ON CERTAINTY.
FUNDAMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER I.
IMPORTANCE AND UTILITY OF THE QUESTION OF CERTAINTY.
1. We should begin the study of philosophy by examining the question of certainty; before raising the edifice, we must lay the foundation.
Ever since there has been philosophy, that is, ever since men first reflected on themselves and the beings around them, they have been engaged with those questions which have for their object the basis of human knowledge, and this shows that on this subject serious difficulties are encountered. Inquirers, however, have not been discouraged by the sterility of philosophical labors; and this shows that in the last term of the investigation an object of high importance is discovered.
Philosophers have cavilled in the most extravagant manner upon the questions of certainty; on few subjects has the history of the human mind presented such lamentable aberrations. This consideration may excite suspicion that such investigations offer nothing solid to the mind, and serve only to feed the vanity of the sophist. But here, as elsewhere, we attribute no exaggerated importance to the opinions of philosophers, and we are very far from believing that they ought to be regarded as the legitimate representatives of human reason. It cannot, however, be denied that they are in the intellectual order the most active portion of the human race. When the whole body of philosophers dispute, humanity itself may be said to dispute. Every fact affecting the human race merits a thorough examination; to undervalue it, on account of the sophisms which envelop it, is to fall into the worst of all sophisms. There should be no contradiction between reason and common sense; yet such a contradiction there would be, if we should, in the name of common sense, contemn what occupies the reason of the most enlightened minds. Oftentimes it happens that what is grave and significant, that which makes a thinking man meditate, is the result neither of a disputation, nor of the arguments therein adduced, but the simple existence of the dispute itself. In itself it is sometimes of little importance, but by reason of what it indicates, of great consequence.
2. All philosophical questions are in some manner involved in that of certainty. When we have completely unfolded this, we have examined under one aspect or another all that human reason can conceive of God, man, and the universe. At first sight it may perhaps seem to be the simple foundation of the scientific structure; but in this foundation, if we carefully examine it, we shall see the whole edifice represented: it is a plane whereon is projected, visibly and in fair perspective, the whole body it is to support.
3. However limited may be the direct and immediate result of these investigations, they are of incalculable advantage. It is highly important to acquire science, but not less important to know its limits. Near these limits there are shoals which the navigator ought to know. It is by examining the question of certainty that we ascertain the limits of human science.
In descending to the depths to which these questions lead us, the understanding grows dim, and the heart is awed with a religious fear. A moment ago we were contemplating the edifice of human knowledge, and grew proud to see it with its colossal dimensions, its beautiful forms, its fine and bold construction; we enter it, and are led through deep caverns, and, as if by enchantment, the foundation seems to be subtilized, to evaporate, and the superb edifice remains floating in the air.
4. It must be remarked that in entering on the examination of the question of certainty, we do not conceal from ourselves its difficulties. To conceal would not be to solve them; on the contrary, the first condition necessary to their complete solution, is to see them with perfect clearness, and to feel their full force. It is no humiliation to the human understanding to seek those limits beyond which it cannot pass, but it is to elevate and confirm it. Thus the intrepid naturalist, when in search of some object he has penetrated to the bowels of the earth, feels a mixture of terror and pride to be thus buried in subterranean caverns, with just light enough to see immense masses barely suspended above his head and unfathomable abysses beneath his feet. There is something sublime, something attractive and captivating in the obscurity of the mysteries of science, in uncertainty itself, in the very assaults of doubt, threatening to destroy in one instant the work accomplished by the human mind only in the space of long ages. The greatest men have at all times enjoyed the contemplation of these mysteries. The genius which spread its wings over the east, over Greece and Rome, over the schools of the Middle Ages, is the same we now behold in modern Europe. Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine, Abelard, St. Anselm, St. Thomas of Aquin, Luis Vives, Bacon, Descartes, Malebranche, and Leibnitz, all, each in his own way, felt the sublime inspiration of philosophy.
Whatever tends to raise man to lofty contemplation in the sanctuary of his soul, contributes to his aggrandizement; for it separates him from natural objects, reminds him of his noble origin, and proclaims to him his high destiny. In a mechanical and sensual age, when every thing seems opposed to the activity of the powers of the soul, except when they administer to the wants of the body, it is well to renew those great questions in which the mind roams free and untrammelled over unbounden realms of space.
Only intellect can examine itself. The stone falls, but knows not that it falls; the ray calcines and pulverizes, ignorant of its power; the flower knows not that its beauty is enchanting; and the brute beast follows his instincts, but asks not the reason of them. Man alone, a fragile organization, appearing for a moment on earth again to return to the dust, harbors a spirit, which first inspects the external world, and then, anxious to ascertain its own nature, enters into itself as into a sanctuary, and becomes its own oracle. What am I? What do I do? What do I think? What phenomena do I experience within myself? Why am I subject to them? What is their cause, their order of production, their relations? The mind asks itself these questions,—serious and difficult indeed, but noble and sublime questions; an unfailing proof that there is within us something superior to inert matter susceptible only of motion and a variety of forms, that there is something, which, by an internal activity, spontaneous and rooted in our very nature, presents us an image of that infinite Activity, a single act of whose will created the world from nothing.(1)
CHAPTER II.
TRUE STATE OF THE QUESTION.
5. That we have certainty, common sense assures us, but what is its basis, and how it is acquired, are two difficult questions, which it is for philosophy to answer.
Three very different questions are involved in that of certainty; and if confounded, they contribute not a little to the creation of difficulties, and the confusion of matters which, even when they have their various aspects most accurately marked, are sufficiently hard and complicated.
It will greatly conduce to the due determination of our ideas, carefully to distinguish between the existence of certainty, its basis, and the mode in which it is acquired. Its existence is an indisputable fact; its basis the object of philosophical researches, and the mode of acquiring it frequently a concealed phenomenon not open to observation.
6. That bodies exist is a fact that no man of sane mind can doubt. No questions raised upon this point can ever shake our firm conviction in the existence, without us, of what we call the corporeal world. This conviction is a phenomenon of our existence. Explain it, perhaps we cannot; but we certainly cannot deny it; we submit to it as to an inevitable necessity.
What is the basis of certainty? Here we have not a simple fact, but a question solved by every philosopher in his own way. Descartes and Malebranche recur to the veracity of God; Locke and Condillac to the peculiar character and evolution of certain sensations.
How does man acquire this certainty? He knows not: he had it before reflecting on it; he is astounded to hear it made a matter of dispute, and he might never have suspected it could be asked, why we are certain that what affects our senses exists. It is of no use to ask him how he made so precious an acquisition; he regards it as a fact scarcely distinct from his own existence. He has no recollection of the order of sensations in his infancy; he finds his mind now developed, but is as ignorant of the laws of its development as he is of those which presided over the generation and growth of his body.
7. Philosophy should begin by explaining, not by disputing the fact of certainty. If we are certain of nothing, it is absolutely impossible for us to advance a single step in any science, or to take any part whatever in the affairs of life. A thorough-going skeptic would be insane, and that too with insanity of the highest grade. To such a one, all communication with other men, all succession of external actions, all thoughts, and even acts of the will would be impossible. Let us, then, admit the fact, and not be so extravagant as to say that madness sits on the threshold of philosophy.
It is the part of philosophy to analyze, not to destroy its object; for by destroying its object it destroys itself. Every argument must have a resting-point, which must be a fact. Whether it be internal or external, idea or object, the fact must exist: we must begin by supposing something, and this something we call a fact. Whoever begins by denying or doubting all facts, is like the anatomist, who, before dissecting a corpse, burns it, and casts its ashes to the wind.
8. Philosophy then, it may be said, commences not with an examination, but with an affirmation. Granted, and this is a truth whose admission closes the door on much sophistry, and sheds a brilliant light over the whole theory of certainty.
Philosophers are deceived when they imagine that they begin by doubting. Nothing is more false; when they think, they affirm, if nothing else, at least their own doubt: whenever they reason, they assert the connection of ideas, that is, the whole logical world.
Fichte, who certainly was not easily satisfied with anything, begins to treat of the basis of human knowledge by making an affirmation, and this he confesses with an ingenuousness that does him honor. Speaking of reflection, the foundation of his philosophy, he says: "The rules to which this reflection is subject, are not proved to be valid, but are tacitly presupposed to be known and admitted. They are, in their remotest origin, derived from a principle, the legitimacy of which can only be established on condition that they are valid. This is a circle, but an inevitable circle. But supposing it to be inevitable, and that we frankly confess it so to be, it is, in order to establish the highest principle, allowable to trust all the laws of general logic. We must start on the road of reflection with a proposition conceded by all the world without any contradiction."[1]
9. Certainty is to us a happy necessity; nature imposes it, and philosophers do not cast off nature. Pyrrho once came very near being hit by a stone, but he very naturally took good care to get out of its way, without stopping to examine whether it was a real stone, or only the appearance of one. The bystanders laughed at him for this, and, at the same time, showed how inconsistent this act was with his doctrine; but he gave this answer, which, under the circumstances, was exceedingly profound: "It is hard entirely to throw off human nature."
10. In sound philosophy, then, the question turns not upon the existence of certainty, but upon its motives, and the means of acquiring it. It is an inheritance of which we cannot divest ourselves, although we repudiate those very titles which guaranty its possession to us. Who is not certain that he thinks, feels, wills; that he has a body, and that there are around him others similar to his, of which the corporeal universe consists? Prior to all systems, humanity was in possession of this certainty, so, also, is every individual, although he may never during his whole life have once asked himself what the world is, what bodies are, or in what sensation, thought, and will consist. Not even if we examine the foundations of certainty and acknowledge the serious difficulties concerning them, which arise from ratiocination, is it possible to doubt everything. There never was, in all the rigor of the word, a true skeptic.
11. It is the same with certainty as with other objects of human knowledge. The fact is presented to us in all its magnitude, and with all clearness; but we do not penetrate to its innermost nature. Our understanding is as well provided with means to acquire knowledge of phenomena in the spiritual as in the material order, and it is sufficiently perspicacious to detect, delineate, and classify the laws to which they are subject; but when it would ascend to the cognition of the very essence of things, or would investigate the principles of the science which makes its boast, it feels its strength fail, and the ground whereon it stands, tremble and sink beneath its feet.
Happily, man possesses certainty independently of philosophical systems, not limited to phenomena of the soul, but extending as far as is needed in order to direct his conduct, both with regard to himself and to external objects. Before inquiring if there is certainty, all men were certain that they thought, willed, felt, that they had a body whose motions were governed by the will, and that there existed an assemblage of various bodies, called the universe. Since inquiries with regard to certainty were first instituted, it has remained the same with all men, even with those who disputed it; not one of whom could ever go farther than Pyrrho, and succeed in casting off human nature.
12. We cannot determine to what extent the force of mind of some philosophers, engaged in combatting nature, may have succeeded in creating doubt on many points, but certain it is: first, that no one ever went so far as to doubt the internal phenomena whose presence he felt inwardly; second, that if indeed any one ever did persuade himself that no external object corresponded to these phenomena, this must have been so strange an exception as to merit, in the history of science, and in the eyes of sound philosophy, no more weight than the illusions of a maniac. If Berkely went so far as to deny the existence of bodies, thus making the sophisms of reason triumph over the instincts of nature, he is alone, and in opposition to all mankind, and richly merits to have this saying applied to him: "Insanity is insanity still, no matter how sublime it may be."
Those very philosophers, who carried their skepticism the farthest, agreed upon the necessity of accommodating themselves in practice to the appearances of the senses, and of reserving doubt for the world of speculation. Philosophers may dispute on every thing as much as they please, but, the dispute over, they cease to be philosophers, and are again men, similar to other men, and, like them all, enjoy the fruits of certainty. This, Hume, who denied with Berkely the existence of bodies, confesses: "I dine," he says; "I play a game at backgammon; I converse, and am happy with my friends; and when, after three or four hours of amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, so strained, and so ridiculous, that I cannot find it in my heart to enter into them any farther. Here, then, I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act, like other people, in the common affairs of life."[2]
13. We must, in discussing certainty, guard against the feverish desire of shaking the foundations of human reason. We should, in this class of questions, seek a thorough knowledge of the principles of science, and the laws which govern the development of our mind. To labor to destroy them is to mistake the object of true philosophy: we have only to make them a matter of observation, just as we do those of the material world, without any intention of disturbing the admirable order prevailing in the universe. Skeptics, who, in order to render their philosophy more solid, begin by doubting every thing, resemble the man, who, desirous of ascertaining, and exactly determining the phenomena of life, should bare his bosom, and thrust the knife into his heart.
Sobriety is as necessary to the health of the mind, as to that of the body: there is no wisdom without prudence, no philosophy without judgment. In the soul of man there is a divine light which directs him with admirable certainty. If we do not persist in extinguishing it, its splendor guides us, and when we reach the term of science it shows it to us, and makes us read in distinct characters the words,—enough, you can go no farther. These words are written by the Author of all beings; he it is that has given laws to the body as well as to the mind, and he contains in his infinite essence the ultimate reason of all things.
14. The certainty which is prior to all examination is not blind; on the contrary, it springs either from the clearness of the intellectual vision, or from an instinct conformable to reason: it is not opposed to reason, but is its basis. Our mind, in discursive reasoning, knows truth by the connection of propositions, or by the light which is reflected from one truth upon another. In primitive certainty the vision is by direct light, and does not need reflection.
When, then, we note the existence of certainty, we do not speak of a blind fact, nor do we seek to extinguish the light in its very source; we would rather say, that it is more brilliant there than in its radiations. We see a body whose splendor illumines the world in which we live; ought we, if requested to explain its nature and its relations with other objects, to begin by destroying these? When naturalists would examine the nature of light, and determine its laws, they do not begin by removing the light itself, and placing themselves in darkness.
15. True, this method of philosophizing is somewhat dogmatic, but dogmatic as it is, it has on its side, as we have seen, Pyrrho, Hume, and Fichte. It is not simply a method of philosophy, it is the voluntary submission of our very nature to an inevitable necessity, the combination of reason with instinct, a simultaneous attention to different voices calling from the depths of our soul. According to Pascal, "nature confounds the Pyrrhonians, and reason the dogmatists." This passes for a profound saying, and is so under a certain aspect; but it is notwithstanding somewhat inexact. The confusion is not the same in both cases: reason does not confound the dogmatist, unless he separates it from nature; but nature confounds the Pyrrhonian, either alone or joined with reason. The true dogmatist founds his reason upon nature; it knows itself, confesses the impossibility of proving every thing, and does not arbitrarily assume any principle that it needs unless nature itself furnishes it. And thus it does not confound the dogmatist, when guided by it he seeks a sure foundation for it. Nature, when it confounds the Pyrrhonian, attests the triumph of the reason of dogmatists, whose principal argument against Pyrrhonians, is the voice of nature itself. Pascal's thought would have been more exact if thus worded: nature confounds the Pyrrhonian and is necessary to the reason of dogmatists. This is less antithetical, but more true. Dogmatists do not deny nature; reason without it is impotent; to exercise its strength it needs a resting point. With such, Archimedes offered to move the earth, without this his immense lever could not stir a single atom.(2)
CERTAINTY OF THE HUMAN RACE, AND PHILOSOPHICAL CERTAINTY.
16. Certainty does not originate in reflection; it is the spontaneous product of man's nature, and is annexed to the direct act of the intellectual and sensitive faculties. It is a condition necessary to the exercise of both, and without it life were a chaos; we therefore possess it instinctively, and without any reflection, and we enjoy the fruit of this as of all those other benefits of the Creator, which are inseparably joined to our existence.
17. It is, then, necessary to distinguish between the certainty of the human race and philosophical certainty, although, to speak frankly, it is not easy to conceive what can be the value of any human certainty distinct from that of the human race. If we set aside the efforts which the philosopher sometimes makes to discover the basis of human knowledge, we shall readily find him confounded with the rest of mankind. This cavil leaves no trace in his mind with respect to the certainty of all that the human race is certain of. He then discovers that the doubt which he felt was not a real doubt, although he may have deluded himself into a contrary belief. His doubts were simple suppositions, nothing more. When his meditation is over, and perhaps even while it lasts, he finds that he is as certain as the most ignorant individual of his internal acts, the existence of his own body, of other bodies around him, and of a thousand other things, which constitute the amount of knowledge requisite to the wants of life.
Question all, from the infant of a few summers, to the sage of many years and mature judgment, on the certainty of their own existence, their acts internal or external, their friends and relatives, the people among whom they dwell, objects seen or heard of, and you will not detect any hesitation in their answers, or any kind of difference in the grades of their certainty. If they have no knowledge of the philosophical questions touching these matters, you may read in their countenances wonder and astonishment that any one should seriously investigate things so evident.
18. Impossible as it is for us to know in what manner the sensitive, intellectual, and moral powers of children are developed, it is equally impossible to prove a a prior, by analyzing the operations of his mind, that reflex acts do not concur to the formation of certainty; but it will not be difficult to find proofs of this in the exercise of these faculties when well developed. If we observe attentively, we shall see that the child's faculties habitually operate in a direct, not a reflex manner; which shows that the development is made directly, not by reflection. Were the primitive development the work of reflexion, the reflective power would be great in the child. But this is not the case. Very few men are ever endowed with it, and in the greater part of them it is very nearly null. They who attain to it, acquire it only by assiduous labor, and not without great violence to himself, can any one pass from direct to reflex cognition.
19. No matter what you teach a child, he perceives it indeed, but call his attention to the perception itself, and his understanding is at once obscured and confused. Let us make the experiment. Suppose we would teach a child the elements of geometry.
"Do you see this figure bounded by three lines? It is called a triangle; the lines are called sides, and the points where they unite the vertices of the angles."—"I understand that."—"Do you see this other figure bounded by four lines? It is called quadrilateral, and, like the triangle, has its sides and vertices of angles."—"Very well."—"Can a quadrilateral figure be a triangle, or vice versa?"—"It cannot."—"Never?"—"Never."—"Why not?"—"One has three, and the other four sides: how then can they be the same thing?"—"Who knows? It may seem so to you, but—"—"See here! This has three, and this four sides; and three and four are not the same thing."
Torture his understanding as much as you please, but you cannot drive him from his position: and thus we see that his perception and his reason operate directly, that is, by direct application to the object. Of himself he does not direct his attention to his own internal acts, does not think upon his own thoughts, does not combine reflex ideas, nor seek in them the certainty of his judgment.
20. And here we detect a vital error in the art of thinking as it has hitherto been taught. The young intellect is exercised in reflection, the most difficult part of science, which is as inconsiderate as it would be to commence his physical development by the most painful gymnastic exercises. Man's scientific development should be governed by his natural development, which is direct not reflex.
21. Let us apply this remark to the exercise of the senses. "Do you hear that music?" asks the child.—"What music?"—"Did you not hear it? Are you deaf?"—"It seems to you that you hear it."—"But, sir, I hear it so distinctly! How can it be possible?"—"But how do you know?"—"I hear it."
From his I hear it you cannot drive him: he will not hesitate a moment, nor will he appeal to any reflex act in order to avoid your importunities. "I hear it: do not you hear it?" He asks nothing more, and all your philosophy cannot equal the irresistible force of sensation which assures him that there is music, and that whoever doubts it is either deaf or in jest.
22. Had the faculties of the child been developed by alternate direct and reflex acts; had he, when acquiring knowledge of things, thought of something besides the things themselves; evidently a continuation of such acts would have left some impression on his mind, and urged to assign the motives of his certainty, he would indicate those very means that he made use of in the gradual development of his faculties; he would abstract the object, retire into himself, think upon his own thought in one way or another, and thus encounter the difficulty. Nothing of this character takes place, which proves that no such reflex acts have been performed, that there have been only perceptions accompanied by internal consciousness and certainty of their existence; but all in a confused, instinctive manner, without any thing like philosophical reflection.
23. What has been said of the child, may be proved true also of adults, however clear and perfect their intellect. If not initiated into questions of philosophy, they will give very nearly the same answers to difficulties proposed on the same matters, and even upon many others more exposed to doubt. Experience proves better than all ratiocination that no one acquires certainty by reflex acts.
24. Philosophers teach that the sources of certainty are the internal sense or consciousness of acts, the external senses, common sense, reason, and authority. A few examples will show us that there is reflection in all these, and how most men, and even philosophers, when they act like men and not like philosophers, think.
25. Suppose a clear-headed person, one however who is ignorant of the questions of certainty, has just seen some monument, the Escurial for instance, which leaves a lively and lasting impression on his mind, and while he recollects his gratification on seeing it, try to make him doubt the existence of this recollection in his mind, and its correspondence as well with the act of seeing as with the edifice itself, and he will very certainly think you are in jest, or will be astounded, and will suspect you of being out of your senses. He discovers no difference between things different as are the actual existence of his recollection, its correspondence with the past act of seeing, and the agreement of both with the edifice seen. He knows in this case no more than a child of six years: "I recollect it, I saw it, it is as I recollect it." This is all his science: he neither reflects, nor separates; all is direct and simultaneous.
No matter what suppositions you make, you can never get from the majority of men any better account of the phenomena of the internal sense, than you got from the supposed individual's recollection of the Escurial: "all that I know is that it is so." There are here no reflex acts; certainty attends the direct act, and no philosophical considerations can add one iota to the security given by the very force of things, and the instinct of nature.
26. Example of the testimony of the senses.
If we see any object, no matter what, at a proper distance and in sufficient light, we judge of its size, figure, and color, and we are very confident of the truth of our judgment, although we may never, in all our life, have thought of a theory of sensation, or of the relations of our organs, either to each other or to external objects. No reflex act accompanies the formation of our judgment; all is done instinctively, and without the intervention of philosophical considerations. We see it, and nothing else: this is enough for certainty. It is only after having handled books in which the question of certainty is agitated, that we turn our attention to our own acts; but this attention, it is to be remarked, lasts only so long as we are engaged in the scientific analysis; when this is forgotten, which it very soon is, we return to our general routine, and seldom recur to philosophy.
Note well that we speak here of the certainty of the judgment formed in consequence of sensation only in so far as it is connected with the uses of life, and not at all of its greater or less exactness with respect to the nature of things. Thus it matters little that we consider colors as inherent qualities of bodies, although in reality they are not; it is sufficient that the judgment formed does not in any sense change our relations to objects, whatever may be the philosophical theory.
27. Example of common sense.
In the presence of a numerous assembly, throw a quantity of printer's types at random upon the ground, and tell the bystanders that their names will all be found printed. They will all with one accord laugh at your folly. But what is the reason of this? Have they all reflected upon the basis of their certainty? Assuredly they have not.
28. Example of reason.
We all reason, and in many cases rightly. Without art or reflection of any kind, we often distinguish the solid from the futile, the sophistical from the conclusive. This does not require us to regard the course of our understanding; without scarcely noticing it we follow the right road; and a man may, in his life, have formed a thousand rigorous and exact ratiocinations without ever having once attended to his method of reasoning. Even those most versed in the dialectic art, repeatedly forget it; they perhaps follow it very correctly in practice, but they pay no express attention to any one of its rules.
29. Ideologists have written whole volumes on the operations of our understanding, and the simple rustic performs these operations without thinking that he performs them. How much has been written on abstraction, generalization, and universals! Yet this is all well regulated in the mind of every man, ignorant as he may be of a science which examines it. In his language you will find the universal and the particular expressed, and every thing occupying its proper place in his discourse: he encounters no difficulty in his direct acts. But call his attention to these acts themselves, to abstraction for example; and what was in the direct act so clear and lucid, becomes a chaos the moment it passes to the reflex order.
Thus we see that reflection, whose object is the act performed, is of very little importance even in reasoning, its most reflective medium.
30. Example of authority.
All civilized people know the existence of England, but most of them know this only from having heard or read of it, that is, by authority. Their certainty of the existence of England evidently is not surpassed by that of objects of their own vision; and yet how many of them have ever thought of analyzing the foundations of such a certainty? Yet is the certainty of those who have examined it greater than that of those who have not examined it? In the present case, as in an infinity of others analogous to it, there is no intervention of reflex acts: certainty is here formed instinctively, and needs no medium invented by philosophers.
31. These examples show that philosophers take a very different road to certainty from that taught by nature. He who created all things out of nothing, has provided them with all that is necessary to the exercise of their functions according to their respective positions in the universe; and one of the first necessities of an intelligent being is the certainty of some truths. What would become of us, if before beginning to receive impressions, and before the germination of primary ideas in our understanding, we were obliged to perform the painful task of elaborating some system capable of saving us from uncertainty? Were it thus, our intellect would perish at its very birth, for no sooner would it open its eyes to the light than it would be involved in the chaos of its own cavils, and it could never, with its scattered forces, succeed in dissipating the clouds which would arise on all sides, and which would finally sink it in total darkness.
If the greatest philosophers, the most clear and acute intellects, the strongest and most vigorous geniuses have labored to so little purpose to establish solid principles, such as might serve for the foundations of science, what would have happened had not the Creator succored us in this necessity, and given certainty to the tender intellect, just as he prepared for the preservation of the body the milk that nourishes and the air that vivifies it?
32. If any part of science ought to be regarded as purely speculative, it is undoubtedly the part which concerns certainty; and this proposition, paradoxical as it may seem at first sight, is true, and can be easily demonstrated.
33. What does philosophy here propose to do? To produce certainty? But it exists independently of all philosophical systems, and mankind were certain of many things before ever any one thought of such questions. Moreover, since the question was first raised, few, compared with the whole human race, have examined it; so it is now, and so it will be; and all the theories invented on this point can have no effect upon the fact of certainty. What has been said of its production may be said of the attempt to consolidate it. When have the generality of men had, or when will they have, time and opportunity to examine these questions?
34. Philosophy could here have produced nothing but skepticism, for the variety and opposition of systems were more calculated to create than to dissipate doubts. Happily nature is the most invincible opponent of skepticism; the sage's dreams pass not from his library to the every day uses of the life of ordinary men, or even of those who labor under or imagine them.
35. Philosophy here can propose to itself no more reasonable object than simply to examine the foundations of certainty, with the sole view of more thoroughly knowing the human mind, not of making any change in practice; just as astronomers observe the course of the stars, investigate and determine the laws to which they are subject, without therefore presuming to be able to modify them.
36. But even this supposition places philosophy in a very unsatisfactory position; for if we recollect what we have already established, we shall see that science observes a real and true phenomenon, but gives it a gratuitous explanation, by making an imaginary analysis of it.
Experience has in fact shown our understanding to be guided by no one of the considerations made by philosophers; its assent, when it is accompanied by the greatest certainty, is a spontaneous product of a natural instinct, not of combinations; it is a firm adhesion exacted by the evidence of the truth, the power of the internal sense, or the impulse of instinct; not a conviction produced by a series of ratiocinations. These combinations and ratiocinations therefore exist only in the mind of philosophers, not in reality; when, therefore, they attempt to designate the foundations of certainty, we are told what could or should have been, but not what is.
If philosophers would only be guided by their own systems, and would not forget them nor set them aside as soon as, or even before, they have finished explaining them, it might be said, that even if no reason can be given for human certainty, one can be given for philosophical certainty; but since these same philosophers make no use of these scientific means save when developing them ex professo, it follows that their pretended foundations are a mere theory, having little or no connection with the reality.
37. This demonstration of the vanity of philosophical systems relating to the foundation of certainty, far from leading to skepticism, has a directly contrary tendency; for it makes us appreciate at their true value, the emptiness of our cavils, compares their impotence with the irresistible force of nature, and thus destroys that foolish pride which would make us superior to the laws imposed upon our understanding by the Creator himself; it places us in the channel through which the torrent of humanity has for ages run; and it disposes us to receive with sound philosophy what the laws of our nature force us to accept.(3)
CHAPTER IV.
EXISTENCE OF TRANSCENDENTAL SCIENCE IN THE ABSOLUTE INTELLECTUAL ORDER.
38. Philosophers have sought a first principle of human knowledge; each has assigned his own, and now after so much discussion it is doubtful who is right, or even if any one is right.
Before inquiring what the first principle is, they ought to have ascertained whether there be any such principle. We cannot suppose this last question to be answered affirmatively; for it is, as we shall hereafter see, susceptible of different solutions, according to the aspect under which it is seen.
The first principle of knowledge may be understood in either of two senses; as denoting one first truth from which all others flow, or as expressing a truth which we must suppose if we would not have all other truths disappear. In the former sense it is a spring from which the waters flow, which fertilize the intellect; in the second sense it is a point whereon to rest a great weight.
39. Is there any one truth from which all others flow? There is in reality, in the order of beings, in the universal intellectual order; but in the human intellectual order there is none.
40. There is in the order of beings one truth, the origin of all truths; for truth is reality, and there is one Being, author of all beings. This being is a truth,—truth itself,—the plenitude of truth,—for he is being by essence, the plenitude of being.
Every school of philosophy has in some sense recognized this unity of origin. The atheist talks of the force of nature; the pantheist of an only substance, of the absolute, of the unconditioned; both have abandoned the idea of God, and now labour to replace it by something which may be made the origin of the existence of the universe, and of the development of its phenomena.
41. There is in the universal intellectual order one truth from which all others flow; it is, that the unity of origin of all truths is not only found in realized truths, that is, in beings considered in themselves, but likewise in the concatenation of ideas representing these beings. And thus if our understanding could ascend to the knowledge of all truths, and embrace them in their unity and in all the relations uniting them, it would see them after arriving at a certain height, notwithstanding their dispersion and divergence as now perceived by us, converge to a centre, in which they unite, like rays of light in the luminous object from which they issued.
42. The most profound philosophical doctrines often appear in the treatises of theologians explaining the doctrines of the church. Thus St. Thomas, in his questions on the understanding of angels, and in other parts of his works, has left us a very luminous and interesting theory. According to him, spirits understand by a number of ideas smaller in proportion to the superiority of their order; and so the diminution goes on even to God, who understands by means of a single idea which is his own essence. And thus according to the holy doctor, not only is there one being, author of all beings, but also one infinite idea which includes all ideas. Whoever fully possesses this idea will see every thing in it; but since this full possession, called comprehension in theology, is solely a property of the infinite intelligence of God, creatures, when in the other life they shall have obtained the beatific vision, will see more or fewer objects in God according to the greater or less perfection in which they possess it. How wonderful! The dogma of beatific vision well understood, is also a truth which sheds much light upon philosophical theories. Malebranche's sublime dream about ideas was, perhaps, a reminiscence of his theological studies.
43. The transcendental science which embraces and explains them all, is a chimera to our mind so long as we inhabit this earth, but it is a reality to other spirits of a higher order, and it will also be so to us when, freed from this mortal body, we attain the regions of light.
44. So far as we may conjecture from analogy, we have proofs of the existence of this transcendental science, which includes all sciences, and is in its turn contained in one sole principle, or rather, in one only idea, in one only intuition. If we observe the scale of beings, the grades of distinction between individual intelligences, and the successive progress of science, the image of this truth will be presented to us in a very striking manner.
One of the distinctive characteristics of our mind is its power of generalization, of perceiving the common in the various, of reducing the multiplex to unity; and this power is proportional to its degree of intelligence.
45. The brute is limited to its sensations and the objects causing them. It has no power of generalization or of classification; nothing beyond the impression received or the instinct of satisfying its wants. Man, however, as soon as he opens the eyes of his understanding, perceives unnumbered relations; he applies what he has seen in one case to different cases; he generalizes and infolds very many ideas in a single idea. The child desires an object above his reach; he immediately takes a chair or a stool, and improvises a ladder. A brute will watch the object of its appetite whole hours when placed beyond its reach, without ever thinking of doing like the child, and forming a ladder. If every thing be so disposed as to enable it to climb, it will climb, but it is incapable of thinking that in similar circumstances it ought to act in like manner. In the former case, we see a being having the general idea of a means, and its relation to the end, of which it makes use when necessary: in the latter we see another being having indeed before its eyes the end and the means, but not perceiving their relation, unable to go beyond the material individuality of objects.
In the former there is perception of unity; in the latter there is no bond to join the variety of particular facts.
It is seen by this simple example that the child will reduce all the infinity of cases, in which an object may be placed beyond his reach, to this one case; he possesses, so to speak, the formula of this little problem. True, he does not render himself an account of this formula, that is, does not reflect upon it; but he has it in reality; and if you give him an opportunity he will at once apply it, which proves that he has it. Or speak to him of things placed too high for his reach, and point rapidly from one to another of the objects before him; he will at all times instantly apply the general idea of an auxiliary medium; he will avail himself perhaps of his father's arm, or that of a servant, a chair, if in the house, a heap of stones, if in the fields; he discovers in all things the relation of the means to the end. When he sees the end, he immediately turns his attention to the means of attaining it: the general idea seeks individualization in a particular case.
46. Art is the collection of rules for doing any thing well; and is the more perfect in proportion as each rule embraces a greater number of cases, and consequently as the number of these rules is smaller. Doubtless, buildings that were solid, well proportioned, and adapted to the purpose for which they were destined, had been constructed before the rules of architecture were reduced to formulas; but the great progress of intelligence in the construction of buildings consisted in ascertaining what there was common to all well-built houses, in determining the cause of beauty and of solidity, in themselves considered, by passing from the individual to the universal, that is, by forming general ideas of beauty and solidity applicable to an indefinite number of particular cases, by simplifying.
47. The same may be said of all other liberal and mechanical arts: the progress of intelligence in all of them consists in reducing multiplicity to unity, and including the greatest possible number of applications in the least possible number of ideas. This is why lovers of literature and the fine arts labor to discover an idea of beauty in general, in order to attain a type applicable to all literary and artistic objects. It is also obvious that those engaged in mechanical arts always endeavor to govern their proceedings by a few rules, and he is held to be the most skilful who succeeds in combining the greatest variety of results with the greatest simplicity of means, by making that, which others connect with many ideas, depend upon one idea alone. When we see a machine produce wonderful effects by a very simple process, we praise the artificer not less for the means than for the end: this we say, is grand, and the simplicity with which it works is the most astonishing.
48. Let us apply this doctrine to the natural and exact sciences.
The merit of our actual system of numeration consists in including the expression of all numbers in a single idea, making the value of each figure ten times that to the right, and filling all intervals with zeros. The expression of infinite numbers is reduced to the simplicity of a single rule based upon a single idea; the relation of position with a tenfold value. Logarithms have enabled arithmetic to make a great advance by diminishing the number of its fundamental operations, since, with them it reduces multiplication and division to addition and subtraction. Algebra is only the generalization of arithmetical expressions and operations, their simplification. The application of algebra to geometry is the generalization of geometrical expressions; formulas of lines, figures, bodies, only the expression of their universal idea. In this idea as in a type, geometry preserves its first and generative idea, and it requires only the simplest applications in order to form an exact calculation of all lines belonging to the same class, which can possibly be met with in practice. In the simple expression dz/dx = A, called the differential coefficient, is contained the whole idea of infinitesimal calculus. It originated in geometrical considerations, but so soon as its universality was conceived, it poured a flood of light upon every branch of mathematical and natural science, and led to the discovery of a new world, whose confines are still unknown. The prodigious fecundity of this calculus emanates from its simplicity, its prompt generalization of both algebra and geometry, and its uniting them in a single point which is the relation of the limits of the differentials of any function.
49. It is to this unity of idea that the human intellect in its ambition aspires, and once obtained, it proves the cause of great progress. The glory of the greatest geniuses is that they discovered it: the advance of science has consisted in profiting by it. Vieta explained and applied the principle of the general expression of arithmetical quantities; Descartes extended this to geometrical quantities. Newton established the principle of universal gravitation; and he, at the same time with Leibnitz, invented the infinitesimal calculus; and the exact and natural sciences march, by the light of a vast flambeau, with gigantic strides along paths never before trodden. And all this because intelligence has approached unity, and become possessed of a generative idea, involving infinite other ideas.
50. It is worthy of remark, that as we advance in science, we meet numerous points of contact, close relations, which no one at first sight would have suspected. Ancient mathematicians discussed the conic sections, but were far from imagining that the idea of the ellipse could be the basis of a system of astronomy: the foci to them were simple points, the curve a line, and the relations of both the object of combinations at once profitless and without application. Ages pass away, and these foci are the sun, the curve the orbit of planets. The lines on the geometrician's table represented a world!
The intimate connection of mathematical and natural science cannot be questioned; and who shall say to what extent both are connected with ontological, psychological, theological, and moral science? The extended scale over which beings are distributed may at first sight seem to be an assemblage of unconnected objects, but seen with the eyes of science, it is perceived to be a delicately worked chain, whose links present, as we advance, greater beauty and perfection. We see the different realms of nature united by close relations: the sciences, of which they are the objects, mutually borrow each other's light, and enter on each other's territory. The complication of objects among themselves involves this complication of science; and the unity of the laws imposed upon different orders of beings makes all sciences approach, and tend to form, one only science. If it were given us to see the identity of their origin, the unity of the end and the simplicity of the means, we should come into the possession of the true transcendental science, the only science which involves all others, or more correctly speaking, the only idea in which every thing is represented as it is, and every thing seen without any necessity of combination, or effort of any kind, just as a magnificent landscape, its outlines, form, and colors are pictured on a perfectly clear mirror. In the meantime, we must rest satisfied with shadows of reality, and must see in the instinctive tendency of our understanding to simplify, to reduce every thing or make it approach as much as possible to unity, the announcement, the sign of this single science, this intuition of the one infinite idea; just as in the desire for happiness which agitates our heart, the thirst after enjoyment which torments us we discover a proof that all is not ended here below, and that our soul has been created for the possession of a good not to be attained in this mortal life.
