass from the
world of the inorganic to that of organic life, we seem to make an
immense step. No one has even begun to show us that the changes that
take place in vegetable and animal organisms are all mechanical changes.
How can we dare to assume that they are?
With one who reasons thus we may certainly feel a sympathy. The most
ardent advocate of mechanism must admit that his doctrine is a working
hypothesis, and not _proved_ to be true. Its acceptance would, however,
be a genuine convenience from the point of view of science, for it does
introduce, at least provisionally, a certain order into a vast number of
facts, and gives a direction to investigation. Perhaps the wisest thing
to do is, not to combat the doctrine, but to accept it tentatively and to
examine carefully what conclusions it may seem to carry with it--how it
may affect our outlook upon the world as a whole.
45. THE PLACE OF MIND IN NATURE.--One of the very first questions which
we think of asking when we contemplate the possibility that the physical
world is throughout a mechanical system is this: How can we conceive
minds to be related to such a system? That minds, and many minds, do
exist, it is not reasonable to doubt. What shall we do with them?
One must not misunderstand the mechanical view of things. When we use
the word "machine," we call before our minds certain gross and relatively
simple mechanisms constructed by man. Between such and a flower, a
butterfly, and a human body, the difference is enormous. He who elects
to bring the latter under the title of mechanism cannot mean that he
discerns no difference between them and a steam engine or a printing
press. He can only mean that he believes he might, could he attain to a
glimpse into their infinite complexity, find an explanation of the
physical changes which take place in them, by a reference to certain
general laws which describe the behavior of material particles everywhere.
And the man who, having extended his notion of mechanism, is inclined to
overlook the fact that animals and men have minds, that thought and
feeling, plan and purpose, have their place in the world, may justly be
accused of a headlong and heedless enthusiasm. Whatever may be our
opinion on the subject of the mechanism of nature, we have no right to
minimize the significance of thought and feeling and will. Between that
which has no mind and that which has a mind there is a difference which
cannot be obliterated by bringing both under the concept of mechanism.
It is a difference which furnishes the material for the sciences of
psychology and ethics, and gives rise to a whole world of distinctions
which find no place in the realm of the merely physical.
There are, then, minds as well as bodies; what place shall we assign to
these minds in the system of nature?
Several centuries ago it occurred to the man of science that the material
world should be regarded as a system in which there is constant
transformation, but in which nothing is created. This way of looking at
things expressed itself formerly in the statement that, through all the
changes that take place in the world, the quantity of matter and motion
remains the same. To-day the same idea is better expressed in the
doctrine of the eternity of mass and the conservation of energy. In
plain language, this doctrine teaches that every change in every part of
the physical world, every motion in matter, must be preceded by physical
conditions which may be regarded as the equivalent of the change in
question.
But this makes the physical world a closed system, a something complete
in itself. Where is there room in such a system for minds?
It does indeed seem hard to find in such a system a place for minds, if
one conceives of minds as does the interactionist. We have seen (section
36) that the interactionist makes the mind act upon matter very much as
one particle of matter is supposed to act upon another. Between the
physical and the mental he assumes that there are _causal_ relations;
_i.e._ physical changes must be referred to mental causes sometimes, and
mental changes to physical. This means that he finds a place for mental
facts by inserting them as links in the one chain of causes and effects
with physical facts. If he is not allowed to break the chain and insert
them, he does not know what to do with them.
The parallelist has not the same difficulty to face. He who holds that
mental phenomena must not be built into the one series of causes and
effects with physical phenomena may freely admit that physical phenomena
form a closed series, an orderly system of their own, and he may yet find
a place in the world for minds. He refuses to regard them as a part of
the world-mechanism, but he _relates_ them to physical things, conceiving
them as _parallel to_ the physical in the sense described (sections
37-39). He insists that, even if we hold that there are gaps in the
physical order of causes and effects, we cannot conceive these gaps to be
filled by mental phenomena, simply because they are mental phenomena.
They belong to an order of their own. Hence, the assumption that the
physical series is unbroken does not seem to him to crowd mental
phenomena out of their place in the world at all. They must, in any
case, occupy the place that is appropriate to them (section 38).
It will be noticed that this doctrine that the chain of physical causes
and effects is nowhere broken, and that mental phenomena are related to
it as the parallelist conceives them to be, makes the world-system a very
orderly one. Every phenomenon has its place in it, and can be accounted
for, whether it be physical or mental. To some, the thought that the
world is such an orderly thing is in the highest degree repugnant. They
object that, in such a world, there is no room for _free-will_; and they
object, further, that there is no room for the _activity of minds_. Both
of these objections I shall consider in this chapter.
