The Fixation of Belief
Popular Science Monthly 12 (November 1877), pp.
1-15 (tradução em
português)
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 schoolmen, 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 open
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.
The early scientists,
Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, Galileo, and Gilbert, had methods more like
those of their modern brethren. Kepler undertook to draw a curve through the
places of Mars;1 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 to 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 well 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, but A 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 (W3.244)
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 had been
done in a widely different branch of science, the theory of gases. Though
unable to say what the movements 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 propositions 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 any 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
its validity is purely one of fact and not of thinking. A being the premises
and B 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 premisses 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 contract 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. Logicality 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 premisses 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 (W3.246) which bring him no nearer to his goal,
or even carry him entirely astray. He is like a ship in 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 others are all 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 premisses. 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
reflection, 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 imbued 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 some 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 groundless; for as
soon as a firm belief is reached we are entirely satisfied, whether the belief
be true or false. 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
the motive for 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 a question or set in down upon 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 this
all 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
premisses 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.
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 that 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 overbalances 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 practised 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 an
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 proportionately 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; (W3.252) 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 any 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 philosophers 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 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 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 affections are
necessarily as various as are individual conditions, yet the method must be
such (W3.254) that the ultimate conclusion of every man shall be the same. 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 are
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: 1. 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 which 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 me 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
me 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
(W3.255) the method of authority: the state may try to put down heresy by means
which, from a scientific point of view, seem 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 be 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 do get the right ideas at last; Hegel’s system of Nature
represents tolerably the science of that 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 the vanity of man which we all
believe by nature, until we are awakened from our pleasing dream by some rough
facts. The method of authority will always govern the mass of mankind; and
those who wield 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, (W3.256) 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 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 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 opinion 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 three first 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 its 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 reading the Bible. Would they not say that these
persons ought to (W3.257) 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 will
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
contemn 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.