51. If we compare men with men, and pay attention to the character of genius, the most elevated point of human intelligence, we shall see the truth of what has been said of the scale of human beings, and the progress of science. Men of true genius are distinguished by the unity and extent of their conceptions. If they treat a difficult and complicated question, they simplify it, consider it from a high point of view, and determine one general idea which sheds light upon all the others. If they have a difficulty to solve, they show the root of the error, and with a word dispel all the illusion of sophistry. If they use synthesis, they first establish the principle which is to serve as its basis, and with one dash trace the road to be followed in order to reach the wished-for result. If they make use of analysis, they strike in its secret resort the point where decomposition is to commence, they at once open the object, and reveal to us its most obscure mysteries. If there is question of a discovery, while others are seeking here and there, they strike the ground with their foot, and exclaim, "the treasure is here." They make no long arguments, nor evasions; their thoughts are few but pregnant; their words are not many, but in each of them is set a pearl of inestimable value.
52. No doubt there is in the intellectual order a single truth from which all other truths emanate, one idea which includes all other ideas. This philosophy teaches, and the efforts, the natural and instinctive tendencies of every intelligence, toiling after simplicity and unity, show it: such also is the dictate of common sense, which considers that thought the highest and most noble which is the most comprehensive and the most simple.(4)
TRANSCENDENTAL SCIENCE IN THE HUMAN INTELLECTUAL ORDER CANNOT EMANATE FROM THE SENSES.
53. In the human intellectual order, such as it is in this life, there is no one truth from which all others flow: philosophers have sought one in vain; they have found none, for there was none to be found. In fact, where could it be found?
54. Would it emanate from the senses?
Sensations are as various as the objects which produce them: by them we acquire knowledge of individual and material things; but no one truth, source of all other truths, can be found in any one of these, or the sensations proceeding from them.
55. If we observe our impressions received through sensation, we shall perceive that they are all equal so far as the production of certainty is concerned. We are just as certain of the sensation caused by any noise whatever, as we are of that produced by an object which we see, an odorous body which we smell, a savory morsel which we taste, or any thing which strongly affects our sense of touch. There is no gradation in the certainty produced by these sensations: they are all equal; for if we speak of sensation itself, we experience it in such a manner as to leave no uncertainty; and if we speak of the relation of sensation with the existence of the object causing it, we are just as certain that the sensation called sight corresponds to an external object seen, as we are that an external object touched corresponds to the sensation called touch.
Hence we infer that no one sensation is the origin of the certainty of other sensations; in this they are all alike: and most men have no other reason than their experience why they should be sure of this certainty. We are aware that what happens to individuals from whose eyes cataracts have been removed, shows that simple sensation does not suffice for the due appreciation of the object perceived, and that one sense aids another: but this does not prove any one of them to be preferable; for as the blind man, whose sight was suddenly restored, did not form an exact judgment as to the size and distance of objects seen by sight only, but required the assistance of touch; so is it very probable that if a person of good eyesight had been deprived from his birth of the sense of touch, he would not be able, were this sense given him suddenly, to form an exact judgment concerning objects touched, until, by the aid of sight, he had become accustomed to combine the new and the old order of sensations, and learnt by practice to determine the relations of sensation with its object, or to know by sensation the properties of its object.
56. This fact of the blind man is however contradicted by others which lead to a directly opposite result. The youth, upon whom the oculist, Jean Janin, performed the same operation, and other persons blind from their birth, whose eyesight Luigi de' Gregori partly restored, did not, like the blind man of Cheselden, deem these objects stuck to their eyes, but that they saw them as things really external and separate. Rosmini thus relates it,[3] although he gives the preference to the Cheselden case, which he says was repeated in Italy by the professor Giacomo di Pavia with precisely the same results.
57. It is not easy to ascertain how this combination of one sensation with another enables us to judge rightly of external objects; chiefly because the development of our sensitive and intellectual faculties is completed before we can reflect upon it: and thus we find ourselves certain of the existence and properties of things before we have thought of certainty, and much less of the means of acquiring it.
58. But even supposing us, after occupying ourselves with sensations and their relations with objects, to set aside the certainty which we already have, and to act as if we sought it, we can find no one sensation the basis of the certainty of the other sensations. We should meet in that all the difficulties to be encountered in the others.
59. One of the chief difficulties upon this point is to determine the relations of the sense of sight with that of touch, and how far the one depends upon the other. We propose hereafter to examine these questions at some length, and we shall therefore now refrain from entering upon them, as well because they are not of a character to be incidentally investigated, as because whatever their solution, it is not at all opposed to what we shall here establish.
60. It would be of no advantage to us to know that the certainty of all sensations was, philosophically speaking, founded upon that of some one sensation. Every sensation is a contingent, individual fact: how then are we to draw from it light to guide us to necessary truths? No matter under what aspect we consider sensation, it is only an impression received through our organs. We are sure of the impression because it is intimately present to our mind; and its repetition aided by other sensations, whether of the same or another sense, makes us certain of its relations with the object producing it: but every thing is done instinctively, with little or no reflection; and we are always condemned, however much we reflect, to reach a point beyond which we cannot pass, for nature herself there stops us.
61. Far then from finding in any sensation a fundamental fact on which to found a philosophical certainty, we discover a collection of particular and mutually distinct facts, equal, however, so far as the production in us of that security which we call certainty is concerned. It is of no use to decompose man, and reduce him first to an inanimate machine, then allow him one sense, making him perceive different sensations, afterwards grant him another sense, making him combine the new and the old sensations, and so on synthetically to the possession and exercise of them all. These things may do to entertain one's curiosity, to nourish philosophical pretensions, or to give a show of probability to imaginary systems; but they are in reality of little or no use; the evolutions which the observer imagines do not resemble those of nature; and the true philosopher ought to examine what really is, not what is only in his conception.
Condillac, animating his statue by degrees, and making the whole sum of human knowledge flow from one sensation, is like those priests who got inside the statue of the idol, and thence emitted their oracles. It is not the statue which receives animation, that speaks and thinks, it is Condillac from within it. Let us, however, grant to the sensist all he demands; let us allow him to regulate as he pleases the mutual dependence of sensations; for the instant we require him to make use only of pure sensations in his discussions, he will be utterly disconcerted, how much soever he may suppose them to be transformed. But we reserve these questions to the place in which we shall examine the nature and origin of ideas.
62. Why are we sure that the agreeable sensation which we experience in our sense of smell proceeds from an object called a rose? Because we recollect having experienced the same sensation on a thousand other occasions; because both sight and touch confirm the testimony of smell. But how do we know that these sensations are something beside the impressions received in our soul? Why may we not believe them to come from some cause or other, without relation to external causes? Is it because other men say the contrary? Are we certain that they exist? How do they know what they tell us? How do we know that we hear rightly? There is the same difficulty with the other senses as with that of hearing, and if we doubt the testimony of three senses, why shall we not doubt that of four? Reasoning is here of no avail; it would lead us to cavils which would require an impassible doubt, and would tear from us a security, of which, notwithstanding all our efforts, we cannot despoil ourselves.
Moreover, if we appeal to the principles of reason, in order to prove the truth of sensation, we leave the territory of sensations, and do not place in them the primitive truth, origin of all other truths, nor accomplish what we undertook.
63. Hence it follows: First, that there is no one sensation which is the origin of the certainty of all others; this we have only indicated here, reserving the demonstration of it to our treatise on sensations. Secondly, although such a sensation were to exist, it could not serve as the basis of any thing in the intellectual order, for with sensation alone it is impossible even to think. Thirdly, that sensations, so far from being able to serve as the basis of transcendental science, cannot serve of themselves alone to establish any science; because necessary truths cannot flow from them, since they are contingent facts.(5)
TRANSCENDENTAL SCIENCE.—INSUFFICIENCY OF REAL TRUTHS.
64. We have thought proper briefly to refute Condillac's system, not on account of its intrinsic importance, or because it was not before in sufficiently bad repute, but in order to clear the field for higher and more strictly philosophical discussions. We should not omit to guard philosophy against the prejudice cast upon it by a system as vain as it is profitless. All that is most sublime in the science of the mind disappears with the statue-man and transformed sensations: we vindicate the rights of human reason by showing that before entering upon more transcendental questions it is indispensable to discard Condillac's system; just as it is necessary before making a good road to clear away the brushwood which obstructs the passage.
65. We come now to the proof that in the human intellectual order, such as it is in this life, there is no one truth the source of all truths; because no one truth includes them all.
Truths are of two kinds, real and ideal. We call facts, or whatever exists, real truths; we call the necessary connection of ideas ideal truths. A real truth may be expressed by the verb to be, taken substantively, or at least it supposes a proposition in which this verb has been taken in this sense: an ideal truth is expressed by the same verb taken copulatively, as signifying the necessary relation of a predicate with a subject, abstracting it, however, from both. We are, that is, we exist, expresses a real truth, a fact. Whoever thinks exists, expresses an ideal truth, for it does not affirm that there is any one who thinks or exists, but that if there is any one who thinks, he exists; or, in other words, it affirms a necessary relation between thought and being. To real truths corresponds the real world, the world of existences; to ideal truths the logical world, that of possibility.
The verb to be, is sometimes taken copulatively, although the relation expressed by it be not necessary: such is the case with all contingent propositions, and when the predicate does not belong to the essence of the subject. Sometimes the necessity is conditional, that is, it supposes a fact; and then there is no absolute necessity, since the supposed fact is always contingent. When we speak of ideal truths, we refer to those that express an absolute necessary relation, abstracting it from all order of existence; and on the other hand, we understand by real truths all those that suppose a proposition in which a fact has been established. To this class belong the truths of natural science, for they all suppose some fact which is the object of observation.
66. No real finite truth can be the origin of all others. Truth of this kind is the expression of a particular contingent fact, and consequently can neither include other real truths or the world of existences, nor ideal truths which refer only to necessary relations in the world of possibility.
67. Were we to see intuitively infinite existence, cause of all existences, we should know a real truth, origin of all others; but as we know this infinite existence only by discursion and not by intuition, it follows that we do not know the fact of that existence in which the reason of all other existences is contained. Neither is it possible for us, after having by means of discursion reached this cognition, to explain from this point of view the existence of the finite by the sole existence of the infinite; for if we abstract the existence of the finite, the discursion, by which we attained to the cognition of the infinite, disappears, and then our whole scientific fabric tumbles to the ground. Demonstrate to a man by means of discursion the existence of God, and require him, setting aside the point of departure, and depending upon the sole idea of the infinite, to explain not only the possibility, but also the reality of creation; and he cannot do it. If he only sets aside the finite all his reasoning fails, and no effort can prevent its failing; he is like an architect who, after having built a superb cupola, is required to support it although the foundations of the edifice are removed.
68. Take any real truth whatever, the plainest and most certain fact, and yet we can derive nothing from it if ideal truth comes not to fecundate it. We exist, we think, we feel; these are indubitable facts, but science can deduce nothing from them; they are particular contingent facts, whose existence or non-existence neither affects other facts nor reaches the world of ideas.
These truths are of the purely sensible order, have not of themselves any relation with the order of science, nor can they be elevated to it if not combined with ideal truths. Descartes, when he brought forward the fact of thought and existence, driven as he was by his attempt to raise a scientific edifice, passed unawares from the real to the ideal order. I think, he said; and had he stopped here he would have reduced his philosophy to a simple intuition of consciousness; but he wished to go farther, he wished to reason, and then of necessity availed himself of an ideal truth: whoever thinks exists. Thus with a universal and necessary truth he fecundated his individual and contingent fact; and as he needed some rule to guide him in his onward march, he sought one in the admissibility of the evidence of ideas. And thus also we see how this philosopher, who so toiled in search of unity, came all at once in contact with triplicity: a fact, an objective truth, a criterion: a fact in the consciousness of the subject; an objective truth in the necessary relation of thought with existence; a criterion in the admissibility of the evidence of ideas.
We may defy all the philosophers in the world to reason upon any fact whatever without the aid of ideal truth. We shall find in all facts the same sterility as in the fact of consciousness. This is no conjecture, but a rigid demonstration. Only one existence contains the reason of all other existences; if, then, we do not immediately and intuitively know it, we cannot discover any one real truth, origin of all others.
69. Even supposing there to be in the order of creation a fact of such a nature, that the whole universe is only a simple development of it, we should not therefore have found the real truth source of all science, for it would not enable us to make any advance towards the world of possibility, the ideal order, infinitely superior to that of finite existences.
If we suppose the progress of natural science to lead to the discovery of a single, simple law, which presides over the development of all others, and the application of which, varied according to circumstances, is a sufficient reason of all the phenomena now referred to many and very complicated laws; this would, without doubt, be an immense progress in sciences the object of which is the visible world; but what would it give us to know of the world of intelligences? What of the world of possibility?(6)
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE ME CANNOT PRODUCE TRANSCENDENTAL SCIENCE.
70. The testimony of consciousness is sure and irresistible, but it has no connection with that of evidence. The object of the one is a particular and contingent fact; that of the other, a necessary truth. That I now think, is to me absolutely certain; but this thought of mine is not a necessary but a decidedly contingent truth; for I might never have thought, or even existed: it is a purely individual fact, is confined to me, and its existence or non-existence in nowise affects universal truths.
Consciousness is an anchor, not a beacon: it saves the understanding from shipwreck, but does not light it on its way; in the assaults of universal doubt, consciousness is at hand to shield it from destruction; but if asked to direct us, it gives us only particular facts.
These facts have no scientific value, except when made objective, or rather, when the mind, reflecting upon them, bathes them in the light of necessary truths.
We think, we feel, we are free; these are facts; but of themselves they are barren. If we would fecundate them, we must take them as a kind of material of universal truths. Thought becomes immovable, it congeals, if deprived of the impulse of these ideas; sensation is common to us and the brutes; and liberty, without combination of motives presented by reason, has no object, no life.
71. Here we discover the cause of the obscurity and sterility of German philosophy since Fichte. Kant fixed himself upon the subject, without, however, destroying objectivity in the internal world; and therefore his philosophy, although containing many errors, offers to the mind some luminous points: but Fichte went farther, planted himself upon the me, and made no use of objectivity, save when it was necessary to the more solid establishment of a fact of consciousness; and so he found only realms of darkness and contradiction.
Men of gifted minds have labored in vain to make some ray of light emanate from a point condemned to obscurity. The soul sees itself in its own acts; and that it presents immediately to itself facts conducing to its own cognition is the only title it has, more than other beings distinct from it, to be conceived by itself. What would it know were it not to perceive its own thought, its will, and the exercise of all its faculties? How is it to discuss its own nature, if not from data furnished by the testimony of its own acts? The me then does not see itself intuitively; is offered to itself only mediately, by its acts; that is, so far as it is known, it is in the same category as all other external beings, which are all known by their effects upon us.
The me in itself considered, is not a luminous point; it supports the fabric of reason, but is not the rule according to which it is to be constructed. The true light is found in objectivity, for it is properly the object of knowledge. The me can neither be known nor thought, save inasmuch as it makes itself its own object, and consequently places itself on a level with other beings subject to intellectual activity, which operates only by virtue of objective truths.
72. Intelligence cannot be conceived without at least internal objects; but if the understanding do not conceive relations and consequently truths in them, they will be sterile. These truths will have no connection, will be isolated facts, if they involve no necessity; and even those relations which refer to particular facts furnished by experience will not be susceptible of any combination if they do not, at least conditionally, involve some necessity. The brilliancy of the light in the room where I now write is in itself a particular, contingent fact, and science, as such, cannot make it its object except by subjecting the movement of the light to geometrical laws, that is, to necessary truths.
Science then may find a resting-point in the me itself as subject, but no point of departure. The individual is of no service to the universal, nor the contingent to the necessary. Assuredly there would be no such thing as the individual A's science, if the individual A himself did not exist; but the science which stands in need of the individual subject is not science properly so called, but the collection of individual acts by which the individual perceives science. This collection of acts is not the science perceived, which is something common to all intellects, and does not need this or that individual: the fund of truths constituting science does not spring from this collection of individual acts, particular facts, which are lost like minutest drops in the ocean of intelligence.
How then can science be based solely upon the subjective me? How can the object be made to spring from this subject? Consciousness has no connection with science, except in so far as it furnishes facts to which we may apply objective, universal, and necessary principles, independent of all finite individuality, constituting the patrimony of human reason, but not requiring the existence of any man.
73. No analysis of the facts of consciousness will produce the origin of the lights of science. Such an act would be either direct or reflex. If direct, its value is objective not subjective, the act does not found science, but the truth perceived, not the subject but the object, not the me, but that which is seen by the me. If reflex, it supposes another previous act, to wit, the object of reflection, which is primitive, and not the act.
Neither is the combination of the direct with the reflex act of any service to science, except as connected with necessary and objective truths, which are independent of the subject. An act individually considered, is an internal phenomenon, which, apart from objective truths, teaches us nothing. It has, indeed, a scientific value, if considered under the general ideas of being, cause, effect, principle or product of activity, modification, or its relations with its subject, which is the substratum of other similar acts; that is, if it be considered as a particular case, comprised in the general ideas as a contingent phenomenon, to be appreciated by the help of necessary truths, as an experimental fact to which a theory may be applied.
The reflex act is only a cognition of a cognition, feeling, or some other internal phenomenon; and therefore all reflection upon consciousness presupposes a prior direct act. The object of this direct act is not the me; the fundamental principle of the cognition therefore is not the me, as the object known, but only as the necessary condition, since there cannot be thought without a thinking subject.
74. These considerations destroy the very foundations of the system of Fichte, and that of all who take the human me as their point of departure on the voyage of science. The me, in itself, is not presented to us; we know it only by its acts; and herein it participates of a quality of other objects, the essence of which is not immediately offered to us, but only what emanates from it by the exercise of their activity upon us.
Thus guided by objective and necessary truths, which are the laws of our understanding, the type of the relations of beings, and consequently a sure standard of them, we ascend by reasoning to the cognition of things themselves. We know that our mind is simple, because it thinks, whereas the composite, the multiplex cannot think. It is thus we know the me. We are conscious of its thinking activity, and this is the material furnished by the fact, but then comes the principle, the objective truth to illumine the fact, and show the repugnance between thought and composition, and the necessary connection between simplicity and consciousness.
Upon examination, this reasoning will be found to apply not only to the me, but to every thinking being; and this is why we can extend our demonstration to all such beings: the me, therefore, which applies this truth, does not create, it only knows it, and knows itself to be a particular case comprised in the general rule.
75. To pretend that truth has its source in the subjective me, is to begin by supposing the me to be an absolute, infinite being, the origin of all truths, and the reason of all beings; which is equivalent to making philosophy commence by deifying the human understanding. But as one individual has no more right to this deification than another, to admit it is to establish a rational pantheism, which, as we shall hereafter see, is nearly, if not quite, identical with absolute pantheism.
If we suppose individual reason to be only a phenomenon of the one absolute reason, and consequently what we call spirits not to be true substances, but modifications of a single spirit, and each particular consciousness to be only a manifestation of the universal consciousness, we can then conceive why the source of all truth is sought in the me, and why we interrogate our own consciousness as a kind of oracle through which the universal consciousness speaks. But the difficulty is that such a supposition is gratuitous, and that they who thus seek the reason of all truths, begin by establishing the most incomprehensible and absurd of propositions. Who will persuade us that our consciousness is only the modification of another? Who will make us believe that what we call the me is common to all men, to all intelligent beings, and that the only difference between them is the difference of the modifications of one absolute being? Why, then, is not this absolute being conscious of every consciousness which it comprises? Why does it not know that which it contains, and by which it is modified? Why does it believe itself multiplex, if indeed it be one? Where is the bond of this multiplicity? If each particular consciousness were only a modification, would it preserve its unity, and a connected series of all that happens to it, when this series, this unity is wanting to the substance which it modifies?
76. However this may be, not even by supposing pantheism, can the friends of subjective philosophy at all advance their pretensions. With pantheism they legitimate, so to speak, their pretension, but do not realize it. They call themselves gods, and as such, have a reason for the source of truth being in them; but as there is in their consciousness only one apparition of their divinity only one phase of the orb of light, they can only see in it what it presents to them; and their divinity finds itself subjected to certain laws which make it impossible for it to give the light demanded by philosophy.
77. If we interrogate our consciousness upon necessary truths, we shall perceive that, far from pretending to found or to create them, it both knows and confesses them to be independent of itself. If, thinking of this proposition: "It is impossible for a thing to be, and not be at the same time;" we ask ourselves if the truth of this originates in our thought, consciousness at once answers that it does not. The proposition was true before our consciousness existed; and should it now cease to exist, the proposition would still be true; true, also, when we do not think of it: the soul is as an eye which contemplates the sun, but is not, therefore, necessary to the existence of the sun.
78. Another consideration demonstrates the sterility of all philosophy which seeks in the me alone the sole and universal origin of human knowledge. Every cognition requires an object; purely subjective cognition is inconceivable; although we suppose the subject and object to be identified, duality of relation, real or conceived, is still necessary; that is, the subject as known must stand in a certain opposition,—opposition at least conceived,—with itself as subject knowing. Now, what is the object sought in the primitive act? Is it something not the subject? Then the philosophy of the subject falls into the current of other philosophies, since in this something which is not the subject are objective truths. Is it the subject itself? Then we ask, is it the subject in itself or in its acts; if the subject in its acts, then the philosophy is reduced to ideological analysis, and has no special characteristic; if the subject in itself, we say it is not known intuitively, and least of all can they who call it the absolute pretend to this cognition; it is for them even more than for others a dark abyss. In vain will you stoop over this abyss, and shout for truth; the dull rumbling which reaches your ears is only the echo of your own voice; the profound cavern rolls back to you only your own words still more hollow and mysterious.
79. Eminent among the philosophers most given to empty cavils is the author of the Doctrine of Science, Fichte, of whose system Madame de StaËl ingenuously remarked, that it very much resembled the awakening of Pygmalion's statue from sleep, which, turning alternately to itself and to its pedestal said, I am, I am not.
Fichte says, in the beginning of his work entitled Doctrine of Science, that he proposes to seek the most absolute principle, the absolutely unconditioned principle of all human knowledge. This his method is erroneous: he begins by supposing what is unknown, and does not even suspect that there may be a true multiplicity in the basis of human cognitions. We believe that there may be, and that there really is such a multiplicity, that the sources of our knowledge are various, and of different orders, and that we cannot reduce them to unity without leaving man and ascending to God. We repeat it, this equivocation has become exceedingly general, and its only result has been uselessly to fatigue inquiring minds or to drive them to extravagant systems.
Few philosophers have toiled harder than Fichte after this absolute principle; and yet, to speak plainly, he accomplishes nothing; he either repeats Descartes' principle, or amuses himself with a play upon words. We feel pity at seeing him labor so earnestly to so little purpose. We beg the reader to follow us with patience in our examination of the German philosopher's doctrine, not with the hope of finding a thread to serve as a clue to the DÆdalus of philosophy, but in order to judge, with a knowledge of the cause, doctrines which have made so much noise in the world.
"If this principle," says Fichte, "is absolutely the first, it can neither be defined nor demonstrated. It must express the act, which neither is nor can be presented among the empirical determinations of our consciousness, but rather lies at the bottom of all consciousness, and alone makes consciousness possible."[4]
Without any antecedent, or any reason, without even taking the trouble to show on what he bases it, Fichte assures us that the first principle must express an act. Why may it not be an objective truth? This, at least, would have deserved some attention, for all preceding schools, the Cartesian included, located the first principle among objective truths, not among acts. Descartes himself needed an objective truth in order to establish the fact of thought and existence. "Whoever thinks exists," or, in other words, "whoever does not exist cannot think."
80. This last remark shows one of the radical vices affecting the doctrine of Fichte and other Germans, who attribute an altogether unmerited importance to subjective philosophy. They accuse others of too easily making the transition from the subject to the object, but forget that they, at the same time pass, unauthorised by any reason or title, from objective thought to the pure subject. Confining ourselves to the passage of Fichte just cited, what, we ask, will an act be which neither is nor can be presented among the empirical determinations of our consciousness? The principle in question is not exempted from being known because it is absolute; for if we do not know it, we cannot assert that it is absolute; and if it is not, and cannot be presented among the empirical determinations of our consciousness, it neither is nor can be known. Man knows not that which is not present in his consciousness.
The absolute principle upon which all consciousness rests, and which makes it possible, either does or does not belong to consciousness. If the former, it is liable to all the difficulties affecting the other acts of consciousness; if the latter, it cannot be the object of observation, and therefore we can know nothing of it.
Fichte confesses that in order to arrive at the primitive act, and separate from it all that does not really belong to it, we must suppose the rules of all reflection to be valid, and start with some one of the many universally admitted propositions. "Conceding us," he says, "this proposition, you must, at the same time, concede as act that which we desire to place as the principle of the whole Doctrine of Science; and the result of the reflection must be that this act is conceded to us as the principle together with the proposition. We take any fact of empirical consciousness, and strip it one after another of all its empirical determinations, until reduced to all its purity it contains that only which thought cannot absolutely exclude, and from which nothing further can be taken."[5]
These words show that the German philosopher proposed ascending to a perfectly pure and wholly indeterminate act of consciousness, which, however, is impossible. Either he takes the act in a very broad sense, and understands by it the substratum of all consciousness, in which case he only expresses in other words the idea of substance; or else he speaks of an act properly so called, that is, of some exercise of that activity, that spontaneity which we feel within ourselves; and in this sense the act of consciousness cannot be separated from all determination without destroying its individuality and existence. Man cannot think without thinking something, desire without desiring something, feel without feeling something, or reflect upon internal acts without fixing his reflection upon something. There is some determination in every act of consciousness: an act perfectly pure, abstracted from every thing, and wholly indeterminate, is impossible, absolutely impossible; subjectively, because the act of consciousness, although considered in the subject, requires some determination; objectively, because such an act is inconceivable as individual, and consequently as existing, since it offers nothing determinate to the mind.
81. Fichte's indeterminate act is only the idea of act in general. He imagined he had made a great discovery when he conceived nothing in the groundwork but the principle of act, that is, the idea of substance applied to that active being whose existence consciousness itself makes known to us.
If we may be allowed to say candidly what we think, our opinion is, that Fichte, with all his analytical investigations, has not advanced philosophy one step towards the discovery of the first principle. We see from what has already been said how easy it is to stop him by simply demanding an account of the suppositions made on the first page of his book. Still, wishing, as we do, to oppose him with all fairness, we will not take up his ideas without allowing him to explain them himself.
"Every one admits the proposition: A is A; just as that A = A, because such is the meaning of the logical copula; and indeed without the least deliberation we perceive and affirm its complete certainty. Should any one ask a demonstration of it, we should by no means give any, but should maintain that the proposition is absolutely certain, that is, without any further foundation. Thus incontestibly proceeding with general consent, we claim the right to suppose something absolutely.
"We do not, in affirming the preceding proposition to be certain in itself, suppose that A is. The proposition A is A, is not equivalent to this: A is, or, there is an A. (To be placed without a predicate has an entirely different meaning from to be with a predicate, whereof more hereafter.) If we make A denote a space contained between two straight lines, the proposition remains exact, although the proposition, A is, be evidently false. But, we assert: if A is, A is thus. The question is in no wise whether A is in general or not. The question is not of the contents of the proposition, but only of its form; not whereof we know something, but what we know of any object whatever.
"Consequently, by the above assertion, that the proposition is absolutely certain, this is established, that between the if and the thus there is a necessary connection; and it is this necessary connection between both which is supposed absolutely and without other foundation. I call this necessary connection provisionally = X."
All this show of analysis amounts only to what every logical student knows, that in every proposition the copula, or the verb to be, denotes not the existence of the subject, but its relation to the predicate. There was no need of so many words to tell us so simple a thing, nor of such affected efforts of the understanding in treating of an identical proposition. But let us arm ourselves with patience, and continue to listen to the German philosopher:
"But to return to A itself, whether A is or not; nothing is as yet affirmed thereon. The question then occurs: under what condition is A?
"X at least is supposed in and by the me, for it is the me which judges in the above proposition, and indeed judges by X as by a law, which consequently being given to the me, and by it established absolutely and without other foundation, must therefore be given to the me by the me itself."
82. What does all this Sanscrit mean? We will translate it into English: in identical or equivalent propositions there is a relation which the mind knows, judges, and according to which it decides upon the rest: this relation is given to our mind; identical propositions need no proof in order to obtain assent. All this is very true, very clear, and very simple; but, when Fichte adds that this relation must be given to the me by the me itself, he asserts what he neither does nor can know. Who told him that objective truths come to us from ourselves? Is one of the principal philosophical questions, such as is that of the origin of truth, to be thus easily solved with a dash of the pen? Has he, perchance, defined his me, or given us any idea of it? Either his words mean nothing, or they mean this: I judge of a relation; this judgment is in me; this relation, as known and abstracted from real existence, is in me; all which may be reduced to Descartes' more natural and simple expression: "I think, therefore I exist."
83. Upon carefully examining Fichte's words, we clearly see that he made no more progress than the French philosopher. He goes on: "Whether and how A in general is supposed, we know not; but as X must mark a relation between an unknown supposition of A and an absolute supposition of A under the condition of this supposition, in so far at least as that relation is supposed, A exists in the me, and is supposed by the me, just as X. X is possible only in relation to an A: but X is really supposed in the me, therefore A also must be supposed in the me in so far as X is referred to it."
What confusion and mystery in the expression of the commonest things! How great Descartes appears beside Fichte! Each makes the fact of consciousness revealing existence the beginning of his philosophy. The one expresses his thoughts clearly, with simplicity and in a language which all the world does or may understand; the other, in order to seem an inventor, and to show that he has no master, envelops himself in a cloud of mystery, with darkness all around, whence in a hollow voice he pronounces his oracles. Descartes says: "I think, I cannot doubt it, it is a fact attested to me by my internal sense; no one can think without existing; therefore I exist." This is clear, simple, and ingenuous; it manifests a true philosopher, one without affectation or pretension. Fichte says: "Take any proposition whatever; for example, A is A:" and then goes on to explain how the verb to be in propositions does not express the absolute existence of the subject, but its relation with the predicate; the whole with a show of doctrine, wearisome in its form, and ridiculous in its sterility; and this too when he only wants to inform us that A is in the me, because the relation of the predicate with the subject, that is, X, is possible only in a being, since A denotes some being or other. Let us compare the two syllogisms. Descartes says: "No one can think without existing; but I think; therefore I exist." Fichte says literally what follows: "X is only possible in relation to an A; but X is really supposed in the me; therefore A must also be supposed in the me." There is at bottom no difference at all, and the only difference in form is that which exists between the language of a vain man and that of a sensible man.
At bottom the syllogisms are not different, we repeat it. Descartes' major proposition is: "Whatever thinks exists." He does not prove it, and admits that it cannot be proved. Fichte's major is: "X is possible only in relation to an A," or, in other words, no relation of a predicate with a subject, in so far as it is known, is possible without a being which knows. "X must mark a relation between an unknown supposition of A and an absolute supposition of the same A, at least in so far as that relation is supposed," that is, inasmuch as it is known. And how does Fichte prove a relative supposition to suppose an absolute supposition, that is, a subject in which it is supposed? Like Descartes, he does not prove it at all. There is no relative A without an absolute A; what does not exist cannot think. This is clear and evident; farther than this neither Fichte nor Descartes goes.
Descartes' minor is: "I think;" this he does not prove, but refers to consciousness beyond which he confesses that he cannot pass. Fichte's minor is this: "X is really asserted in the me;" which is equivalent to saying: the relation of the predicate with the subject is really known by the me; and as, according to Fichte himself, the proposition may be selected at pleasure, to say that the relation of the predicate with the subject is known by the me, is the same as to say that any relation whatever is known by the me; which in clearer terms may be expressed thus, I think.
84. Here we would remark, that the difference, if any there be, is altogether in favor of the French philosopher, who understands by thought every internal phenomenon of which we are conscious. In order to establish this fact, he has no need of analyzing propositions, and confusing the understanding upon those very points where it most requires clearness and precision. Fichte, to arrive at the same point, takes a roundabout way. Descartes points his finger to it, and says: this is it. The one acts like a sophist, the other like a true man of genius.
Had the German philosopher confined his forms, little calculated as they are to illustrate science, to what we have thus far examined, their greatest inconvenience would have been to weary both the author and his readers; but unfortunately his mysterious me, which makes its appearance at the very vestibule of science, and which, in the eyes of sound reason, can only be what it was to Descartes,—the human mind, knowing its existence by its own thought,—goes on dilating in Fichte's hands, like a gigantic spectre, which, beginning in a single point, ends by hiding its head in the heavens and its feet in the abyss. This me, absolute subject, is then a being which exists because it supposed itself: it is a being which creates its own self, absorbs every thing, is every thing, and is revealed in the human mind as in one of the infinite phases of its infinite existence.
What we have thus far said, suffices to show the tendencies of Fichte's system. We are here treating of certainty and its foundations; this, then, is not the place to anticipate what we propose to say more at length upon this system when we come to explain the idea of substance and refute pantheism: for this is one of the gravest errors of modern philosophy; everywhere, and under all aspects, it must be combatted, but to do this we must attack it in its roots. This is why we have examined at such length Fichte's fundamental reflection in his Doctrine of Science, and stripped it of the importance which he claimed for it, so as to make it the basis of a transcendental science; for he flattered himself with being able to determine the absolutely unconditioned principle of all human knowledge.(7)
UNIVERSAL IDENTITY.
85. In order to give unity to science, some appeal to universal identity; this, however, is not to discover unity, but to take refuge in chaos. Universal identity is not only an absurdity, but a groundless hypothesis. Excepting the unity of consciousness, we find in ourselves nothing that is one; but multiplicity of ideas, perceptions, judgments, acts of the will, impressions of various kinds; and in relation to external objects, we perceive multitude in the beings which surround us, or as some pretend, in their appearances. Where then are unity and identity, for we can neither find them within nor without ourselves?
86. If it be said that nothing is offered to us but phenomena, and that we do not attain to the reality, the absolute and identical unity hidden beneath them, we can reply with this dilemma: either our experience is confined to phenomena, or it reaches the very nature of things: if the former, we cannot know what is concealed under the phenomena, nor absolute and identical unity; if the latter, then nature is not one but multiplex, for we everywhere encounter multiplicity.
87. It is curious to observe how easily men, the most skeptical in the simplest things, suddenly become dogmatic at the very point where the greatest motives of doubt are presented. With them the external world is either a pure appearance, or a being having no resemblance to the conception formed of it by the human race: the criterion of evidence, that of consciousness, and that of common sense have little power to command assent: the crowd alone should be satisfied with such weak foundations; the philosopher demands others far more solid. But strange as it may seem, the very philosopher who styled reality a deceitful appearance, and saw obscurity in what the human race considered luminous, so soon as he quitted the world of phenomena and arrived in the dominions of the absolute, finds himself illumined by a mysterious splendor, he requires no discussion, but by a most pure intuition, he sees the unconditioned, the infinite, the one in which every thing multiplex is involved, the great reality, the basis of all phenomena, the great All which re-unites in its breast all existences, re-assumes every thing, and absorbs every thing into most perfect identity. He fixes his philosophic eye upon this focus of light and life, sees it roll out like the ocean of existence in vast billows, and thus explains what is various by what is one, the composite by the simple, the finite by the infinite. All these prodigies do not require him to leave himself; he has only to go on destroying all that is empirical, to ascend even to pure act by mysterious by-paths unknown to all except himself. This me, which may have believed itself an existence perishable and dependent on another superior existence, is astounded at finding itself so great; it discovers in itself the origin of all beings, or, more correctly speaking, the only being, of which all others are but phenomenal existences; it is the universe itself become by a gradual development conscious of itself: whatever is without itself, and at first appears distinct, is only itself, a reflection of itself, presented to its eyes, and unfolded under a thousand different forms like a magnificent panorama.
Let not the reader think we have imagined a system for the sake of combatting it; the doctrine which we have here exposed, is the doctrine of Schelling.
88. One cause of this error is the obscurity of the problem of knowing. To know, is an immanent action, having, at the same time, relation to an external object, excepting those cases in which the intelligent being becomes, by a reflex act, its own object. In order to know a truth, whatever it may be, the mind does not quit itself; it does not operate beyond itself; its own consciousness tells it that it remains, and that its activity is developed, within itself.
This immanent action extends to objects the most distant in time and place, and the most unlike in their nature. How is the mind to come in contact with them? How is it to ascertain whether their representation conforms to reality? There can be no cognition without this representation; without conformity, there is no truth, cognition is a pure illusion to which nothing corresponds, and the human understanding is unceasingly the sport of vain appearances.
Undeniably this problem is liable to very serious difficulties, which perhaps the science of man, while in this life, cannot solve. Here arise all the ideological and psychological questions ever treated by the most eminent metaphysicians. However, as it is not our intention to anticipate what is to be hereafter considered, we shall confine ourselves to the point of view indicated by our present question of certainty and its fundamental principle.
89. Consciousness attests the fact of representation; without this there is no thought; and the affirmation I think is, if not the origin of all philosophy, at least its indispensable condition.
90. Whence comes the representation? How is a being placed in such communication with other beings, and this not by a transient but by an immanent act? How explain the conformity between the representation and the object? Does not this mystery indicate that there is unity, identity, at the bottom of all things, that the being which knows, is the very being known, which appears to itself under a distinct form, and that what we call realities are only phenomena of one and the same being, always identical, infinitely active, which develops its strength in various ways, and forms by its development what we call the universe? No! This neither is nor can be! It is an absurdity which the most extravagant reason cannot accept: it is a resource as desperate as it is impotent to explain a mystery, if you will, but one a thousand times less obscure than the system which pretends to clear it up.