But first, I must say a few words about a type of doctrine lately
insisted upon,[1] which bears some resemblance to interactionism as we
usually meet with it, and, nevertheless, tries to hold on to the doctrine
of the conservation of energy. It is this:--
The concept of energy is stretched in such a way as to make it cover
mental phenomena as well as physical. It is claimed that mental
phenomena and physical phenomena are alike "manifestations of energy,"
and that the coming into being of a consciousness is a mere
"transformation," a something to be accounted for by the disappearance
from the physical world of a certain equivalent--perhaps of some motion.
It will be noticed that this is one rather subtle way of obliterating the
distinction between mental phenomena and physical. In so far it
resembles the interactionist's doctrine.
In criticism of it we may say that he who accepts it has wandered away
from a rather widely recognized scientific hypothesis, and has
substituted for it a very doubtful speculation for which there seems to
be no whit of evidence. It is, moreover, a speculation repugnant to the
scientific mind, when its significance is grasped. Shall we assume
without evidence that, when a man wakes in the morning and enjoys a
mental life suspended or diminished during the night, his thoughts and
feelings have come into being at the expense of his body? Shall we
assume that the mass of his body has been slightly diminished, or that
motions have disappeared in a way that cannot be accounted for by a
reference to the laws of matter in motion? This seems an extraordinary
assumption, and one little in harmony with the doctrine of the eternity
of mass and the conservation of energy as commonly understood. We need
not take it seriously so long as it is quite unsupported by evidence.
46. THE ORDER OF NATURE AND "FREE-WILL."--In a world as orderly as, in
the previous section, this world is conceived to be, is there any room
for freedom? What if the man of science is right in suspecting that the
series of physical causes and effects is nowhere broken? Must we then
conclude that we are never free?
To many persons it has seemed that we are forced to draw this conclusion,
and it is not surprising that they view the doctrine with dismay. They
argue: Mental phenomena are made parallel with physical, and the order of
physical phenomena seems to be determined throughout, for nothing can
happen in the world of matter unless there is some adequate cause of its
happening. If, then, I choose to raise my finger, that movement must be
admitted to have physical causes, and those causes other causes, and so
on without end. If such a movement must always have its place in a
causal series of this kind, how can it be regarded as a free movement?
It is determined, and not free.
Now, it is far from a pleasant thing to watch the man of science busily
at work trying to prove that the physical world is an orderly system, and
all the while to feel in one's heart that the success of his efforts
condemns one to slavery. It can hardly fail to make one's attitude
towards science that of alarm and antagonism. From this I shall try to
free the reader by showing that our freedom is not in the least danger,
and that we may look on unconcerned.
When we approach that venerable dispute touching the freedom of the will,
which has inspired men to such endless discussions, and upon which they
have written with such warmth and even acrimony, the very first thing to
do is to discover what we have a right to mean when we call a man _free_.
As long as the meaning of the word is in doubt, the very subject of the
dispute is in doubt. When may we, then, properly call a man free? What
is the normal application of the term?
I raise my finger. Every man of sense must admit that, under normal
conditions, I can raise my finger or keep it down, _as I please_. There
is no ground for a difference of opinion so far. But there is a further
point upon which men differ. One holds that my "pleasing" and the
brain-change that corresponds to it have their place in the world-order;
that is, he maintains that every volition can be _accounted for_.
Another holds that, under precisely the same circumstances, one may
"please" or not "please"; which means that the "pleasing" cannot be
wholly accounted for by anything that has preceded. The first man is a
_determinist_, and the second a "_free-willist_." I beg the reader to
observe that the word "free-willist" is in quotation marks, and not to
suppose that it means simply a believer in the freedom of the will.
When in common life we speak of a man as free, what do we understand by
the word? Usually we mean that he is free from external compulsion. If
my finger is held by another, I am not free to raise it. But I may be
free in this sense, and yet one may demur to the statement that I am a
free man. If a pistol be held to my head with the remark, "Hands up!" my
finger will mount very quickly, and the bystanders will maintain that I
had no choice.
We speak in somewhat the same way of men under the influence of
intoxicants, of men crazed by some passion and unable to take into
consideration the consequences of their acts, and of men bound by the
spell of hypnotic suggestion. Indeed, whenever a man is in such a
condition that he is glaringly incapable of leading a normal human life
and of being influenced by the motives that commonly move men, we are
inclined to say that he is not free.