91. Universal identity explains nothing, but greatly confuses everything; it does not dissipate the difficulty, but strengthens it, and renders it insolvable. It certainly is no easy matter to explain how the mind obtains the representation of things distinct from itself; but it is no easier to show how the mind can have the representation of itself. If there is unity, complete identity between the subject and the object, how are the two presented to us as distinct things? How can duality proceed from unity, or diversity spring from identity?
It is a fact testified by experience, not the experience of external objects, but that of consciousness, by that which is most hidden in our soul, that there is in every cognition a subject and an object, perception and the thing perceived, and without this difference the act is not possible. Even when by an effort of reflection, we take ourselves for our own object, the duality appears; if it does not exist, we imagine it, for without this fiction we cannot think.
92. Even in the most intimate and concentrated reflection, duality, upon careful examination, is to be found, not by fiction, as it might seem at first sight, but in reality. When the understanding turns upon itself, it does not see its own essence, for it has no direct intuition of itself: it sees its acts, and these it takes for its object. The reflex act is not the act reflected. When I think that I think, the first thought is distinct from the second, and so distinct that one succeeds the other, for the reflective thought can exist only subsequently to the thought reflected.
93. This is confirmed by a profound analysis of reflection. Is reflection possible without an object reflected upon? Evidently not. What is this object in the present case? The thought itself: then this thought must have preceded the reflection. If it be supposed that they must not of necessity follow in different instants of time, and that the dependence is saved, notwithstanding the simultaneousness, still the force of the argument is not lost; we grant, but do not concede, that the simultaneousness is possible; but the dependence at least is not possible without distinction. Dependence is a relation; relation supposes opposition of extremes; and this opposition draws with it distinction.
94. That these acts are distinct, although simultaneous, may be demonstrated in another manner. One of them, that reflected upon, may exist without the reflex act. We continually think, without thinking that we think; and the same may be proved true of every reflection whatever, whether it is occupied with the act thought, or it disappears and leaves only the direct act: these acts are, therefore, not only distinct but separable; therefore, the duality of the subject and the object exists not only in the external world, but also in that which is the most intimate and pure in our soul.
95. It avails not to say that the object of reflection is not any determinate act, but thought in general. This is in many cases false; for we not only think that we think, but that we think a determinate thing. Moreover, although the object of reflection is sometimes thought in general, not even then does the duality disappear: in that case the subjective act is an individual act, existing in a determinate instant of time, and its object is thought in general, that is, an idea representative of all thought, an idea which involves a sort of confused recollection of all past acts, or of what is called activity, intellectual force. The duality then exists more evidently, if possible, than when the object is a determinate thought. In one instance at least two individual acts are compared; but in this case an individual act is compared with an abstract idea, a thing existing in one instant of time with an idea that either abstracts it, or confusedly embraces all that has passed since the epoch when the consciousness of the reflecting being commenced.
96. These arguments have much greater weight when directed against those philosophers who place the essence of the mind not in the power of thinking but in thought itself; who give to the me no other existence than what springs from its own knowledge, affirming that it exists only because it supposes itself, by knowing itself, and only in so far as it supposes itself, that is, in so far as it knows itself. With this system there is duality, or rather plurality, not only in the acts, but even in the me itself; because this me is an act, and acts follow like a series of fluxions developed to infinity. Thus, far from saving the unity and identity of subject and object, plurality and multiplicity are established in the subject itself; and the unity of consciousness itself, in danger of being broken by the cavils of philosophers, is forced to take refuge in the obscurity of invincible nature.
97. We have thus incontestably proved that there is in us a duality of subject and object, that without it knowledge is inconceivable, and that representation itself is a contradiction unless in one sense or another we admit things really distinct in the recesses of intelligence. We beg to observe that we have a sublime type of this distinction in the august mystery of the Trinity, the fundamental dogma of our holy religion, covered, indeed, with an impenetrable veil, but which sends forth light to illustrate the profoundest questions of philosophy. This mystery is not explained by feeble man, but is for him a sublime explanation. Thus Plato availed himself of glimmerings from this focus as a treasure of immense value to philosophical theories; thus the Holy Fathers and theologians, in endeavoring to throw some light upon it by arguments of congruity, have illustrated the most occult mysteries of human thought.
98. The upholders of universal identity, besides contradicting a primitive and fundamental fact of consciousness, signally fail in their efforts to explain by it either the origin of intellectual representation or its conformity to its object. Evidently no man has an intuition of the nature of the individual me, and still less of the absolute being which these philosophers suppose as the substratum of whatever exists or appears. It is impossible for them to explain a priori, without this intuition, the representation of objects or their conformity to the representation. The fact, therefore, on which they would base their whole philosophy, either does not exist, or is unknown to us: in neither case can it serve as the foundation of a system.
Were this fact to exist, it could not be presented to our mind by any enunciation to which we could arrive by reasoning. It must be seen rather than known; either occupy the first place or none. If we begin to reason without taking this fact for our basis, we start from the apparent in order to attain to what truly is; we make use of an illusion to arrive at reality. Thus it evidently follows from the system of our adversaries that philosophy must either start with the most powerful intuition, or else it cannot advance a single step.
99. The schools distinguish between the principle of being and the principle of knowledge, principium essendi et principium cognoscendi; but this distinction has no place in the system which we oppose; being is there confounded with knowledge; what exists, exists because it is known, and it exists only in so far as it is known. To draw out the series of cognitions, is to develop the series of existences. They are not even two parallel movements; they are but one movement; the me is the universe, and the universe is the me; whatever exists is a development of the primitive fact, is the fact itself which is displayed under different forms, extending like an infinite ocean; its position is unlimited space; its duration eternity.(8)
UNIVERSAL IDENTITY,—CONTINUED.
100. These systems, as absurd as they are fatal, although under distinct forms, and by various means, they tend to prepare the way for pantheism, contain a profound truth which, disfigured by vain cavils, seems to be an abyss of darkness, whereas it is in itself a ray of most brilliant light.
The human mind seeks that by reason to which it is impelled by an intellectual instinct; how to reduce plurality to unity, to re-unite, as it were, all the variety of existences in a point from which they all proceed, and in which they are all absorbed. The understanding knows that the conditioned must be included in the unconditioned, the relative in the absolute, the finite in the infinite, the various in the one. In this, all religions, all schools of philosophy agree. The proclamation of this truth belongs to no one of them exclusively; it is to be met with in all countries of the world, in primitive times, back even to the cradle of the human race. Beautiful, sublime tradition! Preserved through all generations, amid the ebb and flow of events, it offers us the idea of the Divinity presiding over the origin and destiny of the universe.
101. Yes! The unity sought by philosophers is the Divinity itself,—the Divinity whose glory the firmament declares, and whose august face of ineffable splendor appears to us in our inmost consciousness. Yes! it is the Divinity which enlightens and guides the true philosopher, but blinds and confounds the proud sophist; it is what the true philosopher calls God, and venerates and adores in the sanctuary of his soul, but what the insensate philosopher, with sacrilegious profanation, calls the me. Considering its personality, its consciousness, its infinite intelligence, and its most perfect liberty, it is the foundation and the copestone of religion: distinct from the world, it produced the world from nothing, and preserves and governs it, and leads it by mysterious paths to the destiny assigned in its immutable decrees.
102. There is then unity in the world; there is unity in philosophy. In this all agree; the difference is that some separate, with the greatest care, the finite from the infinite, the thing created from the creative power, unity from multiplicity, and maintain the necessary communication between the free will of the omnipotent agent and finite existences, between the wisdom of the sovereign intelligence and the fixed course of the universe: while others, affected with melancholy blindness, confound the effect with the cause, the finite with the infinite, the various with the one, and reproduce in the domain of philosophy the chaos of primeval times; but all scattering and in frightful confusion, without any hope of order or union: the earth of these philosophers is void, and darkness is upon the face of their deep; the spirit of God has not moved over the waters to fecundate the chaos, and produce oceans of life and light out of darkness and death.
The absurd systems invented by philosophical vanity explain nothing; the system of religion, which is that also of sound philosophy, and of all mankind, explains everything: the intellectual, as well as the corporeal world, is a chaos to the human mind the instant it abandons the idea of God: restore this and order reappears.
103. The two capital problems: whence the intellectual representation, and whence its conformity to objects, have with us a most simple explanation. Our understanding, although limited, participates in the infinite light; this light is not that which exists in God himself, but a semblance communicated to a being created according to his image.
Illumined by this light, objects shine upon the eyes of our mind, whether because they are in communication with it by means unknown to us, or because the representation is given to us directly by God, in the presence of objects.
The conformity of the representation to the thing represented, results from the divine veracity. An infinitely perfect God cannot take pleasure in deceiving his creatures. Such is the theory of Descartes and Malebranche, eminent thinkers, who took no step in the intellectual order, without looking to the Author of all light, and who never wrote a page on which the name of God was not traced.
104. As will hereafter be seen, Malebranche admitted that man sees every thing in God, even in this life; but his system, far from identifying the human me with the infinite being, carefully distinguishes them, not finding other means to sustain and enlighten the former than by approximating and uniting it to the second. To read the great metaphysician's immortal work is enough to convince one that his system was not that of this pure, primitive intuition, which is an act required of all empiricism, and which seems to rise within the limits of philosophy, from that intuition of the simple fact, the origin of all ideas and all facts, in which one of the dogmas of our religion, the beatific vision, seems realized upon earth in the domain of philosophy. These are senseless pretensions, and as far from the mind as from the system of Malebranche.(9)
CHAPTER X.
PROBLEM OF REPRESENTATION: MONADS OF LEIBNITZ.
105. The pretension to find a real truth, the fountain of all others, is dangerous in the extreme, however indifferent it may at first sight appear. Pantheism, and the deification of the me, two systems which coincide at bottom, are a consequence not easy to be avoided if it be attempted to establish all human science upon one fact.
106. The real truth or fact, which would serve as the basis of all science, should be immediately perceived, otherwise it would lack the character of origin and basis of other truths; because the medium by which it should be perceived would itself have the better right to the title of first truth. If this intermediate fact were the cause of the other, evidently this latter would not be primitive; and if the priority were given to the order of knowledge instead of the order of being, we should still have the same difficulty as now to explain the transition from subject to object, or the legitimacy of the medium by which we perceive the primitive fact.
Since then, the immediate presence, the intimate union of the understanding with the thing known is necessary, it is clear that as the me has this immediate presence only for itself and its own acts, the fact sought for must be the me itself. That which is immediately present to us is the facts of consciousness; by them we place ourselves in communication with what is distinct from us. In case then that we must find a primitive fact, the origin of all others, this fact must be the me. If we deny this consequence, we must deny the possibility of finding any fact which may be the source of transcendental science. Here we see how the apparently most innocent philosophical pretensions lead to fatal results.
107. There is here certainly very little chance for evasion, but there is one so specious as to merit an examination.
The fact, which is the scientific origin of all others, is not necessarily their true origin. By distinguishing between the principle of being and the principle of knowledge, all difficulty seems to be avoided. It is absurd and contrary to common sense, that the me is the origin of all that exists; but not that it is the representative principle of all that is or can be known. Representation is not synonymous with causality. Ideas represent but do not cause the objects represented. Why, then, is it not possible to admit a fact representative of all that the human understanding can know? It is certain that the perception of this fact must be immediate, that is, it must be supposed intimately present to the understanding perceiving it; for which reason, it can be nothing else than the me: this, however, is not to deify the me, but only to concede to it a representative force, which may have been given to it by a superior being. It makes the me not an universal cause, but a mirror which reflects the internal and external worlds.
This explanation reminds us of the famous system of monads advanced by Leibnitz; an ingenious system indeed, the lofty flight of one of the mightiest geniuses that ever honored the human race. The whole world formed of invisible beings, all representative of the same universe, whereof they are a part, but by a representation adequate to their respective categories, and in conformity to their corresponding point of view, according to the place which they occupy, unrolling themselves in an immense series, which, commencing with the lowest order, goes on ascending to the very portal of infinity; and at the uppermost point of existences is the monad, which, in itself contains the reason of all things, which has produced them from nothing, given to them their representative force, and distributed them into their proper categories, establishing among them a sort of parallelism of perception, will, action, and motion, in such a manner that, without any one communicating any thing to another, they all move on in most perfect conformity, in ineffable harmony. This is grand, beautiful, and wonderful; a colossal hypothesis which the genius of Leibnitz alone could ever have conceived.
108. Having paid this tribute of admiration to the eminent author of the Monadology, we observe that its gigantic conception is only an hypothesis which all the talent of its inventor could never base upon a single fact capable of giving to it an appearance of probability. Omitting the very serious difficulties, which this system, doubtless against the will of its author, opposes to the explanation of free will, we shall confine ourselves to the examination of the bearings of this system upon the question now before us.
In the first place, the representation of the monads, being a mere hypothesis, can serve to explain nothing, unless philosophy is to be made the sport of ingenious combination. The me is a monad, that is, an indivisible unity; of this there can be no doubt. The me is a monad representative of the universe: this is an absolutely gratuitous assertion, and until it is proved in some way or other, we have the right to ignore it.
109. Now, suppose the representative force, as understood by Leibnitz, to exist in the me; this hypothesis does not impugn what has been said against the primitive origin of transcendental science. On close inspection, the hypothesis of Leibnitz will be found to explain the origin of ideas, but not their connection. Make the soul a mirror, in which, by an effect of the creative will, every thing is represented; still it does not explain the order of these representations, show how one of them springs from another, or assign to them any other bond than the unity of consciousness. This system then is quite out of the question: we are not disputing on the manner in which representations exist in the soul, nor on their origin; but we are examining the opinion which pretends to found all science upon a single fact, and to unfold all ideas as simple modifications of that fact. This Leibnitz never said, nor can any thing be found in any of his works to indicate such a thought. Moreover, the difference between this system of Monadology and that of the German Philosophers, which we impugn, is too palpable to escape any one.
I. So far is Leibnitz from advocating universal identity, that he establishes an infinite plurality and multiplicity: his monads are beings really different and distinct among themselves.
II. The whole universe, composed of monads, proceeded, according to Leibnitz, from one infinite monad; and this procession was not by emanation, but by creation.
III. In the infinite monad, in God, Leibnitz places the sufficient reason of every thing.
IV. Knowledge has been freely given by God himself to the monads.
V. This knowledge, and the consciousness of it, belong to the monads individually, and Leibnitz never even remotely took into consideration this foundation of all things, which by its transformation ascends from nature to consciousness, or descends from the region of consciousness and is converted into nature.
110. These differences so marked need no comments; they show most evidently that the philosophers of modern Germany cannot shield themselves under the name of Leibnitz; although, in truth, these philosophers have no failing of that kind: far from seeking guides, they all aspire to originality, and this is one principal cause of their extravagance, Hegel, Schelling, and Fichte, all pretend to be founders of a philosophy; and Kant was so governed by the same ambition, that he made very important alterations in the second edition of his Critic of Pure Reason, lest he should be taken for a plagiarist from Berkeley's idealism.(10)
PROBLEM OF REPRESENTATION EXAMINED.
111. All our knowledge is by representation, without which it would be inconceivable; and yet what is representation in itself considered? We cannot say: it enlightens us as to other objects, but not as to itself.
It is obvious that we do not attempt to conceal the very grave difficulties which the solution of this problem offers: on the contrary, we point them out with all clearness, in order to avoid that vain presumption which is as fatal to science as to every thing else. But let it not be supposed that we intend to banish this question from the arena of philosophy: for many and serious as are its difficulties, we are yet of opinion that they allow of sufficiently probable conjectures.
112. The representative force may emanate from any one of these three sources: identity, causality, or ideality. We will explain ourselves. A thing may represent itself; and this we call representation of identity. A cause may represent its effect; and this is what we understand by representation of causality. A being, whether substance or accident, may represent another distinct from itself, which is not its effect; and this we call representation of ideality.
We do not see how it is possible to assign any other source of representation: holding, therefore, the division to be complete, we will examine its three points; and we beg to call the attention of the reader more especially to this matter, because it is one of the most important in philosophy.
113. That which represents must have some relation to the thing represented: whether essential or accidental, inherent or communicated, this relation must exist. Two beings, having absolutely no relation, one of which nevertheless represents the other, are a monstrosity. There is nothing without a sufficient reason; and there being no relation between the thing representing, and that represented, there is no sufficient reason of the representation.
It is here to be borne in mind that, for the present, we abstract the nature of this relation; we do not assert it to be either real or ideal; we only say that, between the thing representing and that represented, there must be some link, whatever that link may be. Its mysteries, its incomprehensibility, do not destroy its existence. Philosophy perhaps may be unable to explain the enigma; but it can demonstrate the existence of the link. Thus, abstracting all experience, it is possible to demonstrate a priori, that there is a relation between the me and other beings, by the mere fact of their representation existing in the me.
The incessant communication of intelligences with each other, and with the universe, proves that there is a point of union for them all. Representation, alone, is a convincing proof of this: so many beings, apparently dispersed and unconnected, are intimately united in some centre, so that the simple phenomenon of intelligence leads us to affirm the common link, the unity in which plurality is joined. This unity, with pantheists, is universal identity; with us, it is God.
114. Here observe that this relation between the thing representing and that represented, is not necessarily direct or immediate; it suffices that it be with a third object: thus, they who explain representation by identity, and they who account for it by intermediate ideas, must equally admit it; for, on the present matter, there is no difference between those who hold these ideas to be produced by the action of objects upon our mind, and those who make them proceed immediately from God.
115. Whatever represents any thing, contains in some sense the thing represented; for an object cannot be represented unless it is in some manner or other in the representation. It may be the object itself, or its image; but this image cannot represent the object, unless it is known to be its image. Every idea then involves the relation of objectivity; otherwise it could not represent the object, but only itself. The act of intelligence is immanent, but in such a manner, that the intellect does not need to go out of itself to attain its object. When we think of a star a million leagues distant, our mind certainly does not go to the point where the star is; but by means of the idea, it destroys in an instant this immense distance, and unites itself with the star. What it perceives is not the idea, but its object: if this idea did not involve a relation to the object, it would cease to be an idea to the mind, and would represent nothing except itself.
116. There is then, in every perception, a connection of the being that perceives with the thing perceived. When this perception is not immediate, the medium must be such as to contain a necessary relation to the object; it must conceal itself in order to offer to the eye of the mind only the thing represented. From the instant that it presents itself, and is seen, or even noticed, it ceases to be an idea and becomes an object. The idea is a mirror, which is most perfect when it creates the most perfect illusion. It must necessarily present only the objects, and project them at the proper distance, without allowing the eye to see the crystalline plane which reflects them.
117. This union of the thing representing, with that represented, of the intellect with its objects, may, in some instances, be explained by identity. In general, no contradiction is discovered in any thing representing itself to the eye of the understanding, if we suppose them to be united in some way or other. In case then that the thing known is itself intelligent, we see no difficulty in its being its own representation, and consequently none in confounding ideality and reality in the same being. If an idea can represent an object, why may it not represent itself? If an intelligent being can know an object through the medium of an idea, why may it not know that object immediately? The union of the thing known with the intellect is to us a mystery, it is true; but is the union effected by the medium of an idea less so? To the idea may be objected all that can be brought against the thing itself; and it is even more inexplicable how one thing represents another, than how it represents itself. The thing representing and that represented, have between them a sort of relation of containing and contained. It is easily conceived that the identical contains itself, since identity expresses much more than to contain; but it is not so easily conceived how the accident can contain the substance, the transitory the permanent, the ideal the real. Identity is then a true principle of representation.
118. We would here make the following remarks necessary to avoid equivocations.
I. We do not assert a necessary relation between identity and representation; for this would make every being representative, since every being is identical with itself. We establish this proposition: identity may be the origin of representation; but we deny the two following: identity is the necessary origin of representation; representation is a sign of identity.
II. We determine nothing as to the application of the relations between representation and identity, so far as finite beings are concerned.
III. We abstract the duality which results from supposing only subject and object, and enter into no question on the nature of this duality.
119. These ideas being fixed, we may observe that we have an incontestable proof that there is no intrinsic repugnance between identity and representation in two dogmas of the Catholic religion: the beatific vision and the divine intelligence. The dogma of the beatific vision teaches us that the human soul in the mansion of the blessed is intimately united to God, and sees him face to face in his very essence. No one ever said that this vision was made by the medium of an idea, but theologians, and among them St. Thomas, expressly teach the contrary. We have then identity united with representation, that is, the divine essence representing, or rather presenting, itself to the eyes of the human mind. The dogma of divine intelligence teaches that God is infinitely intelligent. God does not need to go out of himself, nor employ distinct ideas in order to understand; he sees himself in his essence. Here, too, identity is united with representation, and the intelligent being identified with the thing understood.(11)
CHAPTER XII.
IMMEDIATE INTELLIGIBILITY.
120. Neither active nor passive representation can be predicated of all things; we mean to say, that there are some beings which are not endowed with intellectual activity, and cannot be even passively the object of the acts of the intellect.
As regards the power of active representation, which is at bottom only the faculty of intelligence, it is evident that many beings are destitute of it. There may be greater difficulty with regard to passive representation, or the fitness to be the immediate object of the intellect.
121. An object cannot be known immediately, that is, without the mediation of an idea, if it do not itself perform the functions of this idea, and unite itself to the intellect which is to know it. This alone takes from all material objects the character of being immediately intelligible: so that if a mind be imagined having no idea of the corporeal universe, it could know nothing of it, although for all eternity in the midst of it.
Hence it follows that matter neither is, nor can be, intelligent or intelligible: the ideas which we have of it come from another source; without them we might be united to matter, and never know or even suspect its existence.
122. An opportunity is here presented of explaining an exceedingly curious doctrine of St. Thomas. This eminent metaphysician was of opinion that it required greater perfection to be immediately intelligible than to be intelligent; so that the human mind, although endowed with intelligence, does not possess intelligibility.
In his Summa Theologica,[6] the holy Doctor asks if the soul knows itself by its essence, and answers that it does not, and thus defends his position:
"Things are intelligible accordingly as they act, and not as they have the power to act, as is said in the ninth book of Metaphysics (tex. 20 tr. 3). For any thing that comes under knowledge is being, is the true, in so far as it is in act, and this is manifestly apparent in sensible things. Thus the sight does not perceive that which may be colored, but that only which actually is colored. And in the same manner as is manifest, the intellect, in so far as it knows material things, knows that only which is in act.... Hence, also, in immaterial substances, each one is intelligible by its essence, accordingly as it is in act by its essence. Therefore, the essence of God, which is a pure and perfect act, is absolutely and perfectly intelligible by itself; thus God knows, by his essence, not only himself but also all other things. But the essence of the angel belongs to the class of intelligible beings as an act, but not as a pure and complete act, wherefore his understanding is not completed by his essence. For, although the angel knows himself by his essence, he cannot know all things by his essence, but knows those distinct from himself only by their images. But the human intellect in the class of intelligible beings is only a possible being.... Therefore, considered in its essence, it is an intelligent power; hence of itself it has the faculty of understanding, but not of being understood, except inasmuch as it acts. On this account the Platonists placed the order of intelligible beings above the order of intellect; because the intellect understands only by participation of the intelligible; but according to them, that which participates is beneath that of which it participates. If, then, the human intellect places itself in act by the participation of separate intelligible forms, as the Platonists held, it would know itself by this participation of incorporeal things. But as it is natural to our intellect in the present life to look to material and sensible things, it follows that our intellect knows itself only as it is placed in act by the species (ideas) abstracted from sensible things by the light of the intellect acting, which is the act of the intelligible things themselves.... Therefore our intellect does not know itself by its essence but by its acts."
Such is the doctrine of St. Thomas. Cardinal Cajetan, one of the most penetrating and subtile minds that ever existed, has a commentary on this passage, worthy of the text. These are his words: "Two things expressly follow, from what is said in the text. The first is, that our intellect has of itself the faculty of understanding. The second is, that our intellect has not of itself the faculty of being understood. Hence the order of intellect is below the order of intelligible beings. For if the perfection, which our intellect has of itself, is sufficient to understand, but not to be understood, it necessarily follows that greater perfection is required in a thing to be understood than to understand. And because St. Thomas saw this consequence, which at first sight does not seem true, and might even be objected to him, he excludes this apprehension, by showing that this must be admitted to be true not only by the Peripatetics, from whose doctrine it results, but also by the Platonists."
But afterwards, in answer to an objection brought by Scotus, called the Subtle Doctor, he adds: "But because in order to understand an intellect and an intelligible object are required, and the relation of the intellect to the intelligible, is the relation of the perfectible to its perfection, since the intellect in act consists in its being itself the intelligible thing, as is evident from what has been said above; it follows that immaterial beings are divided into two orders, intellects, and things intelligible. And as the intelligible consists in perfective immateriality, it follows that any thing is intelligible inasmuch as it is immaterially perfective. That intelligibility requires immateriality is shown by this, that no material thing is intelligible, unless, inasmuch as it is abstracted from matter.... It has already been shown that any thing is intelligible by this, that not only itself, but others, also, are in the intelligible order, either in act or in potentiality; it is thus nothing more than to be perfected or perfectible by the intelligible."
123. This theory may be more or less solid, but it is in either case something more than ingenious; it raises a new problem in philosophy of the highest importance: to assign the conditions of intelligibility. It has moreover the advantage of being in accordance with a fact attested by experience; this fact is the difficulty experienced by the mind in knowing itself. If it is immediately intelligible, why does it not know itself? What condition is wanting? Its intimate presence? It has not only presence but identity. Perhaps the effort to know itself? But the greater part of philosophy has no other end than this knowledge. By denying immediate intelligibility to the soul, we can explain why so great a difficulty is involved in ideological and psychological investigations, by showing the reason of the obscurity experienced in passing from direct to reflex acts.
124. The opinion of St. Thomas is not a mere conjecture: we may, in order to establish it in some manner upon fact, assign a reason which seems to us greatly to strengthen it, and which may be regarded as merely an extension of the one already given.
A thing to be intelligible must have two qualities: immateriality, and the activity necessary to operate upon the intelligent being. This activity is indispensable, for in the act of intelligence, the intellect is in some sense passive. When the idea is present, the intellect cannot but know it: when it is wanting, it is impossible for the intellect to know it. The idea, therefore, enables the intellect to act; without it the intellect can do nothing. Consequently, if we admit that any being can serve as idea to the intellect, we must concede that being an activity to excite intellectual action; and so far we make it superior to the intellect excited.
Thus we explain why our intellect, in this life at least, does not know itself by itself. Experience shows that its activity needs to be excited. Left to itself it is like one asleep; and this want of activity in our mind, in the absence of exciting influences, is one of the most constant of psychological facts.
This is not, however, to say that we have no spontaneity, and that no action is possible without an external determining cause; but only that this same spontaneous development would not exist, if we had not previously been subjected to the influence of causes which brought out our activity. We may learn things not taught us; but we could learn nothing, if teaching had not presided over the first development of our mind. There are, it is true, many ideas in our mind, which are not sensations, and which cannot have emanated from them; but it is equally true that a man, deprived of all his senses, could not think, because his mind would want the exciting cause.
125. We have dwelt thus long upon the explanation of the problem of intelligibility, because we consider it of scarcely less importance than that of intelligence, although we do not find it treated in philosophical works as it merits. We will now reduce this doctrine to clear and simple propositions, so that the reader may form a more complete conception of it; and also, in order to deduce some consequences which have been only slightly indicated in our exposition:
I. A thing must be immaterial in order to be immediately intelligible.
II. Matter cannot be intelligible by itself.
III. The relations of spirits to bodies, or the representation of the latter in the former, cannot be purely objective.
IV. Some other class of relations must necessarily be admitted to explain the representative union of the world of intelligences with the corporeal world.
V. Immediate objective representation supposes activity in the object.
VI. The power of an object to represent itself to the eyes of an intelligence, supposes in it a faculty of acting on that intelligence.
VII. This faculty necessarily produces an effect, and consequently involves a kind of superiority of the object over the intelligence.
VIII. An intelligent being is not necessarily immediately intelligible.
IX. Immediate intelligibility seems to require greater perfection than intelligence.
X. Although not every intelligent being is intelligible, yet every intelligible being is intelligent.
XI. God, who is in every sense infinite activity, is infinitely intelligent and infinitely intelligible by himself.
XII. God is intelligible by all created intellects, provided it be his will to present himself immediately to them, and strengthen and elevate them as may be necessary.
XIII. There is no repugnance in immediate intelligibility being communicated to some beings, which are consequently intelligible by themselves.
XIV. Our soul, while united to our body, is not immediately intelligible, and we know it only by its acts.
XV. In this want of immediate intelligibility is found the reason of the difficulty of ideological and psychological studies, and the obscurity which we experience in passing from direct to reflex knowledge.
XVI. Therefore, the philosophy of the me, or that which seeks to explain the internal and external world by starting from the me, is impossible; it commences by denying one of the fundamental facts of psychology.
XVII. Therefore, the doctrine of universal identity is also absurd, since it gives both intelligence and immediate intelligibility to matter, which can have neither.
XVIII. Spiritualism, therefore, is a truth which springs as well from subjective as from objective philosophy, from intelligence as from intelligibility.
XIX. We must, therefore, go beyond ourselves, and even rise above the universe to find the origin of either subjective or objective representation.
XX. Therefore, we must ascend to a primitive, infinite activity, which places intelligences in communication among themselves and with the corporeal world.
XXI. Therefore, purely ideological and psychological philosophy leads us to God.
XXII. Therefore, philosophy cannot commence by a single fact, the origin of all other facts, but must, and does end with this supreme fact, the infinite existence, which is God.(12)
CHAPTER XIII.
REPRESENTATION OF CAUSALITY AND IDEALITY.
126. Besides the representation of identity, there is what I have called the representation of causality. A being may represent itself, a cause its effect. Productive activity is inconceivable, if the principle of the productive act does not in some manner contain the thing produced. Therefore we say that God, the universal cause of all that does or can exist, contains in his essence all real and possible beings in a virtual or eminent manner. A being can just as well present whatever it contains in itself, as it can represent itself; causality, therefore, under the conditions above explained, may be an origin of representation.
127. And here we would remark how profound a philosopher St. Thomas shows himself to be, when he explains the manner in which God knows his creatures. In his Summa Theologica,[7] he asks if God knows things distinct from himself, and answers in the affirmative; not that he regards the divine essence as a mirror, but that by recourse to a more profound consideration he seeks the origin of this knowledge in causality. This is his doctrine in a few words: It is manifest that God knows himself perfectly; therefore he knows all his power, and consequently all the things to which it extends. Another reason, or rather enlargement of the same reason, is, that the being of the first cause is its intellect: all effects pre-exist in God as in their cause; they must, therefore, be in him in an intelligible manner, since they are his intellect itself. God then sees himself by his essence; but he sees other things not in themselves, but in his essence, inasmuch as his essence contains the similitude of everything.
The same doctrine is found in another place,[8] where he asks if they who see the divine essence see all things in God.
128. Representation of ideality is that which neither proceeds from the identity of the thing representing with that represented, nor from the relation of cause and effect. Our ideas are of this class, for they are neither identical with their objects nor do they cause them. It is impossible for us to know whether, besides this representative force which we experience in our ideas, there are finite substances capable of representing things distinct from, and not caused by, themselves. Leibnitz maintains that there are such substances; but, as we have seen, his system of monads must be regarded as merely hypothetical. It is better to say nothing than to make conjectures which lead to no result; we shall therefore content ourselves with establishing the following propositions:
I. If any being represent another which is not its effect, it has not this representative force of itself, but has received it from another.
II. The communication of intelligences can only be explained by recurring to a first intelligence, which, being the cause of the others, can give them the force to act upon one another, and consequently to produce representation.
129. Causality may be a principle, but is not a sufficient reason, of representation.
In the first place, a cause cannot represent its effect unless intelligible in itself. Thus, although we attribute to matter an activity of its own, we cannot concede it the power to represent its effects, for want of the indispensable condition of immediate intelligibility.
130. In order that effects may be intelligible in their cause, it must of necessity possess the character of cause in its fulness, by uniting all the conditions and determinations requisite to the production of the effect. Free causes do not represent their effects, because these effects with relation to their causes are found only in the sphere of possibility. The production may be realized, but is not necessary; and thus the possible, but not the real, is seen in the cause. God knows future contingencies, which depend upon the human will, not precisely because he knows the activity of man, but because he sees in himself, without succession of time, not only all that may, but all that will happen; since nothing can exist in the present or in the future without his will or permission. He also knows future contingencies dependent solely on his own will, because he knows from all eternity what he has resolved, and his decrees are indefectible and immutable.
131. Even if we refer to the necessary order of nature, and suppose one or more second causes to be known, it is not possible to see in them all their effects with entire security, unless the cause act in isolation, or all the others are known together with it. As experience shows us that all the parts of nature are in intimate and reciprocal communication, we cannot suppose the above isolation, and consequently the action of every second cause is subjected to the combinations of others, which may either impede or modify its effect. Hence the difficulty of establishing general, and at the same time, perfectly safe laws in all that concerns nature.
132. The preceding considerations, it is to be observed, demonstrate anew the impossibility of transcendental science based upon a fact from which all other facts proceed. Intellectual representation is not explained by substituting necessary emanation for free creation. Even supposing the variety of the universe to be purely phenomenal, and at bottom only a being always one, identical, and absolute, it cannot be denied that the phenomena are governed by certain laws, and subject to various conditions. Either the human intellect can see the absolute in such a way as to discern by a simple intuition whatever is contained in it, all that it is or can be, under all possible forms; or else it is condemned to follow the unfolding of the unconditioned, the absolute, and the permanent, through its conditioned, relative, and variable forms. The former, which is a sort of ridiculous plagiarism from the dogma of beatific vision, is, in treating of the intellect in its present state, so palpable an absurdity, as to merit neither debate nor refutation. The latter subjects the intellect to all the fatigue of investigation, and destroys at one blow all the illusory promises of transcendental science.
133. The understanding is, in its acts, subject to a law of succession, or the idea of time. The same thing obtains in nature, whether it is so verified in reality, or time is considered as a subjective condition which we transfer to objects; be this doctrine of Kant, which we shall in due time examine, as it may, it is certain that succession, at least for us, exists, and that we cannot ignore it. In this hypothesis an infinite evolution can be known to us only in an infinite time. Thus, by a metaphysical necessity, we are unable to know not only the future evolution of the absolute, but also the present and the past. This evolution being absolutely necessary, according to the doctrine to which we have reference, an infinite succession must have preceded us; thus the present organization of the universe must be regarded as one round of an unlimited ladder, which in the past as in the future, has no measure but eternity. We can know the present state of the world solely by observation, and then only to a very limited degree; we must, therefore, of necessity, deduce it from the idea of the absolute, by following it in its infinite evolution. Were this not, however, in itself radically impossible, it would, nevertheless, labor under the inconvenience of being too long a task to be accomplished in the life-time of any one man, or even in that of all men who have ever lived, taken collectively.
134. But let us return to the representation of causality. The ideal representation may be reduced to that of causality; for since a spirit can have no idea of an object not produced by it, unless communicated to it by another spirit, the cause of the thing represented, we infer that all purely ideal representations proceed either directly or indirectly, mediately or immediately, from the cause of the objects known. And since, on the other hand, as we have already seen, the first being knows things distinct from himself only, as he is their cause; we hold the representation of ideality to be reduced to that of causality, thus in part verifying the principle of Vico, the profound Neapolitan thinker: "the intellect only knows what it does."
135. From this doctrine flow two consequences of which we must take note:
I. There are only two primitive sources of intellectual representation: identity and causality. That of ideality is necessarily derived from that of causality.
II. In the real order, the principle of being is identical with the principle of knowledge. That only which gives being can give knowledge. The first cause can give knowledge only in so far as it gives being: it represents because it causes.
136. The representation of ideality, although connected with that of causality, is yet really distinct from it. The explanation of its nature belongs indeed to the treatise on ideas; but we cannot relinquish, without an illustration, a point so closely connected with the problem of intellectual representation.
Some conceive ideas to be a sort of image or copy of the object; but this is true only with respect to the representations of the imagination, that is, the purely corporeal; and even here it is necessary to suppose the external world to be such as the senses present it, which, however, under many aspects, is not true. To be convinced how illusory is the theory founded on the likeness of sensible things, we have only to ask, what the image of a relation is, or, how causality, substance, and being are portrayed. In the perception of these ideas, there is something more profound than any thing apparent in sensible things, something of an entirely different order. Necessity has led us to compare the understanding to an eye which sees, and the idea to an image present; but this is only a comparison; the reality is something more mysterious, more secret, more intimate: there is an ineffable union between the perception and the idea: man cannot explain it, but he experiences it.
137. Our consciousness attests that there is in us unity of being, that the soul is at all times identical with itself, and that it remains constant notwithstanding the variety of ideas and of acts which pass over it, like waves over the surface of a lake. Ideas are a mode of being of the mind: but what is this mode? In what does it consist? Does the production and reproduction of ideas proceed from a distinct cause which continually acts upon our soul, and produces immediately those modes of being which we call representations, or ideas? Or must we admit that there has been given to the mind an activity to produce these representations, subject, however, to the determination of exciting causes? These are questions which, for the present, we shall only indicate.(13)
CHAPTER XIV.
IMPOSSIBILITY OF FINDING THE FIRST PRINCIPLE IN THE IDEAL ORDER.
138. We shall in vain seek in the region of ideas for that which we could not find in that of facts, for there is no ideal truth, the origin of all other truths.
Ideal truth only expresses the necessary relation of ideas, abstracting the existence of the objects to which they relate: hence it follows, first of all, that ideal truths are absolutely incapable of producing the knowledge of reality.
No ideal truth can lead to any result in the order of existences, unless there be some fact to which it applies. Otherwise, however fruitful it may be in the order of ideas, it will be absolutely sterile in that of facts. The fact without the ideal truth remains in its isolated individuality, incapable of producing any thing more than cognition of itself: but in return, the ideal truth, apart from the fact, remains purely objective in the logical world, and has no means of descending to that of existences.
139. Let us apply this doctrine to the most certain and most evident ideal principles, to those which contain the most general ideas, and which ought, therefore, to possess the fecundity in question, if, indeed, it be anywhere to be encountered.
"It is impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time." This is the famous principle of contradiction, which may undoubtedly claim to be regarded as one source of truth to the human understanding. The ideas contained in it are the clearest and most simple conceivable; in it is affirmed the repugnance of being to not-being, and of not-being to being, at the same time, which is most evident. But what advance can we make with this principle alone? Present it to the most penetrating mind, to the most powerful genius; leave them alone with it, and there will result only a sterile, although pure and most clear intuition. Since it does not affirm that any thing is or is not, nothing can be inferred either for or against any existence: it only offers to the mind this conditional relation: that if any thing does exist, it is repugnant for it not to exist at the same time that it exists, or to exist at the same time that it does not exist. But if the condition of existence or non-existence be not given, yes and no in the real order are indifferent; nothing is known concerning them, however great the evidence in the ideal order.
To pass from the logical world to that of reality, all that is required is a fact to serve as a bridge. If this fact be offered to the understanding, the two banks are joined, and science commences. I feel, I think, I exist: these are facts of consciousness; combine any one of them with the principle of contradiction, and what before were sterile intuitions become prolific ratiocinations, embracing at once the world of ideas, and that of reality.
140. Even in the purely ideal order, the principle of contradiction is sterile unless joined with particular truths of the same order. In geometry, for example, it is often argued thus: such a quantity is either greater or less than another, or equal to it; for otherwise it would be both greater and less, equal and unequal, at the same time, which is absurd. Here the principle of contradiction is effectively applied, not alone, but together with a particular truth which makes such an application available. Thus, in the above argument, no use could be made of the principle of contradiction, to prove equality or inequality were not the existence or non-existence of one of the two previously proved or supposed: since this neither does nor can result from the principle of contradiction which includes, not a particular idea, but the most general ideas presented to the human mind.
141. General truths, of themselves, even in the purely ideal order, lead to nothing, because of the indeterminateness of the ideas which they contain; and, on the other hand, particular truths of themselves produce no result, because they are limited to what they are, making reasoning, which cannot take one step without the aid of general ideas and propositions, impossible. Light results from the union of one with the other; separated they afford only an abstract and vague intuition, or the contemplation of a particular truth, which, limited to a contracted sphere, can give no knowledge of beings considered under a scientific aspect.
142. We shall see when we come to treat of ideas, that our mind has two very distinct classes of them; the one supposes space, and cannot abstract it, such are all geometrical ideas: the other does not relate to space, and includes all non-geometrical ideas. These two orders of ideas are separated by an impassable abyss, if the two orders are not approximated by a simultaneous use of both. The ideal order is not complete without this approximation; and the real order of the universe is turned into a chaos, or rather disappears, if real and ideal truths are not combined, in both the geometrical and non-geometrical orders. From all geometrical ideas imaginable, considered in all their ideal purity, nothing would result for the ideal non-geometrical order, for the world of material, much less of immaterial realities; and, on the other hand, from non-geometrical ideas alone we could not get so much as the idea of a right line. This observation shows that there is for us in the ideal order no one truth, the origin of all other truths; for if we take the geometrical order, we are limited to those combinations which do not go out of it; if the non-geometrical order, we lack the idea of space, without which we lose even the possibility of conceiving the corporeal world.(14)
THE INDISPENSABLE CONDITION OF ALL HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.—MEANS OF PERCEIVING TRUTH.
143. We have not been able to discover, either in the real or the ideal order, a truth, the origin of all other truths to our intellect while in this life. Therefore it stands proved that transcendental science properly so called is for us a chimera. Our cognitions must, doubtless, have some resting-point, and this we shall now investigate.
For the better understanding of the subject now before us, we will recall the true state of the question. We do not seek a first principle, which of itself alone illumines or produces all truths; but we seek a truth which shall be the indispensable condition of all knowledge; for this reason, we do not call it an origin, but a resting-point. The edifice does not originate in the foundation, but rests upon it. We must consider the principle sought for as a foundation, just as in the preceding chapters, we treated of discovering a seed. These two images seed and foundation, perfectly express our ideas, and exactly trace the limits of the two questions.
144. Is there a resting-point of all science, and of all knowledge, scientific or not scientific? If there is, what is it? Are there many, or only one? Evidently there must be a resting-point. If asked the reason of an assent, we must at last come to a fact or a proposition, beyond which we cannot go; for we cannot admit the process ad infinitum. This is the point where we must of necessity stop, and consequently the resting-point of certainty.
145. Starting with a given assent, we may, perhaps, arrive at different principles, independent one of the other, all equally fundamental, as regards our mind: in this case there will be not only one, but many resting-points.
We do not believe it possible to determine a priori, whether there is unity or plurality for our intellect in this matter. That human science must be reduced to a single principle is a proposition that has been asserted, but never yet proved. Since the source of all truth, as has been shown in the preceding chapters, is not in man, it is evident that the principles, on which his knowledge is founded, must be communicated. Who shall assure us that they are not many in number, and of different orders? Nothing then in the present question can be resolved a priori, and we must descend to ideological and psychological observations.
146. Our mind acquires truth, or at least the appearance of truth; that is to say, that in one way or another, it performs those acts which we call perception and sensation. Whether the reality does or does not correspond to the acts of our soul, is at present of no consequence, is not what we now seek: we place the question on a ground accessible to the most skeptical; for even they do not deny perception and sensation; although they destroy reality, they admit appearance.
147. The means by which we perceive truth are of different orders; and this is why truths perceived correspond equally to different orders, parallel, so to speak, with the respective means of perception.
Consciousness, evidence, and intellectual instinct or common sense, are the three means; to which correspond truths of consciousness, necessary truths, and common-sense truths. These are distinct, different, and in many cases unconnected with each other; and he, who seeks to acquire complete and accurate ideas upon matters relating to the first principle of human knowledge, must mark out their limits with great care.
148. That means which we have called consciousness, or the intimate sense of that which passes within us, that which we experience, is independent of all the others. Destroy evidence, destroy intellectual instinct, yet consciousness remains. In order to feel, and to be sure that we feel, and what we feel, we need only experience. If we suppose the principle of contradiction to be doubtful, still it will not shake our certainty that we suffer when we suffer, that we rejoice when we rejoice, that we think when we think. The presence of the act, or the impression at the bottom of our soul, is intimate, immediate to us, and of irresistible efficacy to place us above all doubt. Sleeping or waking, sane or insane, the testimony of consciousness is the same; there may be an error in the object, but there can be none in the internal phenomenon. The lunatic who believes that he counts numberless bags of dollars, certainly does not count them, and in this he is deceived; yet he has in his mind the consciousness of what he does, and in this he is infallible. A man who dreams that he has fallen into the hands of robbers, is deceived as to the external object, but not as regards the act by which he believes it.
Consciousness is independent of all extrinsic testimony; its necessity is inevitable, its force irresistible in producing certainty; it is infallible in what concerns only itself; if it exist it must give testimony of itself; if it does not exist it cannot give it. In it reality and appearance are confounded; it cannot be apparent without being real; the appearance alone is already a true consciousness.
149. We include in the testimony of consciousness all that which we experience in our soul, all that which affects what some call the human me, ideas, thoughts of every class, acts of the will, sentiments, sensations; in a word, every thing of which we can say: I experience it.
150. Manifestly the truths of consciousness are rather facts to be pointed out, than combinations to be enunciated. This is not to say that they cannot be enunciated, but that in themselves they abstract all intellectual form, are simple elements, in ordering and comparing which the intellect may occupy itself, but which of themselves give no light, represent nothing, but only present what they are; that they are mere facts, beyond which we cannot go.
151. The habit of reflecting upon consciousness, and of joining purely intellectual operations with facts of simple internal experience, makes it difficult to conceive this isolation, in which every thing purely subjective is by its nature found. We endeavor to abstract reflection, but we reflect upon our very effort to abstract it. Our intellect is a fire, which, extinguished on one side, burns on the other; the very effort to extinguish it ordinarily makes it burn brighter. Hence the difficulty of distinguishing the two characters of purely subjective and purely objective, to mark the dividing line between evidence and consciousness, between the known and the experienced. Nevertheless, the separation of two such different elements may be made easy, by considering that brutes are, in their own way, conscious of what they inwardly experience; not supposing them to be mere machines, we must allow them consciousness, or the intimate presence of their sensations. Without this even sensation is inconceivable, for that can have no sensation which does not perceive that it feels. Brutes reflect not on what passes within themselves; they experience it, but nothing more. Sensations succeed one another in their soul, connected only by the unity of the being experiencing them; but they do not take them for objects and consequently, do not combine or transform them in any manner; they leave them as they are, simple facts. From this we may derive some light for the conception of what the simple facts of consciousness are in us when abandoned to themselves, perfectly isolated, separated from purely intellectual operations, and under no subjection to reflective activity, which, combining them in various ways, and elevating them to the region of the purely ideal, presents them to us in such a manner as to make us forget their primitive purity.
An effort is necessary in order clearly to perceive what the facts of consciousness are, and what its testimony is; for without this it is impossible to advance one step in the investigation of the first principle of human knowledge. Confusion on this point makes us fall into transcendental equivocations. We shall hereafter have occasion to observe this, and we have already encountered lamentable examples of such deviations in the errors of the philosophy of the me.
152. Evidence is usually called an intellectual light. This is a very happy metaphor, and even exact; but, like all metaphors, it has the defect of being of but little service to explain the mysteries of philosophy. We also find intellectual light in many acts of consciousness. There is also a sort of clear light in that intimate presence by which an operation or an impression is offered to the mind; it shines upon the eye of the soul, and makes it see what is before it. If, then, we define evidence only by calling it the light of the intellect, we confound it with consciousness, or, at least, by the use of ambiguous language, give others occasion of confounding them.
Let us not be thought to blame those who have used the metaphor of light, or to flatter ourselves with being able to define evidence with all exactness; for who can express in words this phenomenon of our mind? If we are to have any metaphor, that of the intellectual light seems to be the most adequate. For, in truth, when we fix our attention upon evidence, in order to examine its nature and its effects on the mind, it very naturally presents itself under the image of a light, whose splendor illumines the objects, and enables the mind to contemplate them: but this, we repeat, is not enough. We will, then, although we do not undertake exactly to define it, point out a mark to distinguish it from every thing else.
153. Evidence is always accompanied by the necessity, and consequently, by the universality, of the truths which it attests. There is no evidence of the contingent, except in so far as subjected to a necessary principle.
Let us explain this doctrine by comparing examples taken respectively from consciousness and evidence.
That there is in me a being which thinks, I know, not by evidence, but by consciousness. That whatever thinks exists, I know, not by consciousness, but by evidence. In both cases the certainty is absolute, irresistible; but in the first it rests upon a particular, contingent fact; in the second upon a universal and necessary truth. That I think is certain for me, but not necessarily so for others; the disappearance of my thought does not overturn the world of intelligences; if my thought should now cease to exist, truth in itself would suffer no change; other intellects might and would continue to perceive truth; and neither in the real nor in the ideal order would there be less concert and harmony.
I ask myself if I think, and in the bottom of my soul I read that I do think: I ask myself if this thought is necessary, and not only does experience tell me that it is not, but I can find no reason why it should be necessary. Even supposing that my thought ceases to exist, I perceive that I continue to reason in due form. Thus I examine what would have happened if I had not existed, or what may hereafter happen if I cease to exist; and I assent to principles and draw conclusions without transgressing any law of the intellect. The ideal world and the real world are presented to my eyes as a magnificent spectacle at which I indeed assist, but from which I may withdraw without the representation undergoing any change, except that I should leave vacant the imperceptible place which I now occupy. But it is very different with the truths which are the object of evidence. It is not necessary for me to think; but it is so necessary for whatever thinks to exist, that no efforts of mine could suffice to abstract this necessity for one moment. If, taking an absurd position, I suppose the contrary, and imagine for an instant the relation between thought and being to be cut short, I break the chain which supports the order of the entire universe; every thing is reversed, thrown into confusion; and I know not if what I see be chaos or nonentity. What has taken place? The intellect has only suffered a contradiction, at the same time affirming and denying thought, because it affirmed a thought to which it denied existence. It has violated a universal and absolutely necessary law, the violation of which throws every thing into chaos. Not the certainty of the soul's existence, supported by the testimony of consciousness, suffices to prevent the confusion: the intellect by contradicting itself has denied itself; from its insensate words, not being, but nonentity has resulted, not light, but darkness; and this darkness cast over whatever exists or is possible turns back upon it and involves it in eternal night.
154. We have here fixed and defined the conditions of consciousness and evidence. The object of the former is the individual, the contingent; that of the latter the universal and the necessary. Only in God, the source of all truth, the universal and necessary principle of being and of knowledge, is consciousness identified with evidence; and it is not possible to abstract the testimony of his consciousness, without annihilating everything. What would remain in the world were I to disappear? the creature asks itself, and answers: everything except myself. Were God to ask himself this question, he would answer: nothing.
155. We have given the name of intellectual instinct to the impulse which in many cases produces certainty without the aid of the testimony either of consciousness or of evidence. If you show a man a target, then blindfold his eyes, and turn him around at random several times, and, after this, place a bow in his hands, and assure him that the arrow will strike the precise centre of the target, he will say that this is impossible; and nothing can induce him to believe so great an absurdity. And why not? Because of the testimony of consciousness? No! For the question is now of external objects. Neither does he depend on evidence; for the objects of evidence are things necessary, and it is not intrinsically impossible for the arrow to hit the mark assigned. On what then rests his profound conviction that this is not possible? If we suppose him to know nothing of theories, of probabilities, and combinations, to have no knowledge of this science, and never to have so much as thought of such things, his certainty is just as great as it would be were he able to base it upon some sort of calculation. All the bystanders, whether rude or cultivated, ignorant or learned, need no reflection to be equally certain; all will say, or think, "this is impossible; it cannot happen." We again ask, what is the foundation of so strong a conviction? Not springing from consciousness, or from either mediate or immediate evidence, it manifestly can have no other origin than that internal force which we call intellectual instinct, and which may be called common sense, or anything else, so long as the fact itself is recognized. It is a precious gift, which the Creator has given to us, to make us reasonable even before we reason, and to enable us rightly to govern our conduct when we lack time to examine motives of prudence.
156. This intellectual instinct embraces many objects of different orders; it is the guide and the shield of reason: the guide, because it precedes and shows the way; the shield, because it defends reason from her own cavils, and because sophistry becomes dumb in its presence.
157. The testimony of human authority, equally necessary to the individual and to society, commands our assent, by means of an intellectual instinct. Man believes man, believes society, even before thinking of the motives of his faith; few examine them at all, and yet this faith is universal.
We do not here inquire if intellectual instinct sometimes deceives, or why, or in what cases it deceives; at present we only seek to establish its existence; and with regard to the errors to which it leads, we shall simply remark, that in a weak being, such as man, the rule is continually changing, and as it is not possible to find a man good, without any admixture of evil, so is it impossible to find truth without some admixture of error.
158. We make sensations objective only by virtue of an irresistible instinct. Nothing is more certain, more evident to the eyes of philosophy, than the subjectivity of all sensations; that is, sensations are immanent phenomena, are within us, and do not go out of us; and yet nothing is more constant than the transition made by the whole human race from the subjective to the objective, from the internal to the external, from the phenomenon to the reality. On what is this transition grounded? If the most eminent philosophers experienced so much difficulty in finding the bridge, which unites the two opposite banks; if some of them, wearied with investigation, resolutely asserted that it was not possible to discover it, will the commonalty of mankind discover it from their very childhood? Evidently, motives of reasoning do not explain the transition; appeal must be made to the instinct of nature. There is then an instinct, which by itself assures us of a truth demonstrated with difficulty by the most abstruse philosophy.
159. Here I shall notice the errors of those methods which isolate man's faculties, and, in order better to know the mind, disfigure and mutilate it. One of the most constant and fundamental facts of ideological and psychological science, is the multiplicity of acts and faculties of the soul, notwithstanding its simplicity attested by the unity of consciousness. There is in man, and in the universe, an assemblage of laws, the effects of which are simultaneously evolved with harmonious regularity; to separate them, is often equivalent to placing them in contradiction; for, no one of them being capable of producing its effect if isolated, but requiring to be combined with the others, they produce, when made to operate alone, instead of their regular effects, the most hideous monstrosities. If you retain in the world only the law of gravitation not combined with that of projection, every thing will be precipitated towards one centre; instead of that infinity of systems which adorn the firmament, you will have only a rude and indigested mass. If you destroy gravitation, and preserve the force of projection, all bodies will be decomposed into imperceptible atoms, and be dispersed, like most subtle ether, through regions of immensity.(15)
CONFUSION OF IDEAS IN DISPUTES ON THE FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE.
160. There are, in our opinion, various principles, which, with regard to the human intellect, may be called equally fundamental, both because they serve as foundation in the common and scientific orders, and because they do not rest upon any other, since it is impossible to assign any one which enjoys this quality as an exclusive privilege. In seeking the fundamental principle, it is customary in the schools to observe that they do not endeavor to find a truth from which all others emanate, but an axiom the destruction of which draws with it that of all other truths, and the firmness of which sustains them, at least indirectly, in such manner that whoever denies them may be refuted by indirect demonstration, or reduction ad absurdum; that is, admitting the above axiom, it may follow that whoever denies the others will be convicted of being in opposition to one which he himself has acknowledged to be true.
161. It has been much disputed whether this or that principle merit the preference. We believe that there is here a confusion of ideas, proceeding in great part from not sufficiently marking the limits of testimonies so distinct as those of consciousness, of evidence, and of common sense.
Descartes' famous principle, I think, therefore I am; that of contradiction, it is impossible for a thing to be and not to be at the same time; and what is called the principle of the Cartesians, whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may be affirmed of it with all certainty; are the three principles that have divided the schools. In favor of each, reasons the most powerful, and even conclusive against the others, considering the ground on which the question was placed, have been brought forward.
If you are not certain that you think, argues the partisan of Descartes, you cannot be certain even of the principle of contradiction, or know the criterion of evidence to be valid; for both, it is necessary to think; whoever affirms or denies anything, thinks; without thought, neither affirmation nor negation is possible. But let us admit thought: we have already a foundation, and one of such a nature that we find it in ourselves, attested by consciousness, irresistibly forcing upon us the certainty of its existence. The foundation once laid, we see how the edifice can be raised; for this we need not go out of our own thought; there is the luminous point to conduct us in the path to truth; let us follow its splendor, and having established an immovable point, let us draw from it the mysterious thread to guide us in the labyrinth of science. Thus our principle is the first, the basis of all others; it has sufficient power to sustain itself, sufficient also to impart firmness to others.
This language is certainly reasonable; but it has this fault, that the conviction which it is intended to produce, is neutralized by the not less reasonable language of those who hold a directly contrary opinion. One who maintains the principle of contradiction may reason thus: if you do not admit it to be impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time, it may be possible that you think and do not think at the same time; your assertion, then, I think, is of no weight, for its opposite, I do not think, may, at the same time, be true. In this case, the conclusion of existence is invalid; for, even admitting the legitimacy of the consequence, I think, therefore I am, as we know on the other hand that this other premise, I do not think, is possible, the deduction cannot be made. Nor is the other principle: whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may he affirmed of it with all certainty, of any more value without the principle of contradiction; because if being and not-being are possible at the same time, an idea may be clear and obscure, distinct and confused; a predicate may be contained and not contained in the subject; we may be certain and uncertain, affirm and deny; therefore it is of no service.
He who argues thus seems quite reasonable; but strangely enough, the advocate of the third principle brings equally strong arguments against his two adversaries. How is it known, he asks, that the principle of contradiction is true? Only because we see in the idea of being the impossibility of its being and not being at the same time, and vice versa; therefore, we are sure of the principle of contradiction only from the application of the principle: whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may he affirmed of it with all certainty. If nothing can be sustained without relying upon the principle of contradiction,—and this is based upon our principle,—ours is the foundation of them all.
162. They are all three right, and all three wrong. They are right in asserting that the denial of their respective principles is the ruin of the others. They are all wrong in pretending that the denial of the others is not the ruin of their own. Whence then the dispute? From the confusion of ideas, by which they compare principles of very different orders, all indeed very true, but not to be compared with each other for the same reason that we cannot compare the white and the warm, and dispute whether a thing has more degrees of heat or whiteness. Comparison requires not only opposition in the extremes, but also something in common; if things are totally unlike, comparison is impossible.
Descartes' principle is the enunciation of a simple fact of consciousness; that of contradiction is a truth known by evidence; and that of the Cartesians is an assertion that the criterion of evidence is valid, and that it is a truth of reflection expressing the intellectual impulse by which we are borne to believe the truth of what we know by evidence.
The importance of this question requires a special examination of each of the three principles, which we shall make in the next chapters.(16)
THOUGHT AND EXISTENCE.—DESCARTES' PRINCIPLE.
163. Am I certain that I exist? Yes. Can I prove it? No. Proof supposes reasoning; there is no solid reasoning without a firm principle on which to rest it; and there is no firm principle unless we suppose the existence of the reasoning being.
In effect, if he who reasons is not certain of his own existence, he cannot be certain of his own reasoning, since there will be no reasoning if there be no one to reason. Therefore there are, unless we suppose this, no principles on which to rest; there is nothing but illusion, or rather there is neither any illusion, for there can be none where there is no one illuded.
Our existence cannot be demonstrated: we have so clear and strong a consciousness of it that it leaves us no uncertainty; but it is impossible to prove it by reasoning.
164. It is a prejudice and a fatal error to believe ourselves able to prove everything by the use of reason; the principles on which it is founded are prior to its use; the existence of reason, and that of the being that reasons, are prior to both.
Not only are not all things demonstrated, but it may even be demonstrated that some things are indemonstrable. Demonstration is a ratiocination in which we infer from evident propositions, a proposition evidently connected with them. If the premises are of themselves evident, they do not admit of demonstration; if we suppose them in their turn demonstrable, we shall have the same difficulty with respect to those on which the new demonstration is founded; therefore we must either stop at an indemonstrable point, or proceed to infinity, which would be never to finish the demonstration.
165. And it is to be remarked that indemonstrability does not belong solely to certain premises; it is found, in some measure, in every argument by its very nature, abstracting the propositions which compose it. We know that the premises A and B are certain; from them we infer the proposition C. By what right? Because we see that C is connected with A and B. But how do we know this? If by immediate evidence, by intuition, here is something else that cannot be demonstrated, the connection of the conclusion with the premises. If by argument, ratiocination, establishing ourselves on the art of reasoning, there are two considerations, both tending to demonstrate indemonstrability. I. If the principles of the art are indemonstrable, we have at once something indemonstrable; if they are demonstrable, we must make use of others which serve as their basis, and at last either come to one which does not admit of demonstration, or else proceed to infinity. II. How do we know the principles of reasoning to be applicable to this case? By another act of reasoning? Then we shall encounter the same difficulty as in the other case. Is it because we see that it is so? because it is immediately evident? Then here again we have an indemonstrable point. These reflections will clearly show that to demand proof of everything is to demand what is impossible.
166. A being which does not think has no consciousness of itself: the stone exists, but does not know that it exists, neither would man himself in a similar case, were all his intellectual and sensible faculties in complete inaction. We easily conceive the difference of these two states by calling to mind what occurs, when from waking we pass into a profound sleep, and again when we awake from it. The first starting-point of our cognitions is this intimate presence of our internal acts, abstraction made of the questions which may be raised upon their nature. If every thing existed as at present, and there also existed, besides the world which we see, infinite other worlds, not even then would any thing exist for us, had we not those internal acts of which we are speaking. We should be like an insensible body placed in the immensity of space, which would suffer no mutation were every thing around it to disappear, and would perceive no change even if it were itself to sink into the abyss of nothing. On the other hand, if we suppose every thing to be annihilated except this being within us which feels, thinks, and wills, there still remains a point whereon to base the edifice of human cognitions: this being, though alone in immensity, would render itself an account of its own acts to the extent of its ability, and might go into numberless combinations having for their object the possible though not the real.
167. The famous principle of Descartes, I think, therefore I am, has been often attacked, and justly and conclusively so, if this philosopher really understood his principle in the sense which the schools are accustomed to give it. If Descartes presented it as a true argument, as an enthymema with an antecedent and a consequent, the argument was clearly defective in its foundation. For when he said, "I am going to prove my existence with this enthymema: I think, therefore I am:" this objection might have been made; your enthymema is equivalent to a syllogism in this form: whatever thinks, exists; but I think; therefore, I exist. This syllogism, in the supposition of a universal doubt, excluding even the supposition of existence itself, is inadmissable in its propositions and in their connection. In the first place, how do you know that whatever thinks exists? Because nothing can think without existing. How do you know that? Because what does not exist, does not act. But how in its turn do you know this? Supposing every thing to be doubted, nothing to be known, these principles are not known; otherwise we fall short of the supposition of universal doubt, and consequently go out of the question. If any one of these principles must be admitted without proof, it is just as well to admit your own existence and save yourself the trouble of proving it with an enthymema.
In the second place, how do you know that you think? Your argument may be retorted, as dialecticians say, in the following manner: nothing can think without existing; but your existence is doubtful, for you are trying to prove it; therefore you are not sure that you think.
168. Manifestly, then, Descartes' principle, taken as a true argument, cannot be defended; and it is so easy to see its defect, that it seems impossible for so clear and penetrating an intellect to have overlooked it. It is therefore probable that Descartes understood his principle in a very different sense; and we will now briefly show what meaning, in our judgment, the illustrious philosopher must have given to it.
Supposing himself for a moment in universal doubt, without accepting for certain anything that is known, he concentrated himself on himself, and in the depth of his soul sought a point whereon to base the edifice of human cognitions. Although we abstract all around us, we clearly cannot abstract ourselves, our mind, which is present to its own eyes, only the more lucidly, the greater the abstraction in which we place ourselves with respect to eternal objects. Now in this concentration, this collection of himself within himself, this withdrawal from every thing for fear of error, and asking himself if there be any thing certain, if there be any foundation and starting-point in the career of knowledge; first of all is presented to him the consciousness of thought, the very presence of the acts of his mind. If we mistake not, this was Descartes' thought: I wish to doubt of every thing; I refrain from affirming as from denying any thing; I isolate myself from whatever surrounds me, because I know not if it be any thing more than an illusion. But in this very isolation, I meet with the intimate sense of my internal acts, with the presence of my mind; I think, therefore I am; this I feel in a manner that leaves no room for doubt or uncertainty; therefore, I am; that is to say, this sense of my thought makes me know my existence.
169. This explains why Descartes did not present his principle as a mere enthymema, as an ordinary argument, but as determining a fact presented to him and first in the order of facts: even if he inferred existence from thought, it was not by deduction, properly so called, but as one fact contained in another, or rather identified with it.
We say identified, because it really is so in Descartes' opinion; and this confirms what we have already advanced, that this philosopher did not offer an argument, but laid down a fact. According to him, the essence of the soul consists in thought; and as other schools of philosophy distinguish between substance and its acts, considering the mind in the first class, and thought in the second, so Descartes held that there was no distinction between mind and thought, that they were the same thing, that thought constituted the essence of the soul. "Although one attribute," he says, "suffices to make us know the substance, there is, nevertheless, in every substance one attribute, which constitutes its nature and its essence, and on which all the others depend. Extension in length, breadth, and depth, constitutes the essence of corporeal substance; and thought constitutes the nature of the substance which thinks."[9] From this it follows that Descartes, in laying down the principle, I think, therefore I exist, only declared a fact attested by consciousness; and so simple did he consider it, and so unique, that in evolving his system, he identified thought with the soul, and its essence with its existence. He was conscious of thought, and said: "this thought is my soul; I am." It is not now our purpose to weigh the value of this doctrine, but only to explain in what it consists.(17)
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRINCIPLE OF DESCARTES, CONTINUED.—HIS METHOD.
170. Descartes did not always express himself with, sufficient accuracy when announcing and explaining his principle; and hence his words have been misinterpreted. In the passage where he establishes consciousness of our own thought and existence as the foundation whereon all our cognitions must rest, he uses terms from which it can be inferred that he not only means to declare a fact, but that he also intends to afford a true argument. Nevertheless, if we read his words attentively, and compare them with one another, it will be evident that such was not his idea, although we should not sometimes be wrong in saying that he did not make sufficient account of the difference, which we have just pointed out, between an argument and the simple declaration of a fact; and that, when concentrating himself on himself, he did not have a sufficiently clear reflex knowledge of the manner in which he rested upon his fundamental principle. To convince ourselves of this, let us examine his own words: "While we thus reject every thing of which we can have the least doubt, and even feign that it is false, we easily suppose that there is no God, no heaven, no earth; that we have not a body: but we cannot in like manner suppose that we are not whilst we doubt the truth of all these things; for we experience so great repugnance to conceive that what thinks is not at the same time that it thinks, that notwithstanding all the most extravagant suppositions, we cannot help believing this conclusion, I think, therefore I am, to be true, and consequently the first and most certain to present itself to him who orders well his thoughts."[10]
In this passage we detect a true syllogism: whatever thinks, exists; but I think; therefore I exist. "We have," says Descartes, "so great repugnance to conceive that what thinks is not at the same time that it thinks;" which is the same as to say, whatever thinks, exists; and this, in scholastic terms, is to establish the major. He then says: "notwithstanding all the most extravagant suppositions, we cannot help believing this conclusion, I think, therefore I am, to be true;" which is equivalent to proving the minor, and the conclusion of the syllogism. We know that Descartes was somewhat taken up with the idea of proving at the same time that he was engaged in declaring. This was the general tendency of his age, and even the most ardent reformers with difficulty preserved themselves from the surrounding atmosphere. We encounter this same spirit throughout his meditations, admirably joined, however, with the spirit of observation.
But through these obscure or ambiguous explanations, what thought do we discover at the bottom of Descartes' system when we abstract his having, or not having, rendered himself an exact account of what he experienced? This thought: "By an effort of my mind I can doubt the truth of everything; but this effort has a limit in myself. When I turn my attention upon myself, upon the consciousness of my internal acts, upon my existence, doubt is at an end; it cannot extend so far: I find so great repugnance that the most extravagant suppositions cannot overcome it." This his very words show: besides declaring this fact, he rises to a general and undoubtedly true proposition; he draws a conclusion also very legitimate; but neither of these was at all necessary to the present case; neither seemed to explain well his opinion, but either served to confuse it.
171. Descartes did nothing more in this point than what all philosophers do; and strange as it may seem, he did not differ from the chiefs of the metaphysical school diametrically opposed to his own, that of Locke and Condillac. That man, in seeking to examine the origin of his cognitions, and the principles on which his certainty is based, encounters the fact of consciousness of his internal acts, that this consciousness produces a firm certainty, and that we can conceive nothing more certain, is a fact on which all ideologists agree, and which all establish, although not in the same words. The more we reflect on these matters, the more we discover in them the realization of a principle confirmed by reason and experience, that many truths are not new, but only presented under a new form, and that many systems are not new, but only expressed in new formulas.
172. Even the universal doubt of Descartes, rightly understood, is practised by every philosopher; whence we see that the basis of his system, opposed by many, is in fact adopted by all. In what does his method consist? It may all be reduced to these two points: I. I wish to doubt of everything: II. When I wish to doubt of myself, I cannot.
Let us examine these points, and we shall see that they are common to all philosophers with Descartes.
Why does Descartes wish to doubt of everything? Because he proposes to examine the origin and certainty of his cognitions, his whole knowledge; and therefore he cannot help supposing nothing to be true. If then he supposes anything, he does not examine the origin and motives of the certainty of everything, since he excepts that which he supposes to be true. He must suppose nothing to be true, that he knows nothing of anything; otherwise he cannot say that he examines the foundation of everything. Either there is no such philosophical question, although one is found in all books of philosophy, or else Descartes' method must of necessity be followed.
But in what does this doubt consist? Can it, rationally speaking, be a real and true doubt? No! that is absolutely impossible. Man does not, because a philosopher, destroy his nature; and nature is invincibly opposed to this doubt taken in a strict sense.
173. What then is this doubt? Nothing more than a supposition, a fiction; a supposition and fiction such as we make at every step in all science, and which, in reality, is only non-attention to a conviction of our own. Use is made of this doubt in order to discover the first truth on which our understanding rests; and this only requires a fictitious doubt: there is no necessity of its being positive, for it will evidently make no difference whether we really doubt of everything, admit absolutely nothing, or say: I suppose that I have nothing for certain, know nothing, admit nothing. An example will make this explanation more evident. Whoever knows the rudiments of geometry, knows that in a triangle, the greater angle is opposite to the greater side, and he is absolutely certain of the truth of this theorem; but if he propose to demonstrate it to another, or repeat the demonstration to himself, he abstracts the said certainty, and proceeds as though he had it not, in order to show that it is founded upon something.
In all our studies, at every step, we do the same. Such expressions as these are common: "This is so, it is evident; but let us suppose that it is not; what will be the result?" "This demonstration is conclusive, but let us set it aside and suppose that we have it not; how shall we demonstrate what we desire?" Arguments ad absurdum, so much in use in every science, more especially in mathematics, consist not only in abstracting what we know, but in supposing something directly contrary. "If the line A," says continually the geometrician, "is not equal to B, it is either greater or less: let us suppose it to be greater, etc." Thus to investigate truth, we frequently abstract what we know, and even suppose the contrary. Apply this system to the investigation of the fundamental principle of our cognitions, and Descartes' universal doubt will follow, in the only sense admissible at the tribunal of reason, and possible to human nature.
It is probable that the illustrious philosopher understood it in the same sense, although we must confess that his words are ambiguous. We cannot conceive what object he could have had in understanding it differently, supposing, as we do, that he had no other purpose than to pave the way for the investigation of truth. By his manner of expressing himself, he gave occasion to disputes, which greater clearness would have prevented.
As he did not express himself with sufficient clearness, so his adversaries did not press him with all the precision and energy possible. To settle this whole matter, it would have sufficed to ask him this question: Do you mean to say that, in commencing our philosophical investigations, there is a moment in which we really and actually doubt of every thing; or do you deem it sufficient to abstract certainty, and to suppose that we have it not, as is frequently done in other studies?
174. Descartes was like all reformers who are ruled by one idea, and express it so strongly as to seem to admit no other beside it. In their language every thing is absolute, exclusive. They anticipate the combat which they must sustain, perhaps already experience it, and so they concentrate all their strength on the idea whose triumph they propose, and lose sight of every thing else. It cannot be inferred from this that they have no others which notably modify the principal; but to oppose their adversaries, who say, "This is absolutely false," they assert that it is absolutely true. History and experience furnish innumerable examples of such exaggerations.
The dominant idea of Descartes was to demolish the philosophy which at that time reigned in the schools; and he gave it so rude a shock as to make the world tremble. See how he expressed his contempt for many called philosophers: "Experience shows that they who make profession of being philosophers are often less wise and less reasonable than they who never applied themselves to this study."[11]
175. The second part of Descartes' method consists in taking thought for the point of departure, and in declaring that in trying to doubt of every thing man finds a limit in the consciousness of his thought, his existence. This is evidently the phenomenon which remains in the mind of the observer after doubting of every thing else; at least he cannot doubt that he doubts, and consequently that he thinks; for it must be remarked that this is an argument which has always been used against skeptics, which is equivalent to Descartes' method, and establishes as an undeniable phenomenon a certainty superior to all sophisms, the consciousness of one's self.
When Descartes said, I think, he meant by this word every internal act, every phenomenon immediately present to the soul; he spoke not of thought taken in a purely intellectual sense, but included in it all that of which we have immediate consciousness. "By the word thought," he says, "I understand all that is done within us, in such a manner that we perceive it immediately by ourselves: this is why not only to understand, to will, to imagine, but also to feel, are here the same thing as to think. For if I say that I see, or that I walk, and thence I infer that I am; if I mean to speak of the action performed with my eyes or with my feet, this conclusion is not so infallible that I have no reason to doubt it; because it may be that I think I see, or walk, although I do not open my eyes or stir from my seat; for this sometimes happens when I am asleep, and the same might also happen even if I had no body; but if I mean to speak only of the action of my thought or of the feeling, that is to say, the knowledge that I possess, which makes it seem to me that I see, or that I walk, this same conclusion is so absolutely true that I cannot doubt it; because it relates to the soul, which alone has the faculty of feeling, or of thinking, in any other manner whatever."[12]
176. This passage shows very clearly Descartes' ideas; he destroyed every thing by doubt, excepting one thing which defied all his efforts, the consciousness of himself; and this consciousness he took for the basis, on which, with full certainty, he might build anew the edifice of science. Locke and Condillac did nothing else; they followed, indeed, a different path, but their point of departure was at all times the same. Locke says: "First, I shall inquire into the original of those ideas, notions, or whatever else you please to call them, which a man observes, and is conscious to himself he has in his mind; and the ways whereby the understanding comes to be furnished by them."[13] "Since the mind, in all its thoughts and reasonings, hath no other immediate object but its own ideas, which it alone does or can contemplate, it is evident that our knowledge is only conversant about them."[14] "Whether, to speak metaphorically," says Condillac, "we ascend even to the heavens, or descend into the abysses, we do not go out of ourselves, and it is always our own thought that we perceive."[15]
177. All ideological labors commence then by establishing the fact of consciousness of our ideas; and it cannot be otherwise with respect to their certainty. Man, although he overthrow and destroy every thing, still encounters himself, the one who overthrows and destroys every thing. When he has gone so far as to doubt the existence of God, the world, his fellow-beings, his own body, he still, in the midst of this immense solitude, encounters himself. The effort to conceal himself from his own eyes serves only to render him more visible: he is a spirit to be killed by no blow, and rays of light flow from every wound inflicted on him. If he doubts that he feels, he at least feels that he doubts; if he doubts of this doubt, he feels that he doubts of doubt itself; thus, in doubting of direct acts, he enters into an interminable series of reflex acts, necessarily linked one with the other, and unrolled to the internal view like folds of a scarf which has no end.(18)
VALUE OF THE PRINCIPLE. I THINK: ITS—ANALYSIS.