But does it ever occur to us to maintain that, in general, the possession
of a character and the capacity of being influenced by considerations
make it impossible for a man to be free? Surely not. If I am a prudent
man, I will invest my money in good securities. Is it sensible to say
that I cannot have been free in refusing a twenty per cent investment,
_because I am by nature prudent_? Am I a slave _because I eat when I am
hungry_, and can I partake of a meal freely, only when there is no reason
why I should eat at all?
He who calls me free only when my acts do violence to my nature or cannot
be justified by a reference to anything whatever has strange notions of
freedom. Patriots, poets, moralists, have had much to say of freedom;
men have lived for it, and have died for it; men love it as they love
their own souls. Is the object of all this adoration the metaphysical
absurdity indicated above?
To insist that a man is free only in so far as his actions are
unaccountable is to do violence to the meaning of a word in very common
use, and to mislead men by perverting it to strange and unwholesome uses.
Yet this is done by the "free-willist." He keeps insisting that man is
free, and then goes on to maintain that he cannot be free unless he is
"free." He does not, unfortunately, supply the quotation marks, and he
profits by the natural mistake in identity. As he defines freedom it
becomes "freedom," which is a very different thing.
What is this "freedom"? It is not freedom from external constraint. It
is not freedom from overpowering passion. It is freedom from all the
motives, good as well as bad, that we can conceive of as influencing man,
and freedom also from oneself.
It is well to get this quite clear. The "free-willist" maintains that,
_in so far as a man is "free,"_ his actions cannot be accounted for by a
reference to the order of causes at all--not by a reference to his
character, hereditary or acquired; not by a reference to his
surroundings. "Free" actions, in so far as they are "free," have, so to
speak, sprung into being out of the void. What follows from such a
doctrine? Listen:--
(1) It follows that, in so far as I am "free," I am not the author of
what appear to be my acts; who can be the cause of causeless actions?
(2) It follows that no amount of effort on my part can prevent the
appearance of "free" acts of the most deplorable kind. If one can
condition their appearance or non-appearance, they are not "free" acts.
(3) It follows that there is no reason to believe that there will be any
congruity between my character and my "free" acts. I may be a saint by
nature, and "freely" act like a scoundrel.
(4) It follows that I can deserve no credit for "free" acts. I am not
their author.
(5) It follows that, in so far as I am "free," it is useless to praise
me, to blame me, to punish me, to endeavor to persuade me. I must be
given over to unaccountable sainthood or to a reprobate mind, as it
happens to happen. I am quite beyond the pale of society, for my
neighbor cannot influence my "free" acts any more than I can.
(6) It follows that, in so far as I am "free," I am in something very
like a state of slavery; and yet, curiously enough, it is a slavery
without a master. In the old stories of Fate, men were represented as
puppets in the hand of a power outside themselves. Here I am a puppet in
no hand; but I am a puppet just the same, for I am the passive spectator
of what appear to be my acts. I do not do the things I seem to do. They
are done for me or in me--or, rather, they are not done, but just happen.
Such "freedom" is a wretched thing to offer to a man who longs for
freedom; for the freedom to act out his own impulses, to guide his life
according to his own ideals. It is a mere travesty on freedom, a fiction
of the philosophers, which inspires respect only so long as one has not
pierced the disguise of its respectable name. True freedom is not a
thing to be sought in a disorderly and chaotic world, in a world in which
actions are inexplicable and character does not count. Let us rinse our
minds free of misleading verbal associations, and let us realize that a
"free-will" neighbor would certainly not be to us an object of respect.
He would be as offensive an object to have in our vicinity as a
"free-will" gun or a "free-will" pocketknife. He would not be a rational
creature.
Our only concern need be for freedom, and this is in no danger in an
orderly world. We all recognize this truth, in a way. We hold that a
man of good character freely chooses the good, and a man of evil
character freely chooses evil. Is not this a recognition of the fact
that the choice is a thing to be accounted for, and is, nevertheless, a
free choice?
I have been considering above the world as it is conceived to be by the
parallelist, but, to the reader who may not incline towards parallelism,
I wish to point out that these reasonings touching the freedom of the
will concern the interactionist just as closely. They have no necessary
connection with parallelism. The interactionist, as well as the
parallelist, may be a determinist, a believer in freedom, or he may be a
"free-willist." |
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