178. We have already seen that Descartes' principle, considered as an enthymema, cannot aspire to be fundamental. In every argument there are premises and a consequence; and to be conclusive, the premises must be true, and the consequence legitimate. To say that an argument may be a fundamental principle, is a manifest contradiction.
But if we take Descartes' principle in the sense above explained, that is, not as an argument but as the declaration of a fact, the contradiction ceases, and it is a question, worthy to be examined, whether it merits the title of fundamental principle or not, and in what sense. We have already somewhat illustrated this matter, but not yet sufficiently cleared it up; we have made some preliminary remarks in order to show the state of the question, but have not yet completely solved it.
179. The proposition, I think, as we have remarked, expresses something more than merely thought, strictly so called: it embraces acts of the will, sentiments, sensations, acts, and expressions of all kinds which are realized within us; it includes all phenomena immediately present to our mind, and attested by consciousness.
Nothing that distinguishes between various acts and impressions can be a fundamental principle: such a distinction supposes analysis, and analysis requires reflection. We do not reflect without rules and objects already known; consequently, to admit classifications in the first principle, is to divest it of its character and to contradict ourselves.
180. We must not confound what is expressed by the proposition I think with the proposition itself. The thing itself and the form are here very different: the nature of the form may make us conceive ambiguous ideas of the thing itself: the thing itself is a most simple fact; the form is a logical combination, and includes very heterogeneous elements. This demands explanation.
The fact of consciousness, in itself considered, abstracts all relations; it is nothing but itself, leads to nothing but itself; it is the presence of the act or impression, or rather it is the act, the impression itself, which is present to the mind. There is no combination of ideas, no analysis of conceptions; when it comes to this latter, it leaves the territory of pure consciousness, and enters the objective regions of intellectual activity. But as language is to express the products of this activity, and as it is cast, so to say, not in the mould of consciousness, but in that of the intellect, it is impossible for us to speak without some logical or ideal combination. Were we seeking an expression of pure consciousness, unmixed with intellectual elements, we should seek it not in language, but in the natural sign of grief, joy, or some other passion; in this alone is it expressed spontaneously and uncombined with foreign elements, that something passes in our mind, that we are conscious of something; but the instant that we speak, we express something more than pure consciousness: the external world indicates the internal, the product of intellectual activity, its conception; and this involves a subject and an object, and therefore pertains to an order far superior to that of consciousness.
181. To demonstrate the truth of what we have just said, let us examine the expression, I think. This is a true proposition, and it may, without being in the least changed, be presented under a strictly logical form, I am thinking. Here we have a subject, a predicate, and a copula. The subject is I; that is to say, we at once find the idea of a being, the subject of acts and impressions, the possessor of an activity expressed in the predicate. This I is then presented to us as something far superior to the order of pure consciousness; it is nothing less than the idea of substance. We will analyze more at length what is contained under it.
We have, in the first place, the idea of unity: the I has no meaning, if it do not denote that something is one and identical, notwithstanding the plurality and diversity realized in it. The experimental unity of consciousness draws with it, as a rigid consequence, the unity of the being possessing it. This being is the subject; and in it are realized the variations without which it would be impossible to say I. We hold then that in so simple an expression the ideas of unity and its relation to plurality, of substance and its relations to accidents, are contained; that is, the idea of the soul, although expressive of a most simple unity, is, under the logical aspect, composite, and contains many things pertaining to the ideal order, and not to be found in pure consciousness. The idea of the soul, strictly speaking, although in a certain sense common to all men, is in itself highly philosophical, for it involves a combination of elements belonging to the intellectual order.
182. The predicate thinking is the expression of a general idea, comprehending not only all thought, but also all phenomena which immediately affect the mind. These phenomena, considered in what they have in common, under the general idea of present to the mind, are expressed in the word thinking.
The relation of the predicate with the subject, or the agreement of thinking with the soul, also expresses an analysis worthy of attention. We at once detect a decomposition of the conception of the soul into two ideas; that of the subject of various modifications, and that of thinking. Otherwise the proposition has no meaning, or rather its expression becomes impossible. The idea of subject involves the ideas of unity and substance, and that of thinking involves the idea of activity, or of passivity, so to speak, accompanied by consciousness.
183. To render the proposition possible, we must suppose the decomposition of the ideas to commence at some point, that is, either in the idea of the soul we find that of thinking, or in that of thinking we find that of the soul. Fixing ourselves in the soul, and abstracting thinking, we meet with the idea of subject, or of substance in general; and there, however much we cavil, we shall never find the idea of thinking. The soul in itself is not manifested to us; we know it by thought; in thought therefore we must fix the point of departure, not in the soul; wherefore in the above proposition, what is primitively known is rather the predicate than the subject; and of the two conceptions, that of subject has rather the character of a thing contained, than of a thing containing.
The soul by itself, so to speak, springs up with the presence of thought. If the intellectual activity is concentrated in search of its first basis, it finds it, not in the pure subject, but in its acts, that is, in its thoughts. These last are then the first object of reflective intellectual activity, its first element of combination, its first datum for the solution of the problem. Fixing its sight on this element, it discovers a unity in the midst of plurality, a being that remains the same through the ebb and flow of the phenomena of consciousness; and this identity is incontestably asserted by consciousness itself. The idea of the soul then is taken from that of thought, and consequently the subject springs from the predicate, rather than the predicate from the subject.
184. The thought from which we derive the idea of the soul is not thought in general, but thought realized, existing in ourselves. But this reality is sterile unless offered to the mind under a general idea; for it is evident that the soul does not come from one single act, since it is unity, the subject of plurality. To arrive at the idea of the soul we require unity of consciousness, and this we know only as we have experienced it, that is, so far as we perceive the relation of the one to the multiple, of a subject to its modifications.
Such elaboration is necessary to the production of so simple an expression as I think; and here we see how much reason there is to distinguish between the thing itself and the form, and how inconsiderately they act who confound things so different. Thus, from want of due analysis, they take in philosophy immense strides from one order to another, confound ideas and entangle matters.
185. To completely illustrate this matter, we will examine the relations of existence to thought; a very easy examination, if we bear in mind the observation just made.
It is certain that we conceive existence before thought: nothing can think without existing: existence is an indispensable condition to thought: to think and not to exist is a manifest contradiction. But what is first offered to our mind is not existence, but thought, and this not in the abstract, but determinate, experimental, or as the expression now is, empyrical. The idea of existence is general, includes all beings, and consciousness cannot commence with it. At one time we obtain this idea by abstraction; at another, it is a form pre-existing in our mind, not the first that occurs to us, or to speak more exactly, not the last point to be attained when we follow back the thread of our cognitions in order to discover their starting-point. This consciousness, when made objective, and when the conception which it offers is analyzed, presents to us the idea of existence as contained in itself.
Hence we infer that the therefore I exist is not, strictly speaking, a consequence of the I think, but the intuition of the idea of existence in that of thought. There are here two propositions per se notÆ, as the scholastics say: the one general, the thinking is existing; the other particular, I thinking am existing. The first belongs to the purely ideal order, and is intrinsically evident, independently of all particular consciousness; the second participates of the two orders, the real and the ideal; the real, in so far as it includes the particular fact of consciousness; the ideal, in so far as it includes a combination of the general idea of existence with the particular fact; since thus only is the union of the predicate with the subject conceivable.
186. It will now be very easy to solve all the questions discussed in the schools.
First question. Does the principle I think depend on another? We answer with a distinction. If by this principle is meant the simple fact of consciousness, it evidently does not. For our understanding there is nothing prior to ourselves; whatever we know so far forth as known by us, supposes our consciousness; if we suppress it, we destroy every thing, and although we attempt to destroy every thing, it still remains indestructible, since it depends on nothing, presupposes nothing.
If by the principle I think is meant a proposition, it can only have proceeded from reasoning or analysis, and so cannot be the fundamental principle of our cognitions.
187. Second question. When the other principles are wanting, is this one also wanting? We must apply the same distinction here: as a simple fact? No! as a proposition? Yes! Deny every thing, even the principle of contradiction, and consciousness still subsists; but deny the principle of contradiction, and every proposition is destroyed, every combination becomes absurd: analysis, and the relation of the predicate with the subject, are unmeaning words.
188. Third question. Admitting the principle I think, can he who denies the others be reduced at least indirectly to truth? We again distinguish: you speak of reducing him either by reasoning or by observation; that is, either you wish to convince him by arguments, or else to turn his attention to himself, as is done with a man distracted, or one suffering mental derangement. The second is possible, but not the first. Whoever denies all principles, that of contradiction included, makes all argument impossible; in vain then will you reason with him. Let us see.
You think, one may say to him, at least you so assert, when you admit the principle I think. True. Then you must also admit the principle of contradiction. Why so? Because otherwise you could think and not think at the same time. Very well. But then you destroy your own thought. How? Is it not true that you think? Certainly. According to yourself it is possible that at the same time you do not think. I agree with you. Therefore, you destroy your thought; for if you do not think, the I think is destroyed, and, as all this is simultaneous, you destroy your own thought.
Not at all. What I object to in your system is that you suppose true the very thing which I deny, and so fall into the sophism named by logicians petitio principii. By the very fact of my denying the principle of contradiction, I deny that not-being destroys being, and that being destroys not-being; consequently, I do not admit that the I do not think destroys the I think. When you argue against me in this way, you suppose the very point in question, and attack me with principles which I do not admit. In your system, in which being destroys not-being, and vice versa, it is certain that to think, and not think, are incompatible; but on my principles, it is a very simple thing; since, according to them, it is not impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time, when I do not think, I do not cease to think. This is indeed absurd, but not illogical; deny the principle, and the deduction is necessary. And if it be said that in such a case he cannot reason, as he just has reasoned, he may reply that neither can his adversaries reason; or, if you choose, he sees no difficulty in their both reasoning and not reasoning.
Observation is the only means of bringing back one who has thus strayed away; such a one has departed from reason, and cannot be brought back to it by means of reason. Observations directed to him must be more of a call, a sort of alarm to arouse reason, not a combination to re-construct it: he is as a man asleep, or one in a swoon, and we must call him, and shake him, in order to arouse him; we must not dispute with him as with an adversary.(19)
TRUE SENSE OF THE PRINCIPLE OF CONTRADICTION.—KANT'S OPINION.
189. Before examining the value of the principle of contradiction as a basis for our cognitions, it will be well to fix its true and exact sense. This renders necessary some considerations upon an opinion of Kant, advanced in his Critic of Pure Reason, when treating of the form in which the principle of contradiction has hitherto been enunciated in all schools of philosophy. The German metaphysician grants, that whatever may be the matter of our cognitions, and in whatever manner they may relate to their object, it is a general, although a purely negative, condition of all our judgments, that they should not mutually contradict each other; otherwise, even without reference to their object, they are nothing in themselves. This doctrine established, he observes that what is called the principle of contradiction is the following: "A predicate that is opposed to a subject does not belong to it;" and then goes on to say, that this is a universal, although purely negative criterion of all truth; that it moreover belongs exclusively to logic, since it is of use to pure cognitions as to cognitions in general, without relation to their object, and he declares that the contradiction makes them completely disappear. "But of this celebrated principle, although stripped of all contents, and purely formal," he continues, "there is still a formula containing a synthesis, which has inadvertently, and quite unnecessarily, been mixed up therein. It is this: It is impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time. Not only has the apodictic certainty (by the word impossible) been unnecessarily added, which certainty would have been of itself understood from the proposition; but the proposition is affected by the condition of time, and says, as it were: a thing = A, which is something = B, cannot at the same time be not B, but it can very well be both (B as well as not B) in succession. For example: a man who is young, cannot at the same time be old; but the same person may very well be young at one time, at another not young, that is, old. Now, the principle of contradiction, as a mere logical principle, must not at all restrict its meaning to the relations of time, and consequently, such a formula is quite opposed to its intention. The misapprehension arises simply from this: that we first separate the predicate of a thing from its conception, and afterwards unite its opposite with this predicate, which never gives a contradiction with the subject, but only with its predicate, which is synthetically joined with that subject, and that only when the first and second predicates are asserted at the same time. If I say a man who is unlearned is not learned, the condition, at the same time, must be expressed; for he who is unlearned at one time may very well be learned at another. But if I say no unlearned man is learned, the proposition is analytic, since the sign (the unlearnedness) now constitutes the conception of the subject, and then the negative proposition is evident immediately from the principle of contradiction, without it being necessary for the condition, at the same time, to be added. This is also the cause why I have so changed the formula of this principle, that the nature of an analytic proposition might be clearly expressed."[16]
190. The reader will not easily comprehend the meaning of this passage, not very clear of itself, unless he knows what Kant understands by analytic and synthetic propositions. We will explain this. In all affirmative judgments, the relation of a predicate to a subject is possible in two manners: either the predicate belongs to the subject as contained in it, or is completely extraneous to it although joined with it. In the former case, the judgment is analytic; in the latter, it is synthetic. Analytic affirmative judgments are those in which the union of the predicate with the subject is conceived by identity: those are called synthetic in which this union is conceived without identity. Kant illustrates his idea by the following examples: "When I say all bodies are extended, I express an analytic judgment; for I need not go out of the conception of body in order to find that of extension, which I connect with it, but I have only to analyze the conception of body, that is, to become conscious of the diversity which I always think in this conception, in order to find the predicate. It is, therefore, an analytic judgment. But when I say, all bodies are heavy, the predicate heaviness is by no means included in my conception of the subject, that is, of body in general. It is a conception added to the conception of body. The addition in this way of the predicate to the subject gives a synthetic judgment."[17]
It is easy to see the reason of the new nomenclature employed by the German philosopher. He calls those judgments analytical, in which it suffices to decompose the subject to find therein the predicate, without the necessity of adding any thing not already thought, at least obscurely, in the very conception of the subject; and he calls synthetic those in which it is necessary to add something to the conception of subject, since the predicate is not found in this conception however much we decompose it.
191. This division of judgment, into analytic and synthetic, is much used in modern philosophy, above all among the Germans; certainly there are some who may imagine this to be a discovery made by the author of the Critic of Pure Reason; and the very novelty of the name may give occasion to equivocation. Yet, in all the scholastic writers who lie forgotten, and covered with dust, in the recesses of libraries, we find analytic and synthetic judgments, though not under these names. They said there were two kinds of judgments; some, in which the predicate was contained in the idea of subject, and others, in which it was not. They called the propositions which expressed judgments of the former class, per se notÆ, or known by themselves, because, the meaning of the terms being understood, the predicate was seen to be contained in the idea, or the conception of the subject. They also called them first principles, and the perception of them, intelligence, intellectus, to distinguish them from reason, which is conversant about the cognitions of mediate evidence, or ratiocination.
See if the following texts of St. Thomas leave any thing to be desired in clearness or precision: "A proposition is known by itself, per se notÆ, when the predicate is contained in the subject, as; man is an animal; for animal is of the essence of man. If, then, it is known to all, what the subject and the predicate are, that proposition will be known by itself to all, as is seen in the first principles of demonstration, which are certain, common things, not unknown to any one, as being and not-being, the whole, the part, and others similar."[18]
"Any proposition the predicate of which is of the essence of the subject, is known by itself, although such a proposition is not known by itself for any one who is ignorant of the definition of the subject. Thus this proposition, man is rational, is by its nature known by itself, because whoever says man, says rational."[19]
192. By these, and many other examples, which it would be easy to adduce, it is seen that the distinction between analytic and synthetic judgments was common in the schools centuries before Kant flourished. Analytic judgments were all those formed by immediate evidence; and synthetic, those resulting from mediate evidence, whether of the purely ideal order, or in some sense depending on experience. It was well known that there were conceptions of the subject, in which the predicate was thought, at least confusedly; and thus union, or identity, was explained by saying that the propositions, in which it was found, were per se notÆ ex terminis. In analytic judgments, the predicate is in the subject; nothing is added, according to Kant, it is only unfolded. Whoever says man says rational, are the words of St. Thomas: the idea is the same as that of the German philosopher.
193. But let us see if it is necessary to change the formula by which the principle of contradiction has hitherto been expressed.
The first observation of Kant refers to the word impossible, which he considers unnecessarily added, since the apodictic certainty, which we wish to express, should be contained in the proposition itself. Kant's formula of the principle is this: "a predicate which is opposed to a subject, does not belong to it." What is the meaning of the word impossible? "Possible and impossible absolutely, are said in relation to the terms. Possible, because the predicate is not opposed to the subject; impossible, because the predicate is opposed to the subject;" says St. Thomas,[20] and with him agree all the schools. Therefore, impossibility is the opposition of the predicate to the subject, and to be repugnant is the same thing as to be impossible, and Kant uses the very language which he blames in others. The common formula might be expressed in this manner: "there is opposition in the same thing being and not-being at the same time," or, "being is opposed to not-being," or, "being excludes not-being," or, "every thing is equal to itself;" and Kant expresses nothing more when he says: "a predicate which is opposed to a subject does not belong to it."
194. As a universal criterion, there is more exactness in the common formula than in that of Kant. The latter restricts the principle to the relation of predicate and subject, and consequently to the purely ideal order, making it of no value for the real, unless by a sort of enlargement. This enlargement, although legitimate and easy, is not needed in the common formula: by saying being excludes not-being, we embrace the ideal and the real, and present to the mind the impossibility, not only of contradictory judgments, but also of contradictory things.
Kant admits that the principle is the condition sine qua non of the truth of our cognitions, so that we must take care not to place ourselves in contradiction with it, under pain of annihilating all cognition. Let us put this to the proof. Give a man, unacquainted with these matters, although not ignorant of what is meant by predicate and subject, these two formulas; which will appear to him the best for all uses in the external as in the internal? Certainly not that of Kant. He sees in an instant, in all its generality, that a thing cannot both be and not be at the same time; and he applies the principle to all uses as well in the real as in the ideal order. Treating of an external object, he says, this cannot both be and not be at the same time; treating of contradictory judgments, of ideas which exclude one another, he says, without any difficulty, this cannot be, because it is impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time. But it is not so easily and so readily seen how transition is made from the ideal to the real order, or how the purely logical ideas of predicate and subject can be used in the order of facts. The common formula, then, besides being fully as exact as that of Kant, is more simple, more intelligible, and more easy of application. Are there any qualities more desirable than these in a universal criterion, in the condition sine qua non of the truth of our cognitions?
195. We have thus far supposed Kant's formula really to express the principle of contradiction; but this supposition is far from being exact. Undoubtedly there would be a contradiction, were a predicate opposed to a subject, and yet to belong to it; and in this sense it may be said that the principle of contradiction is in some manner expressed in Kant's formula. But this is not enough; for we should then be obliged to say that every axiom expresses the principle of contradiction, since no axiom can be denied without a contradiction. The formula of the principle must directly express reciprocal exclusion, opposition between being and not-being; this is what was intended, and nothing else was ever meant by the principle of contradiction. Kant, in his new formula, does not directly express this exclusion: what he expresses is, that when the predicate is excluded from the idea of the subject, it does not belong to it. So far from expressing the principle of contradiction, it is the famous principle of the Cartesians: "whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of any thing may be affirmed of it with all certainty." In substance the two formulas express the same thing, and are only distinguished by these purely accidental differences: first, that Kant's formula is the more concise; second, that it is negative, and that of the Cartesians affirmative.
196. Kant says: "whatever is excluded from the clear and distinct idea of any thing, may be denied of it." A predicate which is opposed to a subject "is the same thing as that which is excluded from the idea of any thing;" "does not belong to it" is the same as "may be denied of it." And as, on the other hand, the principle of the Cartesians must be understood in both senses, the affirmative and the negative, because when they say that whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of any thing may be affirmed of it, they mean also that when any thing is excluded, it may be denied; it follows that Kant says the same thing as the Cartesians; and thus, in attempting to correct all the schools, he has fallen into an equivocation not of a nature to acquire him any great credit for perspicacity.
It is clear that Kant's formula implies this: the predicate contained in the idea of a subject belongs to it. This condition is equally the condition sine qua non of all analytic affirmative judgments; for these disappear if that does not belong to the subject which is contained in its idea. In this case there is not even an apparent difference between Kant's formula and that of the Cartesians; the only difference is in terms; the propositions are exactly the same. Hence we see that instead of affirming that the schools expressed themselves inaccurately in the clearest and most fundamental point of human knowledge, we ought to proceed with great circumspection; witness the originality of Kant's formula.
197. The author of the Critic of Pure Reason was not more fortunate in censuring the condition, at the same time, which is generally added to the formula of the principle of contradiction. Since he took the liberty of believing that no philosopher before himself had expressed this formula in the proper manner, we beg to say that he did not himself well understand what the others intended to express, and we do not, in saying this, deem ourselves guilty of a philosophical profanation. If Kant is an oracle for certain persons, all philosophers together and all mankind are also oracles to be heard and respected.
According to Kant, the principle of contradiction is the condition sine qua non of all human cognitions. If, then, this condition is to serve as their object, it must be so expressed as to be applicable to all cases. Our cognitions are not composed solely of necessary elements, but admit, to a great extent, ideas connected with the contingent; since, as we have seen, purely ideal truths lead to nothing positive, unless brought down to the ground of reality. Contingent beings are subject to the condition of time, and all cognitions relating to them must always depend on this condition. Their existence is limited to a determinate space of time; and it is necessary to think and speak of it conformably to this determination. Even their essential properties are in some manner affected by the condition of time; because if abstracted from it, and considered in general, they are not as they are when realized; that is, when they cease to be a pure abstraction, and become something positive. Here, then, is the reason, and a very profound and cogent reason, why all the schools joined the idea of time to the formula of the principle of contradiction: the reason, we repeat, is very profound, and it is strange how it escaped the German philosopher's penetration.
198. The importance of this subject requires still further explanation. What is essential to the principle of contradiction, is the exclusion of being by not-being, and of not-being by being. The formula must express this fact, this truth, which is presented by immediate evidence, and is contemplated by the intellect in a most clear intuition, admitting neither doubt nor obscurity of any kind.
The word being may be taken in two senses: substantively, inasmuch as it signifies existence; and copulatively, as it expresses the relation of predicate to subject. Peter is: here the verb is signifies the existence of Peter, and is equivalent to this: Peter exists. The equilateral triangle is equiangular: here the verb is is taken copulatively, since it is not affirmed that any equilateral triangle exists; merely the relation of equality of angles to equality of sides is established absolutely, abstraction made from the existence of either.
The principle of contradiction must extend to the cases in which being is copulative, and to those in which it is substantive; for when we say it is impossible for the same thing to be and not be, we speak not only of the ideal order, or of the relations between predicates and subjects, but also of the real order. Were no reference made to this last, we should hold the entire world of existences to be deprived of this indispensable condition of all cognitions. Moreover this condition is not only necessary to every cognition, but also to every being in itself, abstracting its being known, or being intelligent. What would a being be that could both be and not be? What is the meaning of a contradiction realized? The principle must extend to the word being, not only as copulative, but also as substantive. All finite existences, our own included, are measured by a successive duration; therefore, if the formula of the principle of contradiction is to be applicable to whatever we know in the universe, it must be accompanied by the condition of time. All finite things, which now exist, at one time did not exist, and it may again be true that they do not exist. Of no one can it be truly said that its non-existence is impossible; this impossibility springs from existence in a given time, and can only be asserted with respect to that time. Therefore, the condition of time is absolutely necessary in the formula of the principle of contradiction, if this formula is to serve for the existent, that is, for that which is the real object of our cognitions.
199. Let us now see what happens in the purely ideal order, where the word being is taken copulatively. Propositions of the purely ideal order are of two classes; in the first, the subject is a generic idea, which, by the union of the specific difference, becomes a determinate species; in the second, the subject is this determinate species, or the generic idea joined with the difference. The word angle expresses the generic idea comprehending all angles, which, united with the corresponding difference, constitutes the species of acute, obtuse, or right angle. At every step we modify the generic idea in various ways, and as a succession, in which are represented to us distinct conceptions, all having for their basis the generic idea, necessarily enters into it, it follows that we consider this idea as a being which is successively transformed. To express this succession, which is purely intellectual, we employ the idea of time; and here is one of the reasons which justify the use of this condition even in the purely ideal order. Thus we say, an angle cannot at the same time be both a right angle and a not-right angle; for the idea of angle may be successively determined by the difference which constitutes it a right angle, and a not-right angle; but these determinations cannot co-exist even in our conception, for which reason we do not assert the union of the difference with the genus to be absolutely impossible, but limit the impossibility to the condition of simultaneousness.
In this proposition, a right angle cannot be obtuse; the subject is not the generic idea alone, but is united with the difference expressed by the word right. In the conception formed of these two ideas, right and angle, we see the impossibility of uniting the idea obtuse with them. This is without any condition of time, and here there is none expressed. We frequently say, an angle cannot be at the same time right and obtuse; but we never say, a right angle can never at the same time be obtuse, but, absolutely, a right angle cannot be obtuse.
200. Kant observes that the equivocation proceeds from commencing by separating the predicate of a thing from the conception of this thing, and afterwards joining to this same predicate its opposite, which never makes a contradiction to the subject, but to the predicate, which is synthetically united with it; a contradiction which happens only when the first and second predicates are supposed at the same time. This observation of Kant is at bottom very true, but it has its defects: first, it pretends to be original, when it only says things already well known; and secondly, it is used to combat an equivocation existing only in the mind of the philosopher who wants to free others from it. The two propositions analyzed in the last paragraph confirm what we have just said. An angle cannot be both right and not right. Here the condition of time is necessary, because the opposition is not between the predicate and the subject, but between the two predicates. The angle may be right or not right, only at different times. A right angle cannot be obtuse; here the condition of time must not be expressed, because the idea right entering into the conception of the subject, entirely excludes the idea obtuse.
201. If the principle of contradiction were to serve only for analytic judgments, that is, for those in which the predicate is contained in the idea of the subject, the condition of time should never be expressed; but as this principle is to guide us in all other judgments, it follows that, in the general formula, we cannot abstract a condition absolutely indispensable in most cases. In the present state of our understanding, while we are in this life, non-abstraction of time is the rule, abstraction the exception; and would you have a general formula conform to the exception and neglect the rule?
202. We cannot conceive what reason Kant had to illustrate this subject with the examples above cited. Nothing can be more common and inopportune than what he adds in illustration of this matter by examples. "If I say a man who is unlearned is not learned, the condition at the same time must be understood; for he who is unlearned at one time, may very well be learned at another." This is not only very common and inopportune, but it is exceedingly inexact. If the proposition were: a man cannot be ignorant and instructed; then the condition at the same time should be added, because not giving preference to either predicate over the other indicates the manner of the opposition, which is of predicate to predicate, and not of predicate to subject. But in the example adduced by Kant, "the man that is ignorant is not instructed." The subject is not man alone, but an ignorant man; the predicate instructed devolves on man modified by the predicate ignorant, and, consequently, the expression of time is not necessary, nor is it used in ordinary language.
There is a great difference between these two propositions: a man that is ignorant is not instructed; and a man that is ignorant cannot be instructed. The condition of time must not be expressed in the former, for the reason already given; it must be in the latter, because speaking of the impossibility in an absolute manner, we should deny the ignorant man even the power to be instructed.
203. Kant's other example is the following: "But if I say no unlearned man is learned, the proposition is analytical, since the sign of unlearnedness now constitutes the conception of the subject, and then the negative proposition is immediately evident from the principle of contradiction, without it being necessary for the condition at the same time to be added." We cannot see why Kant makes so great difference between these two propositions: a man who is unlearned is not learned, and no unlearned man is learned; in both, the predicate relates not only to man, but to an unlearned man; and it is the same to say, a man that is unlearned, as, an unlearned man. If, then, the expression of time is not necessary in the one, neither is it in the other.
If the idea of unlearned affects the subject, the predicate is necessarily excluded, because the ideas, learned and unlearned, are contradictory; and we encounter the rule of logic, that in necessary matters, an indefinite is equivalent to a universal proposition.
The principle of contradiction must, therefore, be preserved as it is; the condition of time must not be suppressed, for this would render the formula, in many cases, inapplicable.(20)
CHAPTER XXI.
DOES THE PRINCIPLE OF CONTRADICTION MERIT THE TITLE OF FUNDAMENTAL; AND IF SO, IN WHAT SENSE?
204. Having cleared up the true sense of the principle of contradiction, let us now see whether it merits to be called fundamental, whether it possesses all the characteristics requisite to such a dignity. These characteristics are three in number: first, that it depend on no other principle; secondly, that its fall involve the ruin of all others; thirdly, that it may, while it remains firm, be conclusively urged against all who deny the others, and be of avail to bring them back to the truth by a demonstration at least indirect.
205. In order completely to solve all questions depending on the principle of contradiction, we shall state a few propositions, and accompany them with their proper demonstrations:
FIRST PROPOSITION.
If the principle of contradiction be denied, all certainty, all truth, and all knowledge are at an end.
Demonstration.—If a thing may be and not be at the same time, we may be certain and not certain, know and not know, exist and not exist; affirmation may be joined with negation, contradictory things united, distinct things identified, and identical things distinguished: the intellect is a chaos to the full extent of the word; reason is overturned; language is absurd; subject and object clash in the midst of frightful darkness, and all intellectual light is for ever extinguished. All principles are involved in the universal wreck, and consciousness itself would totter, were it not, when this absurd supposition is made, upheld by the invincible hand of nature. Consciousness, indeed, in this absurd hypothesis, does not perish, for this is impossible, but it sees itself carried away by this violent whirlwind, which precipitates it and every thing else into chaotic darkness. In vain does it strive to save its ideas; they all vanish before the force of contradiction: in vain does it generate new ideas to be substituted for those it loses; these also disappear: in vain does it seek new objects, for they, too, disappear in like manner, and it endures only to feel the radical impossibility of all thought, and see contradiction lording it over the intellect, and destroying, with irresistible might, whatever would germinate there.
SECOND PROPOSITION.
206. It is not enough not to suppose the principle of contradiction false; we must suppose it to be true, if we would not have all certainty, all knowledge, all truth to perish.
Demonstration.—The reasons given for the first proposition avail also to prove this. In the one case the principle of contradiction is supposed to be denied; in the other, it is neither supposed true nor false; but this evidently is not enough, for, until the principle of contradiction is placed beyond all doubt, we remain in darkness, and must doubt of every thing. We do not mean to say that it is impossible for us to have certainty of any thing, if we do not think explicitly of this principle; but that it must be so firmly established, that we cannot raise the least doubt concerning it, and that, when we see any thing connected with it, we must, of necessity, consider that thing as founded upon an immovable basis: the least vacillation, the least doubt of this principle utterly destroys it; the possibility of an absurdity is itself an absurdity.
THIRD PROPOSITION.
207. The certainty of the principle of contradiction rests upon no other principle.
Demonstration.—It is, as we have seen, necessary in every cognition to suppose the truth of the principle of contradiction; therefore, no one can avail to demonstrate it. Every argument, made to demonstrate this, necessarily involves a vicious circle; the principle of contradiction is proved by another principle, which, in its turn, supposes that of contradiction; and so we shall have a superstructure resting upon a foundation, which foundation rests upon the superstructure itself.
FOURTH PROPOSITION.
208. Whoever denies the principle of contradiction can neither directly nor indirectly be refuted by any other.
Demonstration.—It would be amusing to hear the arguments directed against a man who admits both affirmation and negation to be at the same time possible; although forced to admit the affirmative, he will still hold the negative, and vice versa. It is impossible not only to argue, but even to speak, or to think on such a supposition.
FIFTH PROPOSITION.
209. It is not exact to say, as is generally said, that by the principle of contradiction, we may argue conclusively against whoever denies the others.
Here take notice that we only say it is not exact, for we believe it at bottom to be true, although not free from inexactness. To show this, let us examine the weight of the demonstration ordinarily given. The reasons, arguments, and replies may be presented most clearly and strongly in the form of a dialogue. Let us suppose some one to deny this axiom: the whole is greater than its part.
If you deny this, you admit that the same thing may both be and not be at the same time. This is what you have to prove. With you the whole is the whole and not the whole, and the part the part and not the part. Why so? First, it is the whole by supposition. Admitted. And at the same time it is not. Denied. It is not the whole because it is not greater than its part. An excellent way of arguing! This is a petitio principii. I commence by asserting that the whole is not greater than its part, and you argue on the contrary supposition; for you tell me the whole would not be the whole were it not greater than its part. If I had conceded that the whole is greater than its part, and then denied this property, I should indeed fall into a contradiction, making that a whole, which, according to my principles, is not a whole; but as I now deny that the whole must be greater than its part, I must also deny that it ceases to be a whole by not being greater than its part.
210. What will you reply to one reasoning thus. Certainly nothing in the form of an argument: all that you can do is to call his attention to the absurdity of his position; but this is to be done not by argument, but by exactly determining the meaning of the words and analyzing the conceptions which they express. This is all that can or should be done. The contradiction exists; this is certain; but what is wanted is, that he see that he has fallen into it; and if the explanation of the terms, and the analysis of the conceptions do not suffice, nothing else will.
Let us see how this may be done in the same example. The whole is greater than its part. What is the whole? The collection of the parts, the parts themselves united. The idea of the parts then enters into the idea of the whole. What is the meaning of greater? One thing is said to be greater than another, when, besides containing an equal quantity, it also contains something else. Seven is greater than five, because, besides the same five, it contains also two. The whole contains one part and also the other parts; therefore, the idea of greater than its part enters into the idea of whole. Thus it is that we must refute whoever denies this principle; and this method, better than that of argumentation, may be said to explain the terms and analyze the conceptions, for it clearly does nothing but define the former and decompose the latter.
SIXTH PROPOSITION.
211. The principle of contradiction is known only by immediate evidence.
Demonstration.—Two things are here to be proved: that the knowledge is by evidence, and that the evidence is immediate. As regards the former we will remark that the principle of contradiction is not a simple fact of consciousness, but a purely ideal truth. Every fact of consciousness involves reality, and cannot be expressed without the assertion of some existence: the principle of contradiction neither affirms nor denies any thing positive; that is, it does not say that any thing exists or does not exist; it only expresses the opposition of being to not-being, and of not-being to being, abstraction made from our taking the word being copulatively or substantively.
212. Every fact of consciousness is not only something existent, but something determinate; it is not a thought in the abstract, but is this or that thought. The principle of contradiction contains nothing determinate; it abstracts not only the existence, but also the essence of things, since it relates not only to existing things, but also to things possible: it distinguishes no species among them, but embraces them all in their greatest generality. When we say, "it is impossible for the same thing to be and not be," the word thing does not at all restrict the meaning; it expresses being in general, in its greatest indeterminateness. In the to be or not be, the word be expresses not only existence, but also every class of essences in their most complete indeterminateness. Thus the principle is equally applicable in these two propositions: it is impossible for the moon to be and not be; it is impossible for a circle to be and not be a circle; although the first is in the real order, and there the word be expresses existence, and the second is in the ideal order, and the word be expresses only the relation of predicate to subject.
213. Every fact of consciousness is individual; the principle of contradiction is the most universal imaginable: every fact of consciousness is contingent; the principle of contradiction is absolutely necessary, a necessity which is a mark of truths known by evidence.
214. The principle of contradiction is a law of all intelligence; it is of absolute necessity for the finite as for the infinite; not even the infinite intelligence is beyond this necessity, for infinite perfection cannot be an absurdity. Every fact of consciousness as purely individual, relates only to the being that experiences it; neither the order of intelligences, nor that of truth suffers any mutation from my existence or non-existence.
215. The principle of contradiction, besides the marks of necessity and universality, which distinguish truths of evidence, possesses also that of being seen with that immediate, intellectual clearness, of which we have already treated. In the idea of being we see most clearly the exclusion of not-being.
Hence the proof of the second part of the proposition: because there is immediate evidence of the relation of the predicate to the subject, when the sole idea of the subject, without the necessity of combination with other ideas, enables us to perceive this relation: this is so in the present case, for not only no combination is needed, but all combinations are impossible if the truth of this principle be not supposed.(21)
THE PRINCIPLE OF EVIDENCE.
216. Among the principles which, by their pretensions to the title of fundamental, have most figured in the schools, is one called the principle of the Cartesians: "whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of any thing, may be affirmed of it with all certainty." We have already seen Kant resuscitate this principle, although in other words, equivocally taking it as synonymous with that of contradiction. Upon close examination we shall easily perceive that the formula of the Cartesians, like that of Kant, only expresses the legitimacy of the criterion of evidence. Both may be simplified to this: evidence is a criterion of truth; or, whatever is evident is true. As we shall hereafter use this transformation to distinguish ideas which we consider very confused, we will show the reason of the equality of the two expressions.
217. To say that any thing is contained in the clear and distinct idea of another thing, is the same as to say that there is evidence that a predicate belongs to a subject; the words have, and can have, no other meaning. To be contained in a clear and distinct idea, is equivalent to seeing one thing in another by that intellectual light which we call evidence; therefore, this expression, "whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of any thing," is exactly equivalent to this, "whatever is evident."
To say, that any thing may be affirmed of another with all certainty, is the same as to say, "this thing is true, and we may be perfectly certain of it." It is the truth that is affirmed, and the truth only; therefore, this expression, "may be affirmed of it with all certainty," is exactly equivalent to this, "it is true."
Thus the expression of the Cartesians may be transformed into this: "Whatever is evident is true," or its equivalent, "evidence is a sure criterion of truth."
218. "A predicate that is opposed to a subject does not belong to it," is Kant's formula. The opposition here meant is that founded on ideas, when the predicate is necessarily excluded by intrinsic opposition from the idea of the subject. The expression, then, "a predicate that is opposed to a subject," is equivalent to this: "when the predicate is clearly seen excluded from the idea of the subject," which last is in its turn equivalent to this: "the exclusion, or the opposition between the subject and the predicate, is evident."
"Does not belong to it," means the same as, "it is true that it does not belong to it;" and since these formulas have two values, one for affirmative, another for negative cases, if we say the predicate that is opposed to a subject does not belong to it, we may with equal reason say, the predicate contained in the idea of a subject belongs to it; wherefore, Kant's formula exactly coincides with this: "whatever is evident is true."
219. This transformation gives us greater simplicity and generality; simplicity by the very expression, and generality, because affirmative as well as negative cases are included. The words, "whatever is evident," embrace affirmations as well as negations, for the inclusion of a predicate in a subject may be just as evident as their mutual opposition. Thus, we may see one thing contained in the idea of another, just as we may see it excluded from that idea. Under all conceptions the formula, "whatever is evident is true," is preferable; and if we would express it not as a principle, but as a rule to be applied, it may be converted into this: "evidence is a sure criterion of truth."
220. This transformation must not be supposed to be the only object of the preceding analysis; although in these matters clearness and precision should be carried to the highest possible point, we should nevertheless have abstained from these considerations, had we only proposed to make an innovation, and one perhaps of little practical consequence; the same thing is expressed in both formulas, and he who does not understand the first will not understand the second. Our principal object was not, however, to make this innovation, but to show into what a confusion of ideas those fall who inquire whether the principle involving the legitimacy of the criterion of evidence ought, or ought not, to be considered as fundamental, and be preferred to the principle of contradiction, as also to that of Descartes.
221. We begin by establishing a proposition which may seem a most strange paradox, but is far from being so: the principle of evidence is not evident.
Demonstration.—This principle in its simplest form is this: the evident is true. This proposition, we say, is not evident. When is a proposition evident? When we see the predicate in the idea of the subject; and here this does not occur. Evident is the same thing as clearly seen, as offered to the intellect in a most lucid manner. True is the same as conformity of the idea with the object. We now ask, can you, however much you analyze this idea, "seen with clearness," ever find this other, "conformed to the object?" No. This is an immense leap: we pass from subjectiveness to objectiveness; we affirm subjective to be the reflex of objective conditions; we go from the idea to its object, and this transition is the most transcendental, difficult, and obscure problem of philosophy. Let the reader now decide if we had not ground to assert that the proposition, "the principle of evidence is not evident," was not a paradox.
222. What, then, shall we say of this proposition: "Whatever is evident is true?" It is not an axiom, for the predicate is not contained in the idea of the subject; it is not a demonstrable proposition, for all demonstration rests on evident principles, and consists in deducing from them a consequence evidently connected with them; this cannot take place unless we presuppose the legitimacy of evidence, that is to say, that which is the object of the demonstration. At the commencement of the argument, it might be asked, how do you know the principle on which your argument is based? How do you know it to be true? By evidence. But recollect you are proving that whatever is evident is true, and, therefore, you beg the question. The truth of the laws of logic, to which every argument must conform, is known only by evidence; therefore if we do not suppose whatever is evident to be true, we cannot argue at all.
223. We hold then that the principle of evidence can be based on no other principle, and that, consequently, it has the first mark of the fundamental principle. If it fails, all other principles,—that of contradiction, known like the others only by evidence, included,—fail with it; this is another mark of the fundamental principle. Let us see if it has the third, by aid of which, whoever denies the rest may be refuted.
Rarely does any one deny the principle of contradiction, and admit that of evidence; yet, making this extravagant supposition, this principle alone would be of avail, because the question would be reduced to this: does he admit the principles to be evident? If he does not, his intellect is unlike that of other men; if he does, the argument brought against him is conclusive. You admit that whatever is evident is true; such or such a principle is evident for you, therefore it is true. The premises are evident of themselves; the legitimacy of the consequence is also evident; and he must consequently admit it, since he admits the criterion of evidence to be a general rule.
224. Whence then the singularity we have noticed in this principle? It is neither evident, nor demonstrable; it is necessary to all others, and whoever denies them is refuted by it. Whence, then, such a singularity? It has a very simple cause; it is, that the principle of evidence expresses no objective truth, and therefore is not demonstrable: it is not a simple fact of consciousness, for it expresses the relation of the subject to the object, for which reason it cannot be limited to the purely subjective; it is a proposition known by a reflex act, and it expresses the primary law of all our objective cognitions. These are founded on evidence; this we experience: but when the mind asks why we trust evidence, we can make no other answer than that whatever is evident is true. What is the foundation of this proposition? Ordinarily it has none; we conform to it without ever thinking of it; but if we take the pains to reflect, we find three motives for assenting to it: the first is an irresistible instinct of nature; the second is the destruction of all our cognitions and the impossibility of thought, if we do not admit the legitimacy of the criterion; the third is the perceiving that, admitting this criterion, every thing is co-ordinated in the intellect, that an ideal universe admirably harmonized, takes the place of chaos, and that we feel possessed of the means necessary to reason and to construct a scientific edifice in the real universe, the knowledge of which we have from experience.(22)
THE CRITERION OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
225. Having established the worth of the principles of consciousness, of evidence, and of contradiction, in relation to the dignity of fundamental, we will now examine the intrinsic value of the different criteria. And here the doctrine of the preceding chapters, of which the following are the development and complement, furnishes much light. We will begin with consciousness, or the internal sense.
The testimony of consciousness includes all phenomena, either actively or passively, realized in our soul. It is by its nature purely subjective; so that in itself considered, apart from the intellectual instinct and the light of evidence, it testifies nothing with respect to objects. By it we know what we experience, not what is; we perceive the phenomenon, not the reality; what authorizes us to say: such a thing appears to me; but not, such a thing is.
The transition from subject to object, from the idea representing to the thing represented, from the impression to the cause impressing, belongs to other criteria: consciousness is limited to the interior, or rather, to itself, which is nothing but an act of our soul.
226. We must distinguish between direct and reflex consciousness: the former accompanies every internal phenomenon; the latter does not: the former is natural; the latter philosophical: the former abstracts the act of reason; the latter is one of these acts.
Direct consciousness is the presence of the phenomenon to the mind, whether that phenomenon be a sensation or an idea, an act or an impression, in the intellectual or the moral order.
This distinction shows that direct consciousness accompanies every exercise, whether active or passive, of the faculties of our soul. It is a contradiction to say that these phenomena exist in the soul, and are not present to it.
These phenomena are not modifications like those which occur in insensible things; we here treat of living modifications, so to speak, in a living being; in the idea of these modifications is contained their presence to the mind.
It is impossible for us to have a sensation without experiencing it; for whoever says he has a sensation, says that he experiences a sensation: this experience is its presence; an experienced sensation is a present sensation.
Thought is by its essence, a representation that can neither exist nor be conceived without presence; the name itself shows this, and the idea which we join with it confirms the meaning of the word. When we speak of representation, we understand that there is some real or imaginary object, which mediately or immediately offers itself to the subject. There is then presence in every representation, and consequently in every thought.
If, from what is passive, like sensations and representations, we pass to the active, that is, to the phenomena when the soul freely evolves its force in the intellectual or moral order, in combining or willing, this presence is, if possible, yet more evident. The being that thus acts, does not obey a natural impulse, but motives which it proposes to itself, and to which it may or may not attend. To make intellectual combinations and to exercise acts of the will, without either being present to the soul, are contradictory assertions.
227. Reflex consciousness, called by the French aperception, from the verb s'apercevoir, and denoting perception of the perception, is the act whereby the mind explicitly knows any phenomenon which is realized in it. Thus, I hear a noise: the simple sensation, present to and affecting my mind, constitutes what we have called direct consciousness; but if besides hearing, I also aperceive, to use a Gallicism, that I hear; then I not only hear, but also think that I hear: this we call reflex consciousness.
228. It is clear from this example, that direct and reflex consciousness are not only distinct but separable. I may hear without thinking that I hear; and this is very often the case.
229. Most men have little reflex consciousness, and the greatest intellectual force operates directly. This ideological fact is connected with moral truths of the utmost importance. The human mind was not born to contemplate itself, to think that it thinks: its affections were not given as an object of reflection, but as impulses which elevate it to what it is called to: the principal object of its intelligence and love is, in this life as in the other, the infinite being. The worship of itself is an aberration of pride; its punishment is darkness.
230. All great scientific discoveries lie in the objective, not in the subjective order. The exact sciences, natural as well as moral, have emanated not from reflexion of the subject upon itself, but from knowledge of objects and their relations. Even the metaphysical sciences, in all that is most solid in them, ontology, cosmology, and theology, are purely objective: ideology and psychology which consider the subject, are full of the obscurity inherent in all that is subjective; ideology scarcely does more than merely observe internal phenomena,—an observation, we may remark, generally very defective, poorly made, and bewildered with vain cavils; and what has psychology itself, truly demonstrated, except the simplicity of the soul, the necessary consequence of the unity of consciousness? In all else it resembles ideology, and to a certain point, is confounded with it; it observes phenomena, and afterwards defines and classifies them better or worse, but fails to explain their mysterious nature.
231. Consciousness is the foundation of the other criteria, not as a proposition which serves as their basis, but as a fact which is a necessary condition of them all.
232. Consciousness tells us that we see the idea of one thing contained in the idea of another: thus far there is nothing but appearance; the formula, to express its testimony would be: it appears to me; which denotes a purely subjective phenomenon. But this phenomenon is accompanied by an intellectual instinct, an irresistible impulse of nature, which makes us assent to the truth of the relation, not only so far as it is in us, but as it is formed without us, in the purely objective order, whether in the sphere of reality or possibility. Thus it is explained how evidence is founded on consciousness, not as identified with it, but as resting upon it as a fact from which it cannot be abstracted, and as also containing the intellectual instinct which makes us believe whatever is evident to be true.
233. Sensation, in itself considered, is a fact of pure consciousness, since it is immanent in us: so far is it from being an act whereby the mind passes beyond itself, translates itself to the object, that it ought rather to be regarded as a passion than an action, and this accords with the common mode of speaking, which ascribes it to a passive rather than to an active faculty. Nevertheless on this mere fact of consciousness is in some sense founded what is called the testimony of the senses, and consequently all knowledge of the external world, its properties, and relations.
In the sensation whereby we see the sun, there are two things: the sensation itself, that is, the representation which I experience in myself, and which I call sight; and the correspondence of this sensation to the external object which I call the sun. Evidently, these are two very distinct things, and yet we always unite them. Consciousness is certainly the first basis of the formation of judgment; but alone it does not suffice, for it only testifies that the sensation is, not what it is. How is the judgment completed? By means of a natural instinct which makes us render sensations objective, that is, makes us believe in an external object corresponding to the internal phenomena. Thus the testimony of the senses is in some manner founded on consciousness; it does not, however, proceed from consciousness alone, but requires the natural instinct, by means of which we form our judgments in perfect security.
234. We must here remark that evidence has nothing to do with the testimony of the senses, even in their intellectual part, wherein we judge that an external object corresponds to the sensation. The idea of the existence or possibility of an external object does not enter into the idea of the sensation as purely subjective, and without this indispensable condition there can be no evidence. Not only is this clear of itself, but it is confirmed by daily experience. We continually have the representation of the external subjectively considered, as a pure phenomenon in our soul, although no real object corresponds to it; more or less clear when we are awake, but most vivid, even so as to produce a perfect illusion, when we are asleep.
235. With this exposition, the value and extent of consciousness may be exactly determined: this we shall see in the following propositions, in all of which, we would observe, we treat only of direct consciousness.
FIRST PROPOSITION.
The testimony of consciousness extends to all the phenomena that are realized in our soul, regarded as an intellectual and sensitive being.
SECOND PROPOSITION.
236. If there exist in our soul phenomena of a different order, that is to say, if it may in some sense be modified in non-representative faculties, the testimony of consciousness does not extend to such phenomena.
We do not advance this proposition without a solid reason. It is probable, and even very probable, that our soul has active faculties, of the exercise of which it is not conscious; otherwise how explain the mysteries of organic life? The soul is united to the body, and is for it the vital principle, the separation from which causes death, manifested in complete disorganization and decomposition. This activity is exercised without consciousness, either of the mode or of the fact of its existence.
It may be said that there is here a series of those confused perceptions of which Leibnitz speaks in his Monadologie; or that these perceptions are so slight, so wan, as to leave no trace in the memory, nor be an object of reflection: but these are only conjectures. It is hard to persuade one's self that the foetus in the mother's womb has any consciousness of the activity exercised for the development of its organization: it is also hard to persuade one's self that even in adults there is any consciousness of that same activity producing circulation of the blood, nutrition, and other phenomena which constitute life. If these phenomena are produced, as they certainly are, by the soul, there is in it, an exercise of activity of which it either has no consciousness, or one so weak and confused that it is as if it were not.
THIRD PROPOSITION.
237. The testimony of consciousness, in itself considered, is so limited to the purely internal, that it is of itself worth nothing in the external order, either for the criterion of evidence or that of the senses.
FOURTH PROPOSITION.
The testimony of consciousness is the foundation of the other criteria, inasmuch as it is a fact which they all require, and without which they are impossible.
FIFTH PROPOSITION.
238. From the combination of consciousness with intellectual instinct arise all the other criteria.(23)
THE CRITERION OF EVIDENCE.
239. There are two species of evidence, mediate and immediate. We call immediate evidence that which requires only understanding of the terms; and mediate evidence that which requires reasoning. That the whole is greater than its part is evident by immediate evidence; that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides, is known by mediate evidence, that is, by demonstrative reasoning.
240. We have said that one of the distinctive characteristics of evidence is the necessity and universality of its object. This is a characteristic as well of mediate as of immediate evidence.
Besides this characteristic there is another, called with more reason essential, notwithstanding some doubt as to whether it extends to mediate evidence or not; it is that the idea of the predicate is found contained in that of the subject. This is the most complete essential notion of the criterion of immediate evidence, by which it is distinguished from the criteria of consciousness and common sense.
We have said there is some doubt as to this characteristic extending to mediate evidence; by this we mean that also in mediate evidence the idea of the predicate may be contained in that of the subject. In this it is not our intention to ignore the difference between theorems and axioms, but to call the reader's attention to a doctrine which we propose to develop, while treating of mediate evidence. In the present chapter we shall only treat of evidence in general, or of immediate evidence alone.
241. Evidence involves relation, for it implies comparison. When the understanding does not compare, it has no evidence, but only a perception, which is a pure fact of consciousness; and this evidence does not refer to perception alone, but always supposes or produces a judgment.
We find two things in every act where there is evidence: the pure intuition of the idea, and the decomposition of this idea into various conceptions accompanied with the perception of their mutual relations. This we will explain by an example from geometry. The triangle has three sides: this is an evident proposition, for in the very idea of triangle, we find the three sides; and in conceiving the triangle, we in some sense conceive the three sides. Had we limited ourselves to the contemplation of the simple idea of triangle, we should have had intuition of the idea, but not evidence, which begins only when we find, in decomposing the conception of triangle, and considering in it the idea of figure in general, of side, and of the number three, these all contained in the primitive conception. Evidence consists in the clear conception of this.
So true is this that the very nature of things makes common language philosophical. We do not say, an idea is evident, but a judgment is: no one calls a term evident, but a proposition only. And why? Because the term simply expresses the idea without any relation, or decomposition into its partial conceptions; whereas the proposition expresses the judgment, that is, affirms or denies that one conception is contained in another, which, in the present matter, supposes decomposition of the entire conception.
242. Immediate evidence is the perception of identity between various conceptions, separated by the analytical power of the intellect. Thus identity combined in a certain way with diversity is not a contradiction, as it might at first sight seem, but something very natural, if we observe one of the most constant facts of our intellect, the faculty of analyzing the most simple conceptions, and of seeing relations between identical things.
What are all axioms? What are all propositions per se notÆ? Nothing but expressions, in which it is affirmed that a predicate belongs to the essence of the subject, or is contained in its idea. The mere conception of the subject includes the predicate: the term which denotes the first also denotes the second; yet the intellect, with a mysterious power of analysis, distinguishes between identical things, and then compares them in order to make them again identical. Whoever says triangle, expresses a figure composed of three sides and three angles; but the intellect may take this idea and consider in it the ideas of the number three, side, and angle, and compare them with the primitive conception. In this distinction there is no deception; there is only the exercise of the faculty, which regards the thing under different aspects, in order to arrive at the intuition and affirmation of the identity of the very things it had before distinguished.
243. Evidence is a sort of calculation of the intellect, whereby it finds in the conception analyzed whatever was placed in the principle or was contained in it. Hence the necessity and universality of the object of evidence, inasmuch as, and in the manner, in which it is expressed by the idea. To this there are no exceptions. Either a predicate is or is not placed in a primitive principle: if it is, it is there, according to the principle of contradiction. Either it was or was not excluded from the conception; if the conception itself excludes or denies it, this it does by virtue of the principle of contradiction.
Thus the more fundamental of the two characteristics of evidence given above is, that the idea of the predicate is contained in the idea of the subject. Hence the necessity and universality; since, in verifying this condition, it is impossible for the predicate not to belong necessarily to all the subjects.
244. Thus far we have encountered no difficulty, because we have treated only of evidence subjectively considered, that is, as relating to pure conceptions; but the intellect does not stop with the conception, but extends to the object, and says not only that it sees the thing, but that the thing is as it sees it. Thus the principle of contradiction, considered in the purely subjective order, means that the conception of being is opposed to that of not-being, which destroys it, just as the conception of being destroys that of not-being; it means, that in endeavoring to conceive jointly these two things, and to make them co-exist, a sort of struggle of thoughts, reciprocally annihilating each other, takes place in the depths of our soul,—a struggle which the understanding is condemned to witness without hope of establishing peace between the combatants. If we confine ourselves to this phenomenon, no objection can be made. We experience it, and there is no further question about it; but in announcing the principle, we would announce something more than the incompatibility of the conceptions; we would transfer this incompatibility to the things themselves, and assert that not only our own conceptions, but also all real and possible beings are subjected to this law. Whatever be the object of which we treat, whatever the conditions under which we suppose it existent or possible, we say that while it is, it cannot not be; and while it is not it cannot be. We affirm, then, the law of contradiction, not only for our own conceptions, but also for things themselves; the intellect applies to every thing the law which it finds necessary to itself.
By what right? An incontestible right, for it is the law of necessity. With what reason? With none, for we are now at the foundation of reason; this is the ne plus ultra of the human understanding; philosophy can go no farther. Let us not, however, be thought to abandon the field to skeptics, or to entrench ourselves in necessity, contented with pointing out a fact of our nature. The question is susceptible of different solutions, which may not, indeed, go beyond the ne plus ultra of our mind, but which yet leaves the cause of skepticism in great straits.
245. To ask why the criterion of evidence is legitimate, is to ask why this proposition is true: "whatever is evident is true;" it is to raise the question of the objectiveness of ideas. The fundamental difference between dogmatists and skeptics, is not that the latter deny the facts of consciousness,—the most refined skepticism has not come to this, and both agree in recognizing the purely subjective appearance of phenomena; but it is that dogmatists found science on consciousness, and skeptics maintain that this is an illegitimate transition, and that we must despair of science, and confine ourselves to mere consciousness.
According to this doctrine, ideas are empty forms of the understanding, mean nothing, and can lead to nothing; although they entertain the understanding, and offer to it an immense field for combinations, the world they present to it is purely illusory, and can serve for nothing in the real order. In contemplating these entirely empty forms, the intellect is the sport of fantastic visions, from the union of which results the spectacle which seems now to belong to reality, and now to possibility; either it is a mere nonentity, or something, and if so, it can never make us sure of the reality it possesses.
246. It is difficult to fight skepticism when it takes this ground: situated beyond the domains of reason, the decisions of reason cannot reach it. It will appeal from them all, for it begins by denying the competency of the judge. But as these skeptics admit consciousness, it is right that they should defend it against whoever attempts to deprive them of it. We believe that if the objectiveness of ideas be denied, not only all science, but also all consciousness is annihilated; and here skeptics are guilty of an inconsequence; for, while they deny the objectiveness of some ideas, they admit that of others. No consciousness, properly so called, can exist, if this objectiveness be absolutely destroyed. We beg the reader to follow us in a brief, but severe analysis of the facts of consciousness, in their relations with the objectiveness of ideas.(24)
CHAPTER XXV.
THE OBJECTIVE VALUE OF IDEAS.
247. The transition from subject to object, from subjective appearance to objective reality, is a problem which vexes fundamental philosophy. Consciousness will not permit us to doubt that certain things appear to us in such a manner; but are they in reality what they appear to us? How are we to know this? What shall assure us of this conformity of the idea with the object?
The question does not relate solely to sensations; it also extends to purely intellectual ideas, even to those inundated with that internal light which we call evidence. "What I evidently see in the idea of a thing, is as I see it," philosophers have said, and all mankind with them. No one doubts what is presented to him as evidently true. But how prove that evidence is a legitimate criterion of truth?
248. "God is truthful," says Descartes, "and could not have deceived us; He could not have taken pleasure in making us the victims of perpetual illusions." All this is true. But the skeptic will ask how we know that God is truthful, or even that he exists. If we found the veracity of God on the idea of an infinitely perfect being, as Descartes does, there is still the same difficulty with respect to the correspondence of the idea with the object. If we draw the demonstration of the veracity and existence of God from the ideas of necessary and contingent beings, of effect and cause, of order and intelligence, we again meet the same obstacle, and are still unable to pass from the idea to the object.
No matter how much we cavil, we shall never get out of this circle, we shall always return to the same point. The mind cannot think out of itself; what it knows, it knows by means of its ideas; if these deceive, it has nothing left to set it right. All rectification, all proof must employ these ideas, and these, in their turn, require new proof and rectification.
249. Many books of philosophy exaggerate the illusions of the senses, and the difficulty of assuring ourselves of the sensible reality, when they solve this question: "I perceive it to be so; but is it as I perceive?" These same books immediately afterwards speak of the order of ideas with security equal to their mistrust in the sensible order. This does not seem very logical, for phenomena relating to the senses, may be examined by the light of reason, and it may be seen how far they agree with it: but what touch-stone have we for the phenomena of reason itself? If there be difficulty in the sensible, there is likewise in the intellectual, and the more serious, since it affects the very basis of all cognitions, even those which relate to sensations.
If we doubt the existence of the external world which the senses present to us, we may appeal to the connection of the sensations with causes not in us; and so deduce by demonstration the relations of the appearances with the reality: but this requires the ideas of cause and effect; we must have some truth, some general principles, as for example, that nothing can produce itself, and others similar, without which we cannot take one step.
250. We do not believe any satisfactory reason can be given for the veracity of the criterion of evidence, although it is impossible not to yield to it. The connection, therefore, of evidence with reality, and consequently, the transition from the idea to the object, are primitive facts of our nature, a necessary law of our understanding, the foundation of all that it contains,—a foundation which in its turn rests, and can rest only on God, the Creator of our soul.
251. We must observe the contradiction into which those philosophers fall who say: I cannot doubt what is subjective, what affects myself, what I feel within myself; but I have no right to go out of myself, and affirm that what I think is in reality as I think. Do you know that you feel, that you think, that you have within you such or such an appearance? Can you prove it? Evidently you cannot. You yield to a fact, to an internal necessity which forces you to believe that you think, that you feel, or that such a thing appears to you; but then there is equal necessity in the connection of the object with the idea, an equal necessity forces you to believe that what appears to you to be in such or such a condition is as it appears. Neither case admits of demonstration; in both there is an indeclinable necessity: where, then, is philosophy, when it is attempted to establish so great a difference between things which admit of none?
Fichte says: "It is impossible to explain in a precise manner how a philosopher can get beyond the me:"[21] and we may with equal reason say, that we cannot conceive how he has been able to raise a system upon the me. To what does he appeal? To a fact of consciousness, that is, to a necessity. And is not the assent to evidence, the certainty to which the reality apparently corresponds, also a necessity? On what does Fichte found his system of the me and the not-me? We have only to read his works to see that he only founds it on considerations which suppose a value in certain ideas, a truth in certain judgments. Otherwise it is impossible to speak or to think: and this even he himself admits when, in commencing his investigations on the principle of our cognitions, he utters the words we have just quoted. He then confesses that we cannot take one step without trusting all the laws of general logic, which are not always demonstrated, but are supposed tacitly admitted. And what are these laws, without objective truths? What are they without the value of ideas, without correspondence with objects? Fichte says rightly, it is a circle; but he can no more get out of it than other philosophers.
252. To take from ideas their objective value, to reduce them to mere subjective phenomena, to resist that internal necessity which obliges us to admit the correspondence of the soul to objects, is to destroy the very consciousness of the soul. This must have been seen, and this we think we can most evidently demonstrate.
253. We have consciousness of ourselves. We now abstract what we feel, what we are; but we know that we feel and that we are. This experience is so clear, so vivid, that we cannot resist the truth of what it attests to us. But this me is not only the me of the present instant, it is also the me of yesterday, and of all prior time of which we have consciousness. We are the same that we were yesterday, the being in which this succession is verified, to which this variety of appearances is presented. The consciousness of the me then includes the identity of a being at distinct times, in various situations, with different ideas, and diverse affections,—the identity of a being which endures and is the same throughout the changes succeeding in it. If this duration of identity be broken, if I be not sure that I am the same me that I was previously, the consciousness of the me is destroyed. There would exist a series of unconnected facts, isolated acts of consciousness, but not that intimate consciousness I now experience. This cannot be doubted; every man feels it in himself; it admits neither discussion nor proof in any one, it requires them of no one. The moment this consciousness of identity fails, we are in our own eyes annihilated; whatever we may be in reality, for ourselves we are nothing. What is the consciousness of a being, formed from a series of acts of consciousness, without connection or mutual relation? It is a being revealed successively to itself, yet not as itself, but as a new being, a being which is born and dies, and dies and is born before its eyes, without its knowing that what is born is what died, or that what died is what was born: it is a light which burns and is extinguished, and again burns and is again extinguished, without its knowing that it is the same light.
254. This consciousness is completely destroyed by those who deny the connection between the idea and object.
Demonstration.—In the instant A, I have no other subjective presence of my acts than the very act I am at that moment performing: I cannot therefore be certain that I have had any previously, if they be not represented in the present idea; there is therefore a connection between this idea and its object. Attending then simply to the phenomena of consciousness, to the mere consciousness of the subject, we find that we do, by an irresistible necessity, attribute an objective value to ideas, an objective truth to judgments.
255. Without this objective truth, all certain recollection even of internal phenomena, and by a legitimate consequence, all reasoning, judgment, and thought, are impossible.
Recollection is of past acts. When we recollect them, they already are not; for, if they were, we should not have recollection, but present consciousness of them. Even when in the act of recollecting them we have other similar acts, these are not the same, for something of past time always enters into the idea of recollection. Therefore, we can have no certainty of them, but by their connection with the present act, their correspondence with the idea presenting them to us.
256. We have said that if, in internal phenomena, the certainty of the objective truth fail, all reasoning is impossible. In fact, all reasoning supposes a succession of acts; when one of them exists in the mind, the other does not exist; therefore, continued minute recollections are required, lest the chain be broken; and thus, without this chain, there is no reasoning; without recollection this chain is not; without objective truth, there is no certain recollection; therefore, without objective truth there is no reasoning.
257. All judgments also seem impossible. Judgments are of two classes: some require demonstration, others do not. Those that require demonstration would be impossible, for there can be no demonstration without reasoning, and reasoning in this case is impossible. As to those that do not need demonstration, because they shine with immediate evidence; all of them, not relating to the present act of the soul, in the very instant when the judgment is pronounced, would be impossible. Therefore, there could be no judgment but that of the present act, that is, the consciousness of the present without relation to the preceding. But it is remarkable that even with respect to the acts of consciousness, this judgment would be little less than impossible; for when we form a judgment upon an act of consciousness, this we do not by this act, but by a reflex act. This reflection requires succession, and succession cannot be known with certainty if there be no objective truth.
It is even very doubtful if the judgments of immediate evidence would be possible. They suppose, as we explained in the preceding chapter, relation of the partial conceptions into which the whole is decomposed; and how can there be decomposition without succession? If there is succession, there is recollection; if there is recollection, there is no immediate presence of the thing recollected.
258. Such consequences are astounding, but they are inevitable. If we destroy objective truth, all rational thought disappears. Such thought includes a certain continuity of acts corresponding to different instants; if this continuity be broken, the human thought ceases to be what it is, ceases to exist as reason. It is a series of acts which have no sort of connection, and which lead to nothing. In such a case, all expression, all words fail; nothing has a fixed value; every thing is ingulfed in obscurity. Thus it is in the intellectual and moral order as in the material; and man has not even the comfort of possessing himself; he vanishes from himself like an empty shadow.
259. Sensations may also exist as an unconnected series, but there will be no certain recollection of them, since the objective truth is wanting; past sensations exist only as past, and, consequently, as simple objects. All intellectual reflection upon them will be impossible, for reflection is not sensation; sensation is an object of reflection, not reflection itself. Thus, the ignorant man has the same sensation as the philosopher, but not the same reflection upon it. A thousand times we have sensations without reflecting that we have them. Sensible is very different from intellectual consciousness; the former is the simple presence of the sensation, or the sensation itself; the latter is the act of the intellect occupied with the sensation.
260. This distinction is also found in all purely intellectual acts: the reflection upon the act is not the act itself. One is the object of the other; they are not identical, and are often found separated. If, then, there were no objective truth, reflection would be impossible.
261. It is likewise difficult to comprehend how any act of the consciousness of the me, even as present, can be possible. We have already seen the me disappear when the series of recollections is broken, and without objective truth it is not even possible to conceive the me for one instant. The me thinking knows the me thought only as object. Whether it perceive or know it, to account to itself for itself, it must reflect upon itself, and take itself for its own object; and there being no objective truth, it is inconceivable how an object can have any value.
It follows from this, that they who oppose objectiveness, attack a fundamental law of our mind, destroy thought, even consciousness, and every thing subjective which could serve as its basis.
262. In their arguments against objective certainty, its opponents are accustomed to depend upon the errors into which it leads us. The madman believes he sees objects, which do not exist; the lunatic believes firmly in his disconnected thoughts; and why may not that which deceives us in one instance, also deceive us in another, and all cases? Can that be a certain criterion which sometimes fails? Why not stop with the purely subjective? The madman, the lunatic, are deceived in the object, not in the subject; although what they think is not true, it is still very true and certain that they think it.
This is a specious objection; but it does not remove the difficulties under which the system, in favor of which it is adduced, labors; and it may, on the other hand, be solved in so far as it tends to weaken objective truth.
The madman, the lunatic, have also recollections of things that never existed. These recollections do not relate solely to external, but likewise to their internal acts. The madman who calls himself king, acts in accordance with his thought, with what he felt when crowned, when dethroned; and yet, these intellectual phenomena never existed. And, however this may be, he himself may have produced these recollections. We hold, then, that the criterion with respect to memory is wrong in this case, and can be of avail in no case. Therefore, even, although we had not shown that without objective truth there is no recollection even of the internal, the arguments of our adversaries would have sufficed. This objection, if it prove any thing, confirms all that we have advanced in demonstrating that without objectiveness there is no consciousness properly so called, and this even our opponents do not admit.
263. Moreover, we at once see what weight an argument based on craziness should have at the tribunal of reason. It all, at the most, only proves the weakness of our nature, that in some unfortunate individuals the established order of humanity is reversed; that the rule of truth, as it exists in so weak a creature, admits of some exceptions; but these exceptions are known, for their characters are marked. The exception does not destroy, it only confirms the rule.(25)
CAN ALL COGNITIONS BE REDUCED TO THE PERCEPTION OF IDENTITY?
264. Immediate evidence has for its objects those truths which the intellect sees with all clearness, and to which it assents without the intervention of any medium, as its name denotes. These truths are enunciated in propositions called per se notÆ, first principles, or axioms, in which it is sufficient to know the meaning of the terms to see that the predicate is contained in the idea of the subject. Propositions of this class are few in all sciences; the greater part of our cognitions are the fruit of reasoning which proceeds by mediate evidence. In geometry the number of truths that do not require demonstration, but only explanation, is very limited. The body of geometrical science, with its present colossal dimensions, has proceeded from reasoning: even in the most comprehensive works the axioms occupy but a few pages; the rest is composed of theorems, propositions not of themselves evident, but requiring demonstration. The same is true of all other sciences.
265. Since in axioms the intellect perceives the identity of the subject with the predicate, intuitively seeing that the idea of the latter is contained in that of the former, there arises a very grave philosophical question which may prove very difficult, and cause strange controversies, if care be not taken to place it upon its true ground. Is every human cognition reduced to the simple perception of identity? and can its general formula be this: A is A, or: a thing is itself? Some philosophers of note maintain the affirmative; others the contrary. We think there is a confusion of ideas not so much as to the question itself as to its state. Clear and exact ideas of what judgment is, and of the relation affirmed or denied by it, will greatly facilitate the accurate solution of the question.
266. There is in every judgment perception of identity or non-identity, accordingly as it is affirmative or negative. The verb is does not express the union, but the identity of the predicate with the subject; and when accompanied with the negation not, it simply expresses non-identity, abstracting union or separation. This is so true and so exact, that in things really united an affirmative judgment is impossible, because they have no identity. We must, then, in such cases, if we would be enabled to make an affirmation, express the predicate in the concrete, that is, in some sense involving the idea of the subject itself in it; for the same property affirmed in the concrete cannot be in the abstract, but must rather be denied. Thus we may say, man is rational; but not, man is rationality: a body is extended; but not, a body is extension: paper is white; but not, paper is whiteness. Why is this? Is it that rationality is not in man, extension is not united to body, nor whiteness to paper? Certainly not; but if rationality be in man, extension in body, and whiteness in paper, we have only not to perceive identity between the predicates and subjects, to render affirmation impossible; on the contrary, despite the union, we have negation: thus we may say, man is not rationality; a body is not extension; paper is not whiteness.
We have said that, in order to save the expression of identity, we used the concrete instead of the abstract term, and involved in the former the idea of the subject. It cannot be said that paper is whiteness, but it may be said that paper is white; for this last proposition means that paper is a white thing; that is, we make the general idea of a thing, or the idea of a modifiable subject, enter into the predicate while in the concrete; and this subject is identical with the paper modified by whiteness.
267. Thus it is easy to see, that the expression, union of the predicate with the subject, is, at the best, inexact. Every affirmative proposition expresses the identity of the predicate with the subject. Use authorizes these modes of speaking, which still produce some confusion when we endeavor perfectly to understand these matters. And it must be observed, that ordinary language here, as often elsewhere, is admirably exact and appropriate. Nobody says, paper is whiteness, but, paper is white. It is only when we would greatly heighten the degree, to which a subject possesses a quality, that we express it in the abstract, and then we join with it the pronoun itself. Thus, speaking hyperbolically, we say a thing is beauty itself, whiteness itself, goodness itself.
268. Even what in mathematics is called equality, also means identity. Thus in this class of judgments, besides what we have observed of general in them all, to wit: the identity saved by expressing the predicate in the concrete, the very relation of equality denotes identity. This needs explanation.
Whoever says 6 + 3 = 9, expresses the same as he who says 6 + 3 are identical with 9. Clearly in the affirmation of equality, no attention is paid to the form in which the quantities are expressed, but to the quantities themselves alone; otherwise we should be unable to affirm not only identity, but also equality; for it is evident that 6 + 3, as to their form, neither written, spoken, nor thought, are identical with, or equal to, 9. The equality is in the values expressed, and these are not only equal but identical; 6 + 3 are the same as 9. The whole is not distinguished from its united part; 9 is the whole, 6 + 3 its united parts.
The different manner of conceiving 6 + 3 and 9 does not exclude the identity. The difference is in the intellectual form, and occurs not only here but also in the perceptions of the simplest things; there is nothing which we do not conceive under different aspects, and whose conception we may not decompose in various ways; but we do not therefore say that the thing ceases to be simple and identical with itself.
What we have said of an arithmetical equation may be extended to algebraical and geometrical equations. If we have an equation whereof the first member is very simple, as Z, and the second very complicated, as the development of a series, we cannot say that the first expression is equal to the second; the equality is not in the expression but in the thing expressed, in the value designated by the letters; in this sense it is true, in the former it is evidently false.
Two circumferences having the same radius are equal. Here we seem to treat solely of equality, since there are two distinct objects, the two circumferences, which may be traced on paper or represented in the imagination; yet not even in this case is the distinction true, it is only apparent, for here, as in algebraical and arithmetical equations, there is distinction and even diversity in form with identity at bottom. The principal argument, on which the distinction is founded, may be combatted by observing that the circumferences which may be traced or represented, are only forms of the idea, not the idea itself. Whether traced or represented they have a determinate size and a certain position on the planes seen or imagined; in the idea, and in the proposition containing it, there is nothing of this; we abstract all size, all position, and speak in a general and absolute sense. True, the representations may be infinite either externally or in the imagination; but this, so far from proving them identical, shows their diversity, since the idea is one and they are infinite; the idea is constant, they are variable; the idea is independent of them, they are dependent on the idea, and have the character and denomination of circumferences, inasmuch as they approach it by representing what it contains.
What, then, is expressed in the proposition: two circumferences, having the same radius, are equal? The fundamental idea is, that the value of the circumference depends upon the radius, and the proposition here enunciated is simply an application of this property to the case of the equality of radii. The circumferences, then, conceived by us as distinct, are only examples which we inwardly consider in order to render the truth of the application apparent; but in what is purely intellectual, we find only the decomposition of the idea of circumference, or its relation to the radius applied to the case of equality. Then there are not two circumferences in the purely ideal order, but one only, whose properties we know under different conceptions, and express in various ways.
If in all judgments there is affirmation of identity, or non-identity, and all our cognitions either begin or end in a judgment, it would seem that they all ought to be reduced to a simple perception of identity. The general formula of our cognitions will then be: A is A, or, a thing is itself. This result strikes one as an extravagant paradox, and is so, or not, according to the sense in which it is understood; but if rightly explained, it may be admitted as a truth, and a very simple one. From what has been said in the preceding paragraphs, the meaning of this opinion may be discerned: but the importance of the present matter requires still further explanation.
CONTINUATION OF THE SAME SUBJECT.
269. It is even ridiculous to say that the cognitions of the sublimest philosophers may be reduced to this equation: A is A. This, absolutely speaking, is not only false, but contrary to common sense; but it is neither contrary to common sense nor false to say that all cognitions of mathematicians are perceptions of identity, which, presented under different conceptions, undergoes infinite variations of form, and so fecundates the intellect and constitutes science. For the sake of greater clearness we will take an example, and follow one idea through all its transformations.
270. The equation circle = circle (1) is very true, but not very lucid, since it serves no purpose, because there is identity not only of ideas but likewise of conceptions and expression. To have a true progress in science we must not only change the expression, but also vary in some way the conception under which the identical thing is presented. Thus, if we abbreviate the above equation in this form: C = circle (2), we make no progress, unless with respect to the purely material expression. The only possible advantage of this is to assist the memory, as instead of expressing the circle by a word, we express it by its initial letter, C. Why is this? Because the variety is in the expression, not in the conception. If, instead of considering the identity in all its simplicity in both members of the equation, we give the value of the circle with reference to the circumference, we shall have C = circumference × 1/2 R (3), that is, the value of the circle is equal to the circumference multiplied by one-half the radius. In the equation (3) there is identity as in (1) and (2), because it is affirmed in it that the value expressed by C is the same as that expressed by circumference × 1/2 R; just as in the other two it is expressed that the value of the circle is the value of the circle. But is this equation different from the other two? It is very different. What is the difference? The first two simply express the identity conceived under the same point of view; the circle expressed in the second member excites no idea not already excited by the first; but in the last, the second member expresses the same circle indeed, but in its relations with the circumference and radius; and, consequently, besides containing a sort of analysis of the circle, it records the analysis previously made of the idea of the circumference in relation to the idea of radius. The difference is not, then, solely in the material expression, but in the variety of conceptions under which the same thing is presented.
Calling the value of the relation of the circumference with the diameter N, and the circle C, the equation becomes: C = NR2 (4). Here, also, there is identity of value; but we discover a notable progress in the expression of the second member, in which the value of the circle is given, freed from its relations with the value of the circumference, and dependent solely on a numerical value, N, and a right line, which is the radius. Without losing the identity, and only by a succession of perceptions of identity, we have advanced in science, and starting from so sterile a proposition as circle = circle, we have obtained another, by means of which we may at once determine the value of any circle from its radius.
Leaving elemental geometry, and considering the circle as a curve referred to two axes, with respect to which its points are determined, we shall have Z = 2Bx-x2(5); Z expressing the value of the ordinate; B the constant part of the axis of abscissas; and x the abscissa corresponding to Z. We have here a still more notable progress of ideas: in both members we now express the value, not of the circle, but of lines, by which we may determine all points of the curve; and we easily conceive that this curve, which was contained in the figure whose properties we determined in elemental geometry, may be conceived under such a form as belongs to a genus of curves, whereof it constitutes a species by the particular relations of the quantities 2x and B; thus modifying the expression by adding a new quantity, combined in this or that manner, we may obtain a curve of another species. If, therefore, we would determine the value of the surface contained in this circle, we may consider it, not solely with respect to the radius, but to the areas comprised between the various perpendiculars the extremities of which determine points of the curve and are called ordinates. It results from this, that the same value of the circle may be determined under various conceptions, although this value is at all times identical; the transition from one conception to another is the succession of the perceptions of identity presented under different forms.
Let us now consider the value of the circle dependent on the radius: this will give us C = function x (6). This equation enables us to conceive the circle under the general idea of a function of its radius, or of x, and consequently authorizes us to subject it to all the laws to which a function is subject, and leads us to the properties of their differentials, limits, and relations. By this equation we enter into infinitesimal calculus, the expressions of which present identity under a form which records a series of conceptions of long and profound analysis. Thus, expressing the differential of the circle by dc, and its integral by S. dc, we shall have C = S. dc, (7), an equation in which are expressed the same values as in circle = circle, but with this difference, that the equation (7) records immense analytical labors: it results from a long succession of conceptions of integral calculus, of differentials, and limits of the differentials of the functions, of the application of algebra to geometry, and of a multitude of elementary geometrical notions, algebraical rules and combinations, and of whatever else was needed to arrive at this result. Therefore, when we find the integral of the differential, and obtain by integration the value of the circle, it would clearly be most extravagant to affirm that the integral equation is nothing more than the equation circle = circle; but it is not so to say that at bottom there is identity, and that the diversity of expression to which we have come, is the result of a succession of perceptions of the same identity presented under different aspects. Supposing the conceptions, through which it has been necessary to pass, to be A, B, C, D, E, M, the law of their scientific connection may be thus expressed: A = B, B = C, C = D, D = E, E = M; therefore A = M.
271. What we have just explained cannot be well understood unless we recall some characteristics of our intellect, in which is found the reason of so great anomalies. Our intellect is so weak as to perceive things only successively: only after much study does it see what is contained in the clearest ideas. Hence a necessity, to which corresponds with admirable harmony a faculty that satisfies it: the necessity is of conceiving under various, and different, as well as distinct, forms, even the simplest things: the faculty is that of decomposing the conception into many parts, and multiplying in the order of ideas what in that of reality is only one. This faculty of decomposition would be useless were not the intellect, in passing through the succession of conceptions, to find means of connecting and retaining them: otherwise it would continually lose the fruit of its labors; it would slip from its hands as fast as it grasped it. Happily it has this means in signs either written, spoken, or thought; those mysterious expressions which at times not only designate an idea, but also are the compendium of the labors of a whole life, and perhaps of a long series of ages. When the sign is presented to us, we do not see certainly and with full clearness all that it expresses, nor why the expression is legitimate; but we know confusedly the meaning therein contained; we know that in case of necessity, it is enough for us to follow the thread of the perceptions through which we have passed, thus going back even to the simplest elements of science. In making calculations, the most eminent mathematician does not clearly see the meaning of the expressions he uses, except as they relate to the object before him; but he is certain that they do not deceive him, that the rules by which he is guided are sure; because he knows that at another time he established them by incontestible demonstrations. The progress of a science may be compared to a series of posts on which the distances of a road are marked: he who marked the numbers on the posts uses them without necessity of recalling the operations which led him to mark the quantity before him; he is satisfied with knowing that the operations were well made, and that he wrote the result correctly.
272. The proof of this necessity of decomposition, besides being fully established by the above example, is found in the elements of all instruction, where, under a form of demonstration, it is necessary to explain propositions which express simply the definitions or axioms that have been before established. For example: we find in the elementary works on geometry this theorem: all the diameters of a circle are equal; and we must, if we would have beginners understand it, give a demonstrative form to that which neither is nor can be any thing more than an explanation, and is almost a repetition of the idea of the circle. When we describe a circle, we fix a point around which we revolve a line called the radius; since then the diameter is nothing more than the sum of two radii continued in the same right line, the mere enunciation of the theorem would seem sufficient to show that it is evidently contained in the idea of the circle, and is as a sort of repetition of the postulate, on which the construction of the curve is founded: still it is not so, and it must be explained as if it were a proof; we must show the diameter to be equal to two radii, these radii to be equal, and at times repeat that this is supposed in its construction: in a word, it is necessary to employ many conceptions to show a truth, which ought to have been known by the simple intuition of one alone, as is the case when the geometrical powers of the intellect have acquired a certain strength and robustness.
273. We may now appreciate at its just value, the opinion of Dugald Stewart, who, in his Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, says: "It may be fairly questioned, too, whether it can, with strict correctness, be said of the simple arithmetical equation, 2 plus 2 = 4, that it may be represented by the formula A = A. The one is a proposition asserting the equivalence of two different expressions; to ascertain which equivalence may, in numberless cases, be an object of the highest importance. The other is altogether unmeaning and nugatory, and cannot, by any possible supposition, admit of the slightest application of a practical nature. What opinion then shall we form of the proposition A = A, when considered as the representative of such a formula as the binomial theorem of Sir Isaac Newton? When applied to the equation 2 plus 2 = 4, (which in its extreme simplicity and familiarity is apt to be regarded in the light of an axiom:) the paradox does not appear to be so manifestly extravagant; but, in the other case, it seems quite impossible to annex to it any meaning whatever."[22] This philosopher does not observe that the pretended extravagance arises from his wrong interpretation of his adversaries' opinion. No one ever thought of denying the importance of the discoveries which prove different expressions equivalent: no one doubts that Newton's formula of the binomial is a great advance upon the formula A = A: but the question consists not in this, but in seeing whether Newton's formula of the binomial is any thing more than the expression of identical things; and whether even the merit of the expression is or is not the fruit of a series of perceptions of identity. Were the question presented under Dugald Stewart's point of view, it would be unworthy of discussion: for philosophy should not dispute upon things that are ridiculous as well as absurd.
CONTINUATION OF THE SAME SUBJECT.
274. We will now explain how the doctrine of identity is applied in general to all reasoning, whether upon mathematical objects or not: with this view we will examine some of the dialectical forms in which the art of reasoning is taught.
Every A is B; M is A: therefore M is B. In the major of this syllogism we find the identity of every A with B; and in the minor, the identity of M with B. In each of these propositions there is affirmation, and, consequently, perception of identity. Let us now see what takes place in the connection which constitutes the force of the argument.
Why do we say that M is B? Because M is A, and every A is B. M is one of the As, expressed in the words every A; therefore, when we say, M is A, we say only what we had before said by every A. What difference, then, is there? There is this difference, that in the expression every A, no attention is paid to one of A's contents, M, of which we had nevertheless affirmed that it was B, in affirming that every A is B. If, in the expression every A, we have distinctly seen M, the syllogism would not have been necessary, because, in saying every A is B, we had already understood that M is B.
This observation is so true and exact, that in treating of very clear relations we suppress the syllogism, and replace it with the enthymema, which is, it is true, an abbreviation of the syllogism; but we must see in this abbreviation besides a saving of words, a saving of conceptions, for the intellect sees one intuitively in the other, without necessity of decomposition. He is a man, therefore he is rational; we omit the major, and do not even think of it, for we intuitively see, in the idea of man, and its application to an individual, the idea of rational without any gradation of ideas or succession of conceptions.
Let us suppose that we have to demonstrate that the perimeter of a polygon inscribed in a circle is less than the circumference, and that we make the following syllogism: The sum of all the right lines inscribed in their respective curves is less than the sum of those curves; but the perimeter of the polygon is the sum of the right lines, and the circumference is the sum of the arcs or curves; therefore the inscribed perimeter is less than the circumference. We now ask, will any one who knows that the sum of the right lines is less than the sum of the curves, fail to see with equal facility that the perimeter is less than the circumscribed circumference, provided he understands the meaning of the words? It is evident that he will not. What necessity, then, of repeating the general principle? Is it to add any thing to the particular conception? Certainly not; because nothing can be clearer than the following propositions: the perimeter of the polygon is a sum of right lines; the circumference is a sum of arcs or curves; what the general principle does, is to call attention to a phase of the particular conception, so that what otherwise could not be seen in it may be seen on reflection. The certainty of the conclusion does not depend on the general principle; because, from thinking on the relations of greater and less only with respect to the right lines of the perimeter and the arcs, the sum of which forms the circumference, any one would have inferred the same thing.
This example also tends to prove that the enthymema is not a mere abbreviation of words; and it shows why we employ it in reasoning upon matters familiar to the understanding. In any one of the conceptions we see all that is necessary for the consequence; and, therefore, one premise suffices, as in it the other is included rather than understood. A beginner may say: the arc is greater than the chord, because the curve is greater than the right line; but when familiarized with geometrical ideas, he will simply say, the arc is greater than the chord; he will see the idea of the curve in that of the arc, and the idea of the right line in that of the chord, without need of decomposition. If the arc is greater than its chord, this is not because every curve is greater than the corresponding right line. Did the abstract idea of curve not exist, and were this particular arc of a circle the only curve thought of; did the abstract idea of right line not exist, and were this particular chord the only right line thought of, it would still, as at present, be true that the arc is greater than the chord.
275. When treating of the necessary relations of things, the general principles, the middle terms, and all the auxiliaries to reasoning furnished by logic, are only inventions of art to make us reflect upon the conception of the thing, and see in it what otherwise we should not see. Hence our judgments on necessary objects are in some sense analytical; and Kant equivocates, when he says there are synthetic judgments not dependent on experience. Without experience we have only the conception of the thing. We do not pretend that all propositions express such a relation between the subject and the predicate, that the conception of the former will always give that of the latter; but we do hold, that the reason of this insufficiency is the incompleteness of the conception, either in itself, or in relation to our comprehension. But if we suppose the conception complete in itself, and a due capacity in our intellect to understand whatever it contains, we shall find in the conception all that can be the object of science.
276. An example from mathematics will make this clearer. Large works on geometry are filled with explanations, demonstrations, and applications of the properties of the triangle. The conceptions of right lines, and the angles formed by them, enter into the conception of the triangle. We ask, can all the explanations and demonstrations of the properties of triangles in general ever go beyond the ideas of right lines and angles? No. For the new elements introduced would be foreign to the triangle, and would consequently change its nature. Necessary relations neither admit of more nor of less, neither additions nor subtractions of any sort; what is, is, and nothing more. In passing from the triangle in general to its different species, such as equilateral, isosceles, right angled, scalene, it is to be observed that the demonstration must rigorously attend to what is contained in the general conception, modified by the determining properties of the species, that is, the equality of the three sides, of two, the inequality of all, the supposition of a right angle, and others.
277. What we are now explaining is clearly seen in the application of algebra to geometry. A curve is expressed by a formula containing the conception of the curve, or its essence. The geometrician, to demonstrate the properties of the curve, does not need to go out of this formula; it is a touch-stone in his hand, and he finds in it all that he wants. He inscribes triangles, or other figures in the curve, draws right lines from it to points without, but never goes out of the conception expressed in the formula; he decomposes it, and finds in it what before he had not discovered.
In this equation z2 = (e2/E2)(2Ex-x2), we find the expression of the relations which constitute the ellipse; E expresses the greater semi-axis, e the lesser, z the ordinates, and x the abscissas. With this equation variously developed and transformed, the properties of the curve are determined; it shows, with the help of constructions, that the new property is contained in the conception, and to find it, we have only to analyze it.
If we suppose an intelligence capable of conceiving the essence of the curve, by an immediate intuition of the law governing the inflection of points, without the necessity of referring it to any line, whether one axis instead of two suffices, or in any other manner not even imaginable by us; this intelligence will not need to follow all the evolutions which we have made in demonstrating the properties of the curve; for it will perceive them to be clearly contained in the very conception of the curve. This supposition is not arbitrary; we see it realized every day, though on a smaller scale. An ordinary geometrician conceives a curve as also does Pascal; but while Pascal at a glance sees the most recondite properties of the curve in this conception, an ordinary geometrician sees only after long study its most common properties. Kant made no account of this doctrine, and therefore could not solve the problem of pure synthetic judgments: had he examined the subject more profoundly he would have seen that, strictly speaking, there are no such judgments; and instead of wearing out his genius in attempting to solve an insolvable problem, he would have abstained from raising it.(26)
CHAPTER XXIX.
ARE THERE TRUE SYNTHETIC JUDGMENTS A PRIORI IN THE SENSE OF KANT?
278. The great importance attributed by the German philosopher to his imaginary discovery, requires us to examine it at length. This importance may be estimated from what he himself says: "If any of the ancients had only had the idea of proposing the present question, it would have been a mighty barrier against all the systems of pure reason down to our days, and would have saved many vain attempts which were blindly made without knowing what was treated of."[23] This passage is quite modest and naturally excites our curiosity to know what is the problem which needed only to be proposed in order to avoid all the aberrations of pure reason.
Here are his words: "All empirical judgments, as such, are synthetic. For it would be absurd to ground an analytic judgment on experience, since I am not obliged to go out of the conception itself in order to form the judgment, and therefore can have no need of the testimony of experience. That a body is extended, is a proposition which stands firm a priori. It is no empirical judgment; for, prior to experience, I have all the conditions of forming it in the conception of body, from which I deduce the predicate, extension, according to the principle of contradiction, by which I at once become conscious of its necessity, which I could not learn from experience. But, on the other hand, I do not include, in the primitive conception of body in general, the predicate, heaviness; yet this conception of body in general indicates, through experience of a part of it, an object of experience, to which I may add from experience other parts also belonging to it. I can attain to the conception of body beforehand, analytically, through its characteristics extension, impenetrability, form, etc., all of which are included in the primary conception of body. But I now extend my cognition, and, as I recur to experience, from which I have obtained the conception of body in general, I find along with these characteristics the conception of heaviness. I therefore add this, as a predicate, to the conception of body. The possibility of this synthesis therefore rests on experience; for both conceptions, although one does not contain the other, yet belong as parts to a whole, that is to say, to experience, which is itself a union of synthetic, though contingent intuitions. But in the case of synthetic judgments a priori we have not this assistance. Here we have not the advantage of returning and supporting ourselves on experience. If I must go out of the conception A in order to find another conception B, which is to be joined to it, on what am I to rely? and by what means does the synthesis become possible?"[24]
279. The reason of this synthesis is found in the faculty of our mind of forming total conceptions, in which the relation of the partial conceptions composing it is discovered; and the legitimacy of the same synthesis is founded on the principles on which the criterion of evidence is based.
The synthesis of the schoolmen consists in the union of conceptions, and does not refuse to admit as analytical the total conceptions, from the decomposition of which results the knowledge of the relations of the partial conceptions.
If Kant had stopped with the judgments of experience, there would be no objection to his doctrine. But extended to the purely intellectual order, it is either inadmissible, or at least expressed without much exactness.
260. Kant says all mathematical judgments are analytic, and that this truth which in his opinion "is certainly incontestible and important on account of its consequences, seems to have hitherto escaped the sagacity of the analysts of human reason, causing very contrary opinions." We think it is the sagacity of his Aristarchus, and not that of the analysts, that is at fault.
"One would certainly think at first sight that the proposition, 7 + 5 = 12, is a purely analytic proposition, which follows from the conception of a sum of seven and five, according to the principle of contradiction. But if we examine it more closely, we find that the conception of the sum of seven and five contains nothing farther than the union of both numbers in one, from which it cannot by any means be inferred what this other number is which contains them both."[25]
Were we to say that whoever hears seven plus five, does not always think of twelve, because he does not see clearly enough that one conception is the same as the other, although it is under a different form, it would be true. But from this it does not follow that the conception is not purely analytic. The mere explanation of both suffices to show their identity.
That this may be better understood, we will invert the equation thus: 12 = 7 + 5. It is evident that if any one does not know that 7 + 5 = 12, he will not know that 12 = 7 + 5. Now, in examining the conception 12, we certainly see 7 + 5 contained in it. Therefore, the conception of 12 is identical with the conception of 7 + 5; and just as, because he who hears 12, does not always think of 7 + 5, we cannot thence infer that 12 does not contain 7 + 5; so, also, we cannot, because he who hears 7 + 5, does not always think of 12, thence infer that the first conception does not contain the second.
The cause of the equivocation is, that the two identical conceptions are presented to the intellect under different forms; and until we have the form, and look to what is under it, we shall not discover the identity. This is not, strictly speaking, reasoning but explanation.
What Kant adds concerning the necessity of recurring, in this case, to an intuition, with respect to one of the numbers, adding five to seven on the fingers, is exceedingly futile. First, in whatever way he adds the five, there will never be anything but the five that is added, and it will neither give more nor less than 7 + 5. Secondly, the successive addition on the fingers is equivalent to saying 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 5. This transforms the expression, 7 + 5 = 12, into this other, 7 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 12; but the conception, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1, has the same relation to 5, as 7 + 5 to 12; therefore, if 7 + 5 are not contained in 12, neither are 7 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 contained in it. It may be replied that Kant does not speak of identity, but of intuitions. This intuition, however, is not the sensation, but the idea; and if the idea, it is only the conception explained. Thirdly, we know this method of intuition not to be even necessary for children. Fourthly, this method is impossible in the case of large numbers.
281. Kant adds that this proposition, "a right line is the shortest distance between two points," is not purely analytic, because the idea of shortest distance is not contained in the idea of right line. Waiving the demonstrations which some authors give, or pretend to give, of this proposition, we shall confine ourselves to Kant's reasons. He forgets that here the right line is not taken alone, but compared with other lines. The idea of right line alone neither does nor can contain the ideas of more or less; for these ideas suppose a comparison. But from the moment the right line and the curve are compared, with respect to length, the relation of superiority of the curve over the right line is seen. The proposition is then the result of the comparison of two purely analytic conceptions with a third, which is length.
282. If Kant's reasoning were good, even this judgment, "the whole is greater than its part," would not be analytic; for the idea of greater enters not into the conception of the whole until the whole is compared with its part. Thus, the judgment, four is greater than three, would not be analytic, because the idea of four until compared with three does not include the conception of greater.
The axiom: "things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other," would not be analytic, because the conception, equal to each other, does not enter into the conception of things which are equal to the same thing, until we reflect that the equality of the middle term implies the equality of the extremes.
The x, of which Kant speaks, would be found in almost all judgments, if we could not form total conceptions involving comparison of partial conceptions: in this case we should have no analytic judgments except such as are wholly identical, or directly contained in this formula, A is A.
283. The comparison of two conceptions with a third, does not take from the result the character of analytic judgment, as a predicate cannot be seen in the idea of the subject, without the aid of this comparison. This comparison is often necessary, because we only confusedly think of what is contained in the conception which we already have; and sometimes it even happens that we do not think at all of it. One often says a thing and then contradicts himself, not observing that what he adds is opposed to what he had already said. We often ask, in conversation, do you not see that you suppose the contrary of what you just said; that the conditions you have just established imply the contrary of what you now assert?
284. A conception includes not only all that is expressly thought in it, but all that can be thought. If, on decomposing it, we find in it other things, it cannot be said that we add them, but that we find them. It is not a synthesis, but an analysis. Otherwise we must admit no analytic conceptions, or only such as are purely identical. Except in this last case, of which the general formula is, A is A, there is always in the predicate something not thought in the subject, if not in substance at least in form. The circle is a curve; this undoubtedly is one of the simplest analytical propositions imaginable; still the predicate expresses the general conception of curve, which may be contained in the subject, in a confused manner, with relation to a particular species of curve. Following a gradation in geometrical propositions, we may observe that there is nothing in one proposition not in the preceding, except the greater or less difficulty of decomposing the conception, so as to see in it what before we had not seen.
If we say, the circle is a conic section, evidently any one ignorant of the terms, or who has not reflected on their true sense, will not think of the attribute in the subject. No addition is made to the conception of the circle; only a property not before known is discovered, and this discovery results from comparison with the cone. Is there any synthesis here? No. There is only an analysis of the two conceptions, the circle and the cone, compared. As this error destroys the foundation of Kant's doctrine on this point, we will develop it and place it on a more solid foundation.
285. Synthesis, properly so called, requires something to be added to the conception, which in nowise belongs to it, as the example brought by Kant shows. The conception, extension, is contained in the conception, body; but heaviness is an entirely foreign idea, which we can unite to the conception, body, only because experience authorizes it. Only with this addition is there properly synthesis. The union of ideas which results from the conception of the thing, although comparison may be necessary in order to fecundate them, does not make a synthesis. The conceptions are not wholly absolute, they contain relations, and the discovery of these relations does not give a synthesis, but a more complete analysis. If it be said that in this case there is something more than the primitive conception, we answer that the same thing happens in all not purely identical. We may also add that by the comparison a new total conception is formed resulting from the primitive conceptions; and the properties of the relations are then seen, not by synthesis, but by the analysis of the total conception.
According to Kant, true synthesis requires the union of things so different from one another, that the bond uniting them is a sort of mystery, an x, whose determination is a great philosophical problem. If this x is found in the essential relation of the partial conceptions constituting the total conception, the problem is resolved by a simple analysis, or, to speak more exactly, it is shown that the problem did not exist, because the x was a known quantity.
We know of no judgment more analytical than that in which we see the parts in the whole, since the whole is only the parts united. If we say, one and one are two, or, two is equal to one plus one; it cannot be denied that we have a total conception, two, in the decomposition of which, we find one plus one. If this be not an analytic conception, that is to say, if the predicate be not here contained in the idea of the subject, it will be hard to tell what is. But even here there are different conceptions, one plus one; unite them, and they form the total conception. The relation, although most simple, exists; and whether it be more or less, simple or complicated, and, consequently, seen with more or less facility, does not alter the character of the judgments, or from synthetic convert them into analytic.
286. We will complete this explanation with an example from elementary geometry. "The surface of a rhomboid is equal to the surface of a rectangle having the same base and altitude." First: in the idea of the rhomboid, we do not see the idea of its equality with the rectangle; and this we cannot see, because the relation does not exist when there is no other term to which it may relate. The idea of the parallelogram does not contain that of the rectangle, and consequently not that of equality. Second: the relation results from the comparison of the rhomboid with the rectangle; and, consequently, it must be found in a total conception containing them both. It cannot, therefore, be said that we add any thing to the conception of the parallelogram which does not belong to it. On the contrary, we see this equality flow from the conception of the rhomboid and that of the rectangle, as partial conceptions of the total conception, formed by the combination of them both. The analysis of this total conception opens to us the relation we are now in quest of; for it must be observed that when the simple union of the conceptions compared does not suffice, we make use of another including them, and also something more; and from the new conception, duly analyzed, we deduce the relation of the parts compared.
287. In the geometrical construction, that serves for the demonstration of the above theorem, which we have used as an example, may be seen what we have just explained with regard to total conceptions containing other conceptions besides those compared. If we place the rectangle and the rhomboid upon the same base, we at once see that there is something common to both, namely, the triangle formed by the base, a part of one side of the rhomboid, and a part of one side of the rectangle. Neither synthesis nor analysis is here required, because there is perfect coincidence, and this in geometry is equivalent to perfect equality. The difficulty is in the two remaining parts, that is, in the trapezoids to which the parallelograms are reduced by the subtraction of the common triangle. The mere sight of the figures teaches nothing concerning the equivalence of the two surfaces; we see only that the two sides of the rhomboidal surface go on extending, but including a less distance in proportion as the angle becomes more oblique, under these two conditions: length of sides, and diminution of distances between two limits, of which one is infinity, and the other the rectangle. The relation of the equivalence of the surfaces may be demonstrated by prolonging the parallel opposite the base, and thus forming a quadrilateral of which the trapezoids are parts; to discover the equality of these trapezoids, it is only necessary to decompose the quadrilateral, attending to the equality of two triangles, each respectively formed by one of the trapezoids and a common triangle. Is any thing here added to the conception of each trapezoid? No. We only compare them. They could not be compared directly, and therefore we included them in a total conception, the mere analysis of which enabled us to discover the relation sought for. The conception does not give this relation; it only shows it; for if the conception of the two figures compared were more perfect, so that we might intuitively behold the relation existing between the increment of the sides and the decrement of their distance from each other, we should see that there is here a constant law, which supplies on one side what is lost on the other; and consequently we should discover, in the very conception of the rhomboid, the fundamental reason of the equality, that is, the permanent value of the surface, notwithstanding the greater or less obliquity of the angles; thus obtaining what we deduced from the above comparison, and generalize with reference to two constant lineal values, base and altitude. The same would happen with respect to the equivalence of all variable quantities differently expressed, could we reduce their conceptions to such clear and simple formulas as those of apparent functions; for example, nx/mx, from which, whatever the value of the variable, there always results the same value of the expression, which is constant, to wit, n/m.
288. Let not these investigations be imagined useless. In this, as in many other questions, it happens that most important truths are the result of a philosophical problem which, in appearance, is merely speculative. Thus, in the present case, we observe Kant explaining the principle of causality, in an inexact, and, as we understand him, in an altogether false sense; but, perhaps, the origin of his equivocation lies in his considering the principle of causality as synthetic, although a priori, whereas it must be regarded as analytic, as we shall show when treating of the idea of cause.
In consideration of the great importance of clear and distinct ideas on the present subject, we will in a few words, sum up the doctrine we have explained concerning mediate and immediate evidence.
There is immediate evidence when, in the conception of the subject, we see its agreement or disagreement with the predicate, without requiring any other means than mere reflection on the meaning of the terms. Judgments of this class are with propriety called analytic, because we have only to analyze the conception of the subject to find therein its agreement or disagreement with the predicate.
There is mediate evidence when, in the conception of the subject, we do not immediately see its agreement or disagreement with the predicate, and therefore have to call in a middle term to make it manifest.
290. Here arises the question whether judgments of mediate evidence are analytic. It is clear that if we mean by analytic only those in which we have solely to understand the meaning of the terms in order to see the agreement or disagreement of the predicate, the judgments of mediate evidence cannot be called analytic; but if by analytic judgment we mean a judgment in which it is only necessary to decompose the conception of the subject in order to find therein its agreement or disagreement with the predicate, we must say that the judgments of mediate evidence are analytic, and the means employed is only the formation of a total conception containing the partial conceptions, the relation of which we seek to discover. In the union of these partial conceptions there is a synthesis, it is true; but there is none in the discovery of their relation, for this is done by analysis.
A judgment is not the less analytic because formed by the union of different conceptions; for then no judgment would be analytic. When we say, man is rational, the two conceptions of animal and rational enter into the conception of man, but do not take from it its analytical character; for this, as its very name imports, consists in the analysis of a conception, being sufficient to show certain predicates in it, without reference to the manner of this conception's formation, whether two or more conceptions are united in it, or not.
291. This clearly shows in what mediate evidence consists. The predicate is indeed contained in the idea of the subject; but, owing to the limitation of our intellect, either these ideas are incomplete, or we do not see them in all their extension, or else we do not well distinguish what we in a confused manner perceive in them; and hence, to know the meaning of the terms does not enable us immediately to see that the predicate is contained in the idea of the subject. Moreover, the objects, even such as are purely ideal, are presented to us separately; and hence, not knowing the sum of them all, we pass successively from one to another, discovering their mutual relations in proportion as we approach them.
292. It may, from what we have said, be inferred that all judgments in the purely ideal order are analytic, since every cognition of this order is obtained by the intuition of whatever is more or less complicated in the conception, and there is no more synthesis than is necessary to bring the objects together, by uniting their conceptions in one total conception, which serves for the discovery of the relation of the partial conceptions.
293. The x, therefore, of which Kant speaks, and the removal of which is one of the most important problems of philosophy, is nothing more than the faculty possessed by the soul to unite the conceptions of different things in one total conception, and to discover in it their mutual relations. This faculty is no new discovery, for the schools have all recognized it under one name or another. No one ever denied to the intellect the faculty of comparing; and comparison is the act whereby the intellect places two or more objects before its sight so as to perceive their mutual relations. In this act the intellect forms a total conception, of which the conceptions compared are a part. Thus we have seen that in geometry to verify the mutual relation of certain figures, we construct a new figure which includes them all, and is a sort of field whereon the comparison is made.
This exposition of analytic and synthetic judgments will suffice for the present; as we proposed to treat of them here only in general, and as related to certainty; consequently we will not descend to their particular application to various ideas, the analysis of which belongs to other parts of this work.
VICO'S CRITERION.
294. The doctrine of Vico on the criterion of truth is connected with the matter of the preceding chapters on immediate and mediate evidence. This philosopher thinks that the criterion consists in having made the truth which is known; that our cognitions then only are completely certain, and that they lose their certainty in proportion as the intellect loses its character of cause with respect to its objects. God, the cause of all, knows every thing perfectly: creatures, whose causality is very limited, are very limited in their cognitions; and if in any thing they may be likened to the infinite, it is in that ideal world which they construct for themselves, and extend at pleasure, stopped by no impassable limits.
Let the author speak for himself. "The terms verum and factum, the true and the made, are used one for the other, in the Latin language, or, as the schoolmen say, are convertible. Intelligere, to understand, is the same as to read with clearness and to know with evidence. They used cogitare in the sense of the Italian pensare e andar raccogliendo; ratio with them meant a collection of numerical elements, and also the gift by which man is distinguished from, and made superior to, the brute. They defined man to be an animal participating of reason; animal rationis particeps: and consequently not absolutely possessed of it. As words are the signs of ideas, so also are ideas the signs and representations of things. Thus, as to read, legere, is to unite the elements of writing, which form the words; so to understand, intelligere, is to unite all the elements which constitute the perfect idea of anything. Hence we infer that the doctrine of the ancient Italians concerning truth was as follows: Truth is the same as fact; and consequently God is the first truth, because he is the first maker, factor; the infinite truth, because he made all things; the absolute truth, because he represents all the elements of things, both internal and external, for he contains them. To know is to unite the elements of things: hence it follows that thought, cogitatio, is a property of the human mind; and intelligence a property of the divine mind, because God contains all the internal and all the external elements of things, and therefore he unites them, and he it is that disposes them; whereas the human mind limited as it is, and separated from all that is not itself, may bring together extreme points, but cannot unite them; it may think of things, but cannot understand them; and this is why it is said to participate of reason, but not to possess it. Let us explain these ideas by a comparison. Divine truth is a solid image of things, a sort of plastic figure; human truth is an image on a plane, it has no depth, but is a sort of painting. Divine truth is true, because God knows in the same act by which he disposes and produces; human truth is in relation to things which man in like manner disposes and creates. Science is the cognition of the mode in which the thing is made; a cognition in which the mind makes its object, since it recomposes its elements. For God, who understands every thing, the object is a solid; but it is a surface for man who understands only the exterior. These points being settled, in order that we may more easily make them harmonize with our religion, let us observe that the ancient philosophers of Italy identified truth and fact, for they believed the world to be eternal. Thus the pagan philosophers adored a God who always operated ad extra, a point rejected by our theology. Wherefore in our religion, in which we profess that the world was created in time, and out of nothing, it is necessary to distinguish, and identify created truth with what is made, and uncreated truth with what is begotten, genito. Thus the Sacred Scriptures, with an elegance truly divine, give the name of the Word to the wisdom of God, which contains in itself the ideas of all things and the elements of these ideas. In the Word, truth is the comprehension of all the elements of this universe, and it might produce infinite worlds. From these elements, known and contained in the divine omnipotence, is formed the Word real and absolute, known by the Father from all eternity and begotten by him also from all eternity."[26]
295. From these principles Vico deduces some very transcendental consequences, among others, the explanation of the reason why our sciences are divided into many branches, and that of the different grades of certainty by which they are distinguished. Mathematics is the most certain, because a kind of creation of the intellect, which, starting with the unity of a point, constructs a world of forms and numbers by prolonging lines, and multiplying unity even to infinity. Thus it knows what it produces itself, and hence it is that the theorems commonly held to be objects of pure contemplation depend upon action just as the problems do. Mechanics is a less certain science than either geometry or arithemetic, because it considers motions as realized by machines; and physics is even less certain yet, because it does not, like mechanics, consider the external motion of circumferences, but the internal motion of their centres. There is still less certainty in sciences of the moral order, because these do not consider the motions of bodies arising from one certain and common origin, which is nature, but the motions of the soul, often most profound, often also capricious.
"Human science," he says, "owes its origin to a defect of the human mind; it is beyond all things in its extreme limitation, contains nothing of what it seeks to know, and is consequently unable to make the truth to which it aspires. The most perfect sciences are those which have expiated the vice of their origin, and are assimilated, as a creation, to divine science, that is, those in which the truth and the fact are mutually convertible.
"From what proceeds, we may infer that the criterion of truth, and the rule to recognize it, is to have made it: consequently, the clear and distinct idea of our mind which we have, is not a criterion of the truth, nor is it even a criterion of our mind; because the soul does not, by knowing itself, make itself; and not making itself, it knows not in what way it knows itself. Since human science takes abstraction for its basis, sciences are so much the more uncertain, as they more nearly approach corporal matter....
"In a word, the true and the good are convertible, if what is known as true derives its being from the mind which knows it; as human science imitates divine science, wherein God, by knowing the true, begets it internally in eternity, and makes it externally in time. The communication of goodness to the objects of his thought is to God the criterion of the true: vidit Deus quod essent bona; to men it is to have made the truth which they know."[27]
296. Vico's system undeniably shows him to have been a profound thinker, and to have carefully meditated the problems of intelligence. His line dividing the certainty of sciences is exceedingly interesting. At first sight, nothing is more specious than the difference marked between mathematical, natural, and moral sciences. Mathematics is absolutely certain, because the work of the understanding, it is as the understanding, which constructed them, sees them to be. On the other hand, the natural and moral sciences regard objects independent of reason, having by themselves an existence of their own; wherefore, the understanding knows little of them, and even in this little it is the more liable to err as it penetrates deeper into a sphere where it cannot construct. We call this system specious, because when examined, it is found to be destitute of all solid foundation. We recognize, however, a profound thought in its author; for one he must have had to consider science under such a point of view.
297. The understanding knows only what it makes. This proposition sums up Vico's whole system; and it must have some foundation, or he cannot advance one step without begging his question. Why does the understanding know only what it makes? Why can the problem of representation have no possible solution out of causality? We think we have shown another origin besides this in identity, also in ideality duly connected with causality.
298. To understand is not to cause. There may be, and there really is, a productive intelligence; but the act of understanding and that of causing, in general, offer distinct ideas. Intelligence supposes an activity; otherwise that intimate life which distinguishes the intelligent being is inconceivable: but this activity does not produce the objects known; it operates in an immanent manner on these objects, presupposed to be either mediately or immediately in union with the intellect.
299. If the intellect be condemned to know nothing not made by itself, it is difficult to conceive how the act of understanding can commence. If we place ourselves in the initial moment, we shall not know how to explain the development of this activity; for, if it can only know what it has made, what is it to understand in the first moment before it has made any thing? In the system before us, the intellect has no object but what it has itself produced; but to understand, without an object understood, is a contradiction, so that not having in its initial moment yet produced any thing, there can be nothing understood; and, consequently, intelligence is inexplicable. We cannot suppose its activity to be blindly exercised: nothing is done blindly when there is question of representation, and the productive activity essentially relates to things represented as represented. So far as the problem of intelligence is concerned, it makes no difference that these are produced externally, with an existence distinct from the intellectual representation. As Vico himself explains, human reason knows what it constructs in a purely ideal world; and God knows the Word which he begets, although the Word is not without the divine essence, but is identified with it.
300. The Neapolitan philosopher, not satisfied with applying his system to human reason, makes it applicable to all intelligences, not excepting the divine; although with a praiseworthy regard for religion, he endeavors to reconcile his ideological doctrine with the dogmas of Christianity. Truly, the problems of intelligence cannot be completely solved without greatly cumulating them. To trace the footsteps of human reason does not suffice to make us know the human understanding; we must, moreover, propose the general problem of intelligence itself, now limited, like our own, to faint glimmerings, now dilating itself in a sea of light over the regions of infinity. The sublime words, with which St. John commences his Gospel, besides the august truth taught by divine inspiration, involve transcendental doctrines of an importance higher than can be found in the words of any man, even if considered under a merely philosophical point of view.
When Vico identifies truth with the made, he is aware that he must, according to a dogma of our religion, distinguish between what is created and what is uncreated. What is created is made; what is uncreated, begotten. He admires the divine elegance of the Holy Scriptures in calling the wisdom of God, in which the ideas of all things are contained, and the elements of ideas themselves, his Word: but when he would explain the conception of the Word, his expressions are very inexact; he would have us understand, so it would seem, that the Word only results from the elements known and contained in the divine omnipotence. "In this Word," he says, "the true is the comprehension of all the elements of this universe; and it might form infinite worlds: from these elements, known and contained in the divine omnipotence, is formed the Word real and absolute, known by the Father from all eternity, and by him begotten also from all eternity."[28]
If the author means that the Word is conceived by the mere knowledge of what is contained in the divine omnipotence, his assertion is false; if he does not, his mode of speaking is inexact.
St. Thomas asks whether any relation to creature be contained in the name of the Word: "utrum in nomine Verbi importetur respectus ad creaturam;" and he resolves the question with admirable laconism and solidity. "I reply that in the Word relation to creature is contained. For God, by knowing himself, knows every creature. The Word, therefore, conceived in the mind, is representative of all actually understood by it. Wherefore there are in us different words according to the different things we understand. But because God by one act understands both himself and all things, his only Word is expressive not only of the Father, but also of creatures. And as the science of God is, with respect to himself, cognition, but with respect to creatures, cognition and cause; so the Word of God is expressive only of what is in God the Father, but both expressive and productive of creatures; and this is why it is said in the Thirty-second Psalm: "He said, and they were made;" because the productive reason of those things, which the Father makes, is contained in the Word."[29]
We see by this passage, that, according to St. Thomas, the Word also expresses creatures, and that it is conceived not only by the cognition of them, but, and this too, primarily, by the cognition of the divine essence. Elsewhere, the Holy Doctor says: "The Father, by understanding himself, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and all other things included in His science, conceives the Word, in such a manner that the whole Trinity is expressed in the Word, and also all creatures."[30]
301. Another doctrine of St. Thomas is also opposed to this system of Vico, according to whom, the intellect knows what it makes, and that only, and because it makes it; and the made being the sole criterion of the true, the true and the made are convertible. Vico applies this doctrine to the divine intelligence, only substituting begotten for made; but this inverts the order of ideas, since, according to our mode of conceiving, God does not understand because he begets, but begets because he understands: intelligence must be conceived before the Word can be conceived. "In whoever understands," says St. Thomas, "by the very fact of understanding, something proceeds within him, which is the conception of the thing understood coming from the intellective power, and proceeding from its knowledge."[31]
This doctrine of St. Thomas confirms the opinion, expressed above, concerning the impossibility of explaining the intellectual act solely by production. To produce in the intellectual order, it is evidently necessary to understand; and consequently in the initial moment of every intelligence, the productive act cannot be performed without intuition of the object. St. Thomas speaks in this same sense of divine things, as much as one can so speak; he does not found the divine intelligence on the generation of the Word, but rather the generation of the Word on the divine intelligence. God, according to St. Thomas, begets the Word because he understands, but does not understand because he begets. St. Thomas comprises in the Word the expression of every thing contained in God; for he presupposes the divine intelligence, by which he makes it possible to speak or utter the Word. This, then, is the order of conceptions; understanding, object understood, word proceeding from the act of understanding, whereby the intelligent being expresses, or says to itself, the thing understood. These ideas applied to God, are: God the Father understanding; divine essence and all that it contains understood; Word or Son generated by this intellectual act, expressive of all that is contained in the generative act.
302. We have no disposition to blame Vico; we have only endeavored to mark the inexactness of his words, doing him, at the same time, the justice to believe that he understood things differently from what he explained them, which, indeed, he has not succeeded in doing with due clearness. Let us now consider his system under less subtle points of view.
If the made be admitted as the only criterion of the true, the understanding is obviously excluded from communication with all that it has not itself produced. And not having made itself, it cannot know itself. "The soul," says Vico, "knowing itself does not make itself, and therefore knows not in what manner it knows." Thus abstracting the problem of intelligibility proposed in our twelfth chapter, Vico denies to our soul a criterion of itself, for the sole reason that it is not its own cause. Identity, therefore, far from being an origin of representation, as was proved in our eleventh chapter, is incompatible with it; nothing can know itself, because nothing has made itself.
Hence results a very grave error; for it may be inferred that not even God can know himself, since he is not his own cause. It is not enough to say that he knows himself in the Word, since the Word is impossible if intelligence be not supposed.
303. The whole world of reality, distinct from that of intellectual being, will forever remain unknown in Vico's system, which, for this reason, leads to the most rigid skepticism. What does he admit? The cognition by the mind of the mind's own work; and in this are comprised the acts of consciousness and all the purely ideal objects which we create in it. This, also, is admitted by the skeptics, no one of whom would deny that we have consciousness, and that there is an ideal world the work of this consciousness, or at least attested by it.
If, then, we admit no criterion of truth but the made, we open the door to skepticism, and abandon the world of reality to fix ourselves in that of appearance. Nevertheless, so strange are human opinions, Vico thought directly the contrary; he believed that only with his system was it possible to refute skepticism. It is curious to hear him say with perfect seriousness: "The only means of destroying skepticism is to take this for the criterion of truth, that every one is certain of the truth which he makes."
But what is the foundation of so odd an opinion? Let us listen to the philosopher himself, who says, indeed, many good things, but does not show how they may tend to the overthrow of skepticism: "Skeptics are always repeating that things seem to them, but that they do not know what they really are. They confess effects, and consequently concede causes to them; but they assert that they do not know these causes, because they do not know the genus or form according to which things are made. Admit these propositions, and retort them thus: the comprehension of causes which contains all the genera and all the forms under which effects are produced, and the appearances of which the skeptic confessedly sees, although he denies that he knows their real essence, is found in the first truth which comprises all, and in which all, even to the last, are contained. And since this truth comprises all truths, it is infinite, it excludes none, and it has a superiority over every body, which is only an effect. This truth is consequently something spiritual; in other words, it is God, the God of the Christian. By this we must measure human truth; for human truth is that truth, the elements of which we have co-ordinated within us, and which, by means of certain postulates, we may extend and follow to infinity. By co-ordinating these truths we know and make them at one and the same time; and this is why, in this case, we have the genus and the form according to which we make."[32]
We discover nothing in this refutation of skepticism calculated to destroy it. Even supposing all to admit the principle of causality, which all do not admit, what aid can he draw from this principle, when he makes the work of that very understanding, which must make use of it, the only criterion? If causality be the only criterion of truth, the understanding is isolated, and cannot, in the order of effects, take one step beyond what it has itself produced; and, in the order of causes, it cannot ascend higher than itself; for, were it so to ascend, it would know things not made by itself, would know its own cause. With this supposition the skeptics must triumph; cognition is confined to the internal world, to simple appearances; and when one would go out of these, he stumbles against the only criterion which opposes the cognition of all not made by the understanding itself. We do then see reality, but are separated from it by an impassable abyss. The world in itself may be any thing we choose to suppose it; but with respect to us, it will be nothing. This law applies to every intelligence, so that vitality can only be known by the first cause.
These consequences, inadmissible as they are, if we would not throw ourselves unreservedly into the tide of skepticism, are nevertheless inevitable in Vico's system. An original way truly of combatting skepticism, thus to throw open its widest gates!
CONTINUATION OF THE SAME SUBJECT.
304. If the Neapolitan philosopher's criterion be anywhere admissible, it can only be in ideal truths; for as these are absolutely cut off from existence, we may well suppose them to be known even by an understanding which has not in reality produced them. So far as known by the understanding they involve no reality, and consequently no condition that exacts any productive force not referable to a purely ideal order. In this order the human reason seems really to produce. If we, for example, take geometry, we shall readily perceive that, even in its profoundest parts and in its greatest complications, it is only a kind of intellectual construction, wherein that only is to be found which reason has placed there.
Reason it is which by force of perseverance has succeeded in uniting elements and so disposing them as to attain that wonderful result, of which it may say with truth: this is my work.
If we carefully observe the development of the science of geometry, we shall perceive that the extended series of axioms, theorems, problems, demonstrations and solutions, begins with a few postulates, and that it goes on with the aid of the same, or others discovered by reason according to the demands of necessity or utility.
What is a line? A series of points. The line, then, is an intellectual construction, and involves only the successive fluxions of a point. What is a triangle? An intellectual construction wherein the extremities of three lines are united. What is a circle? Also an intellectual construction; the space enclosed by a circumference formed by the extremity of a line revolved around a point. What are all other curves? Lines described by the movement of a point governed by a certain law of inflexion. What is a surface? Is not its idea generated by the motion of a line, just as that of a solid is generated by the motion of a surface? And what are all the objects of geometry but lines, surfaces, and solids of various kinds, combined in various ways? Universal arithmetic, whether arithmetic properly so called, or algebra, is a creation of the understanding. Number is a collection of units, and it is the understanding that collects them. Two is only one and one, and three only two and one; and thus with all numerical values. The ideas expressing these values consequently contain a creation of our mind, are its work, and include nothing not placed there by it.
We have already observed that algebra is a kind of language. Its rules are partly conventional, and its most complicated formulas may be reduced to a conventional principle. Take one of the simplest: a0 = 1: but why is it? Because a0 = an-n; why? Because there is a conventional usage to mark division by the remainder of the exponents; and consequently an/an, which is evidently equal to one, may be expressed an/an = an-n = 1.
305. These observations seem to prove Vico's system to be really true, so far as pure mathematics, that is, science of the purely ideal order, is concerned. Possibly also the same may be said of it in relation to other science, as for example, metaphysics; but we shall not follow it farther, since it is not easy to find a ground free from conflicting opinions. Moreover, having shown how far Vico's system is admissible in mathematics, we have thereby given a solution to difficulties to which it is subject in its other branches.
306. That in a purely ideal order the understanding constructs is undeniable, and the schools agree in this. There is no doubt that reason supposes, combines, compares, deduces; operations which are inconceivable without some kind of intellectual construction. The understanding in this case knows what it makes, because its work is present to it: when it combines it knows that it combines; when it compares or deduces, it knows that it compares or deduces; when it builds upon certain suppositions, which it has itself established, it knows in what they consist, since it rests upon them.
307. The understanding knows what it makes; but this is not all that it knows; for it has truths which neither are nor can be its works, since they are the basis of all its works, as, for example, the principle of contradiction. Can the impossibility of a thing being and not being at the same time be said to be the work of our reason? Assuredly not. Reason itself is impossible if this principle be not supposed; the understanding finds it in itself as an absolutely necessary law, as a condition sine qua non of all its acts. Here, then, Vico's criterion fails: "the understanding knows only the truth it makes:" and yet the understanding knows but does not make the truth of the principle of contradiction.
308. Facts of consciousness are known by reason, although they are not its production. These facts are not only present to consciousness, but are also objects of the combinations of reason: here, then, Vico's criterion again fails.
309. Although in those things that are a purely intellectual work, the understanding knows what it makes, it does not make whatever it chooses; for then we should have to say that science is perfectly arbitrary: instead of the geometrical results we now have, we might have others as numerous as the individuals who deal in lines, surfaces, and solids. This shows reason to be subject to certain laws, its constructions to be connected with conditions which it cannot abstract. One of these conditions is the principle of contradiction, which would, were it to fail, annihilate all knowledge. True, by a series of intellectual constructions one may ascertain the size of a sphere; but can two understandings obtain two different values of it? They cannot, for that would be an absurdity: they may choose different ways, or express their demonstrations and conclusions in different terms; but the value is the same: if there be any discrepancy, it is because one or the other has fallen into an error.
310. If we thoroughly examine this matter, we shall perceive that the intellectual construction, of which Vico speaks, is a fact generally admitted. There are in this philosopher's system two new things, the one good, the other bad; the good, is to have indicated one reason of the certainty of mathematics; the bad, is to have exaggerated the value of his criterion.
We have said that his system expressed a fact generally recognized, but exaggerated by him. The understanding undoubtedly creates, in some sense, ideal sciences; but in what sense? Solely by taking postulates, and combining its data in various ways. Here ends its creative power, for in these postulates and combinations it discovers truths not placed there by itself.
What is the triangle in the purely ideal order? A creation of the understanding, which disposes the lines in a triangular form, and, preserving this form, modifies it in a thousand ways. Thus far there is only one postulate and different combinations of it: but the properties of the triangle flow by absolute necessity from the conditions of the postulate: the understanding, however, does not make these properties, it discovers them. The example of the triangle is applicable to all geometry. The understanding takes a postulate; this is its free work, but it must not come in conflict with the principle of contradiction. From this postulate flow absolutely necessary consequences, independent of intellectual action, and involving an absolute truth known by the understanding itself. Consequently it is false to say of them that it makes them. Suppose a man so to place a body, that, left to itself, it will fall to the ground: is it the man who gives it the force to fall? Certainly not, but nature. The man only supplies the condition necessary for the force of gravity to produce its effect: when once the condition is performed, the fall is inevitable. Here, then, is a simile which shows clearly and exactly what happens in the purely ideal order. The understanding performs the conditions; from them flow other truths, not made, but known, by the understanding. This truth is absolute, is as the force of gravity in the order of ideas. Hence we see what is admissible, and what inadmissible in Vico's system. The power of combination, a generally recognized fact, is admissible; the exaggeration of this fact extended to all truths, when it only comprises postulates in their various combinations, is inadmissible.
The rules of algebra are conventional inasmuch as they relate to the expression, for this might evidently have been different. Supposing, however, the expression, the development of the rules, is not conventional, but necessary. In the expression an/an the number of times the quantity has entered as factor might clearly have been expressed in infinite ways; but supposing the present to have been adopted, the rule is not conventional, but absolutely necessary; since whatever the expression, it is always certain that the division of a quantity by itself, with distinct exponents, gives for result the diminution of the number of times it has entered as factor: this is denoted by the remainder of the exponents; and consequently if the number of times be equal in the dividend and the divisor, the result will be = 0. Thus we see that even in algebra, what the understanding has to do, is to perform the conditions, and express them as seems to it best: but here its free work ends, for necessary truths result from these conditions; and these it does not make, but only knows.
311. Vico's merit in this point consists in having expressed a very clear idea of the cause of the greater certainty of the purely ideal sciences. In these the understanding itself performs the conditions upon which it has to build its edifice; it chooses the ground, forms the plan, and raises the construction conformably to it. In the real order this ground is already designated, just as are the plan of the edifice and the materials for its construction. In both cases it is subject to the general laws of reason, but with this difference, that in the purely ideal order, it has to regard these laws and nothing else; but in the real order, it cannot abstract the objects considered in themselves, and is condemned to submit to all the inconveniences they are of a nature to cause. We will explain these ideas by an example. If we would determine the relation of the sides of a triangle under certain conditions, we have only to suppose the conditions and attend to them. The ideal triangle is in our understanding a perfectly exact, and also a fixed, thing. If we suppose it to be an isosceles triangle with the relation of the sides to the base as seven to five, this ratio is absolute, immutable, so long as the supposition remains unchanged. In all our operations upon these data, we are liable to mistakes of calculation, but no error can arise from inexactness of data. The understanding knows, indeed, for what it knows is its own work. If the triangle be not purely ideal, but realized upon paper, or on the ground, the understanding vacillates because those conditions, which, in the purely ideal order, it fixes with all exactness, cannot be transferred in like manner to the real order; and even were they transferred, the understanding would have no means of appreciating them. Therefore, Vico says, with great truth, that our cognitions lose in certainty in the same proportion as they are removed from the ideal order and swallowed up in the reality of things.
312. Dugald Stewart probably had in view this doctrine of Vico when he explained the cause of the greater certainty of mathematical sciences. It does not, he says, depend upon axioms, but upon definitions; that is, he adopts, with a slight modification, the system of the Neapolitan philosopher, that the mathematical are the most certain, because they are an intellectual construction founded upon certain conditions placed by the understanding and expressed by the definition.
This difference between the purely ideal and the real order did not escape the scholastics. They were accustomed to say that there was no science of contingent and particular, but only of necessary and universal things. In the place of contingent substitute reality, since all finite reality is contingent; and instead of universal put ideal, since the purely ideal is all universal; and you will have the same doctrine enunciated in distinct words. It is not easy to show exactly how far modern philosophers have availed themselves of the scholastic doctrine, in so far as the distinction between pure and empirical cognitions is concerned; but it is certain that some very clear passages upon these questions are to be found in the works of the scholastics. It would not be strange if some moderns, particularly Germans, whose laboriousness is proverbial, especially in matters of erudition, had read them.(27)
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CRITERION OF COMMON SENSE.
313. Common sense is an exceedingly vague expression. It should, like all expressions which contain many and different ideas, be considered under two aspects: that of its etymological, and that of its real value. These two values are not always the same; they are sometimes greatly discrepant; but even in their discrepancy, they usually preserve intimate relations. We must not, in order duly to appreciate the meaning of such expressions, confine ourselves to their philosophical, and contemn their vulgar meaning. In the latter there is often a profound philosophy; for, in such cases, the vulgar sense is a kind of precious sediment left by the flow of reason upon the word during many ages. It thus happens that in measure, as the vulgar sense is understood and analyzed, the philosophical question is determined, and the most intricate questions solved with the greatest facility.
314. It is remarkable, that besides the corporal senses there should be another, called common sense. Sense: This word excludes reflection, all reasoning, all combination; nothing of this kind enters into the meaning of the word to sense. When we sense, the mind is rather passive than active; it does nothing of itself; it does not give, it receives; it suffers, but does not perform, an action. This analysis leads us to a very important result, and this is, the separation from common sense of all that upon which the mind exercises its activity; and the determination of one character of this criterion, which is, with respect to common sense; the understanding has nothing to do but submit itself to a law perceived, to an instinctive and unavoidable necessity.
315. Common: This word excludes all individuality, and shows the object of common sense to be general to all men.
The simple facts of consciousness are facts of sense, but not of common sense; the mind feels them when it abstracts objectiveness and generality; what it experiences within itself is an experience exclusively its own, and one which has no connection with others.
The word common shows the objects of this criterion to be common to all men, and consequently referable to the objective order, since the purely subjective, as such, is limited to the individual, and in no wise affects what is general. So exact is this observation, that in ordinary language no internal phenomenon, however extravagant, is ever said to be opposed to common sense, provided it be expressed simply with abstraction from its relation to the object. If a man says: I experience such or such a sensation, I seem to see such or such a thing, common sense is not against him; but if he says, such or such a thing is in such a manner, and the assertion is extravagant, it is against him, for this is contrary to common sense.
316. I believe the expression common sense to denote a law of our mind, apparently differing according to the different cases to which it applies, but in reality and apart from its modifications, only one, always the same, consisting in a natural inclination of our mind to give its assent to some truths not attested by consciousness nor demonstrated by reason, necessary to all men in order to satisfy the wants of sensitive, intellectual, and moral life.
If the fact be agreed on, the name is of little moment: whether common sense be or be not the most adequate to signify it, is a philological, not a philosophical, question. What we have to do, is to inquire if this inclination of which we have spoken, really exists, under what forms it is presented, to what cases it is applicable, and how far, and to what degree it may be considered a criterion of truth.
Evidently this inclination cannot, in the complication of the acts and faculties of our soul, and in the multitude and diversity of the objects offered to it, always be presented with the same character; it must undergo various modifications capable of causing it to be considered as a distinct fact, although in reality still the same, transformed in a suitable manner. The best means of avoiding a confusion of ideas, will be to designate the various cases in which the exercise of this inclination occurs.
317. We at once detect it in the case of truths immediately evident. The understanding neither does nor can prove them, and yet it must assent to them, or perish like a flame that has nothing to feed upon. The possession of one or more of these primitive truths is an indispensable condition to intellectual life; without them intelligence is an absurdity. Here, then, we find all that is comprised in the definition of common sense: the impossibility of proof; an intellectual necessity, which must be satisfied by assent; and an irresistible and universal inclination to give this assent.
Is there any objection to calling this inclination common sense? For myself, I shall not dispute upon words; I mark the fact, and this is all I need do in philosophy. I grant that the inclination to assent is not, in treating of immediate evidence, usually called common sense, and this not without a reason. In order that the word sense may be properly applied to it, the understanding ought to feel rather than know: but in immediate evidence it knows rather than feels. However this may be, I repeat that the name is of no account; yet, it would not be difficult to find this criterion of truth called by grave authors common sense. What I wish is to establish this law of our nature inclining us to give our assent to certain truths, independently of consciousness and ratiocination.
318. Not immediate evidence alone has this irresistible inclination in its favor; mediate evidence also has it. Our understanding necessarily assents, not only to first principles, but also to all propositions clearly connected with them.
The natural inclination to assent is not limited to the subjective value of ideas; it also extends to their objective value. We have already seen that this objectiveness is not directly demonstrable a priori, and yet we stand in need of it. If our understanding is not to be limited to a purely ideal and subjective world, we must know not only that things seem to us, as they do with mediate or immediate evidence, but also that they really are such as they seem to be. It is then necessary to assent to the objectiveness of ideas, and we find within ourselves an irresistible and universal inclination to such an assent.
319. What we have said of immediate and mediate evidence relatively to the objective value of ideas, is true, not only in the purely intellectual, but also in the moral order. The soul, endowed as it is with free will, needs rules for its direction: if first intellectual principles are necessary in order to know, moral principles are not less so in order to will and work. What truth and error are to the understanding, good and evil are to the will. Besides the life of the understanding, there is a life of the will; the one, without principles on which to rest, is annihilated; the other, as a moral being, perishes, or becomes an inconceivable absurdity, if it have no rule, the observation or violation of which constitutes its perfection or imperfection. Here is another necessity for the assent to certain moral truths, and another reason of this irresistible and universal inclination to assent.
I would here remark, that as it is not enough in the intellectual order to know, but it is also necessary to act, and one of the principles of action is perception by the senses; so moral truths are not only known but felt. When they are offered to the mind the understanding assents to them as unshaken, and the heart embraces them with enthusiasm and love.
320. Sensations considered as purely subjective do not meet the wants of sensitive life. We must be sure that our sensations correspond to an external world, real and true, not phenomenal. Men do not ordinarily possess either the capacity or the time requisite to investigate the philosophical questions of the existence of bodies, and to decide for or against Berkeley and his followers. What is necessary is perfect certainty that bodies do exist, that sensations have an external object in reality. All men have this certainty when they assent with an irresistible force to the objectiveness of ideas, that is, to the existence of bodies.
321. Faith in human authority furnishes us with another case of this wonderful instinct. Both the individual and society require faith: without it society and family would be impossible; the individual would be condemned to isolation, and, therefore, to death. The speech of man, the human race itself, would disappear were it not for faith. This belief has distinct grades according to different circumstances, but it always exists; man is inclined, by a natural instinct, to believe his fellow man. When many men speak, and none raise their voices against them, the force of this inclination increases in the same proportion as the number of witness, until it becomes irresistible. Who doubts the existence of Rome? And yet, the greater part of us only know it upon the authority of other men.
What foundation has faith in human authority? Most men are ignorant of the philosophical reasons which may be assigned; but their faith is not therefore less lively than that of philosophers. But why is this so? Because there is a necessity, and at its side an instinct to be satisfied. Man must believe in man, and he believes. And here note well, that the greater the necessity, the greater the faith. The very ignorant and imbecile believe all that is told them; they make other men their guide, and blindly follow them. The tender child, knowing nothing, abandons itself to the absolute belief of the greatest marvels: the word of those around is to it an invaluable criterion of truth.
322. Besides the cases of first intellectual and moral principles, the objectiveness of ideas and sensations, the weight of human authority, man must give his instantaneous assent to certain truths, which, although he might, had he the time, demonstrate, he cannot now, because so suddenly are they presented to him, that they exact an immediate formation of judgment, and, sometimes, also action. In all these cases, there is a natural inclination impelling us to assent.
Hence it is that we instinctively judge it impossible, or little less than impossible, to cause a determinate effect, by a fortuitous combination; as, for example, to form a page of Virgil by a chance mixture of types, or to hit the bull's eye of a target without taking aim, and other similar things. In this there is assuredly a philosophical reason, but one not known to common people. There is evidence of this reason in the theory of probabilities: it is a distinct application of the principle of causality, and of the natural opposition of our understanding to supposing an effect without a cause, and order where there is no ordering intelligence.
323. Arguments of analogy, are in human life necessary in infinite cases. How do we know that the sun will rise to-morrow? By the laws of nature. How do we know that these will continue in force? Evidently, we must finally recur to analogy. The sun will rise to-morrow, because it has risen to-day; it rose yesterday, and it has never failed to rise. How do we know that spring will again bring flowers, and autumn fruits? Because it has so happened in former years. Men ordinarily do not know the reasons which might be given for founding the argument from analogy on the constancy of the laws of nature, and on the relation between certain physical causes and determinate effects; but their assent is required and given.
324. In all the cases cited, excepting, perhaps, that of immediate evidence, the inclination to assent may be, and really is, called common sense. The reason of this exception is, that in this case, although there is no demonstration, the predicate is nevertheless most clearly seen contained in the idea of the subject; but in the other cases there is neither demonstration nor this vision. Man assents by a natural impulse; and if any thing is objected to his belief, he does not call attention to his conception, as in immediate evidence, but is completely disconcerted, and knows not what to answer; he then applies to the objection, not the name of error, nor of absurdity, but that of extravagance, of something contrary to common sense.
Suppose, for example, a little grain of sand to be mixed with a great heap, and some one to come and say: I will put my hand into the heap, and instantly draw out the one grain hidden there. What will you object to such a one? What will the beholders reply? Nothing; or, looking at each other in perfect surprise, they will exclaim: "What extravagance! He has no common sense!" Or suppose some one to say, that all we see is nothing, that there is no external world, that we have no body, or that all told us of the existence of a city called London is untrue. Whoever hears such madness, knows not what to answer; but he repels it by a natural impulse, and the mind feels that this is nonsense without stopping to examine.
325. We shall now inquire whether common sense be a certain criterion of truth, whether it be so in all, or in what cases, and what characters it must have in order to be an infallible criterion.
Man cannot lay aside his nature: when it speaks, reason will not allow it to be ignored. A natural inclination, simply because it is natural, is in the eyes of philosophy something highly respectable: it is the province of reason and free will not to allow it to go astray. What is natural to man is not always so perfectly fixed as it is in brutes, where instinct is blind as it must be, where there is neither reason nor free will. The exercise of man's natural inclinations is subordinate to his reason and free will, and, consequently, when these are called instincts, the word has a very different meaning from what it has when applied to brutes. What happens in the moral order is also verified in the intellectual. We have not only our heart to watch, but also our understanding; both are subject to the law of perfectibility; the objects which they offer to us are good and evil, truth and error. Nature herself shows us which one we ought to choose, but does not force our choice; life and death are before us, we may select the one we please.
326. There is in man, independently of the action of free will, a quality which oftentimes has the effect of turning his natural inclinations from their object; it is weakness. Hence, it is nothing extraordinary for these inclinations to be so distorted as to lead to error instead of truth, and this renders it necessary to determine what characters common sense should have, in order to be an absolutely infallible criterion.
327. We will point out the conditions, such as we conceive them to be, of true and never-erring common sense.
First Condition.—That the inclination be every way irresistible, so that one cannot, even by the aid of reflection, resist or avoid it.
Second Condition.—That every truth of common sense be absolutely certain to the whole human race. This condition follows from the first.
Third Condition.—That every truth of common sense stand the test of reason.
Fourth Condition.—That every truth of common sense have for its object the satisfaction of some great necessity of sensitive, intellectual, or moral life.
328. When possessed of all these characters, the criterion of common sense is absolutely infallible, and may defy skeptics to assign a case wherein it has failed. The higher the degree in which the conditions are satisfied, the more certain will the criterion be. We will explain this by a few examples.
There is no doubt that ordinary men make their sensations so far objective as to transfer what passes within themselves to the exterior, without distinguishing between the subjective and the objective. Thus, when they consider colors to be in things themselves, they do not take the green, for example, to be the sensation of the green, but a thing certain, a quality, or whatever else it may be called, inherent in the object. But in reality this certainly is not so. The cause of the sensation is in the external object; such a disposition of facts also as to produce through the medium of light the impression called green. Common sense here deceives; for philosophical analysis convicts it of error. But here common sense has not the requisite conditions. In the first place, it ought to stand the test of reason; so soon as we reflect upon the case, we discover an illusion as fair as innocent. Moreover, it is not irresistible, for our assent is withheld the instant we are convinced of the illusion. Neither is the assent universal, for not all philosophers have it. Nor is it indispensable to the satisfaction of some great necessity of life. It therefore has no one of the conditions just laid down. What we have said of sight is applicable to the other senses. What is the value of the testimony of common sense inasmuch as it leads us to make sensations objective? We will answer this question.
A certainty that sensations correspond to external objects is necessary to the wants of life. Upon this all men without exception are agreed. Reflection cannot despoil us of our natural inclination; and although reason, when most it cavils, may shake the foundations of this belief, it never succeeds in convicting it of error. Even they who give the most weight to such cavils, cannot prove that bodies do not exist: they can only say that we do not know that they exist.
The natural inclination then possesses upon this point all the characteristics necessary to elevate it to the rank of an infallible criterion: it is irresistible, universal, satisfies a great necessity of life, and stands the test of reason.
As to qualities, the direct objects of sensation, it is not necessary for us that they exist in bodies themselves; it is enough that these bodies have something which produces in us, in some way or other, a corresponding impression. It is of little moment whether a green, or orange color be, or be not, a quality of objects, so long as they have some quality which produces in us the sensation of green, or orange color, as the case may be. The ordinary wants of life are not at all affected by this question; and man's relations with the sensible world would not be disturbed by the generalization of philosophical analysis. There is, perhaps, a kind of disenchantment of nature, since, despoiled of sensations, it is not nearly so beautiful; but the enchantment still continues with most men; and philosophy itself, except in brief moments of reflection, is subject to it; and even in these moments it experiences an enchantment of a different kind, as it considers how much of the beauty attributed to objects, belong to man in his own right, and that the simple exercise of a sensible being's harmonious faculties suffices to make the whole universe glow with splendor and glory.(28)
CHAPTER XXXIII.
ERROR OF LAMENNAIS ON COMMON CONSENT.
329. The instinctive faith in human authority, of which we have just treated, is a fact attested by experience, and one which no philosopher has presumed to call in doubt. This faith, duly directed by reason, constitutes one criterion of truth. The errors to which it may sometimes lead are inherent in human weakness, and are amply compensated for by the advantages derived from it by society and individuals.
A celebrated writer undertook to include all criteria in that of human authority, resolutely affirming "common consent, sensus communis, to be to us the only seal of truth."[33] His system, as strange as erroneous, in which words as unlike as sensus and consensus are confounded, is defended with that eloquent exaggeration characteristic of its eminent author; but profound philosophy does not always accompany eloquence. The sad fate of this genius, as brilliant as erring, shows the results of such a doctrine; it opens an abyss which swallows up all truth, and the author himself was the first to fall into it. To appeal to the authority of others in all things, and for all things, is to despoil the individual of every criterion, to annihilate them all, not excepting the very one he attempts to establish. It is inconceivable how such a system could have found favor with so gifted an intellect. We feel, when reading the eloquent pages of its development, an undefinable pain to see such brilliant passages squandered on the repetition of all the common-places of skepticism, ending in a most glaring paradox, and the least philosophical system imaginable.
Lamennais calls common sense the only criterion; nevertheless, we have only to glance at the others to be convinced that this new criterion is sterile, and could not produce them.
330. The testimony of consciousness, in the first place, cannot rest in any sense upon the authority of others. Formed as it is by a series of acts intimately present to our own mind, and, as without it, it is not possible for us even to conceive individual thought, it must evidently exist prior to the application of any criterion, since no criterion is possible to him who does not think.
Under a scientific aspect nothing can be weaker than his pretended refutation of Descartes' principle. "When, trying to rise from his methodical doubt, Descartes establishes this proposition, I think, therefore I am, he passes an immense abyss, and lays in the clouds the corner-stone of the edifice he is about to raise; for, strictly speaking, we cannot say I think, we cannot say I am, we cannot say therefore, or affirm anything as a consequence."[34]
Descartes' principle merited a more careful examination from whoever would invent a system. To oppose to it that we cannot say therefore, is to repeat the worn-out argument of the schools; and to affirm that we cannot say I think, is to contradict a fact of consciousness not denied even by skeptics. In place of this, we will explain at due length what is, or at least, what ought to be, the sense of Descartes' principle.
If, according to Lamennais, we cannot say I think, still less can we say that others think; and as his system recognizes one only criterion, common consent, which absolutely needs the thought of others, it follows that Lamennais has laid his corner-stone higher in the clouds than he who founded philosophy upon a fact of consciousness.
331. A criterion, especially when it pretends to be the only one, ought to have these two conditions: to apply to all cases, and not to suppose another. Now the criterion of common consent is precisely that which is farthest from possessing these conditions: prior to it is the testimony of consciousness; prior also to it is the testimony of the senses, for we cannot know the consent of others if sight or hearing do not make us certain of it.
332. In many cases this criterion is impossible; in many others it is exceedingly difficult if not wholly impossible. To what point is common consent needed? If the word common refers to the whole human race, how are the suffrages of all mankind to be recognized? If the consent need not be unanimous, to what point does the contradiction, or the simple non-assent of some, destroy the legitimacy of the criterion?
333. Lamennais' error consists in taking the effect for the cause, and the cause for the effect. We detect certain truths, upon which all men are agreed, and we say: the guaranty that each one is right is the consent of all. If we analyze this well, we shall perceive that the reason of each individual's certainty is not the consent of others; but on the contrary the reason why all agree is that each one for himself feels obliged to give his assent. In this universal voting of the human race, each one gives his own vote, impelled in a certain sense by nature herself; and as all experience the same impulse, all vote alike. Lamennais says every one votes in the same way, because all vote so; but he does not observe that then the voting could never begin nor end. This comparison is not an accidental satire, but a strictly philosophical argument, to which there can be no reply; it suffices to show the system of Lamennais to be unfounded and contradictory; just as, on the other hand, it indicates the origin of the equivocation, the taking the effect for the cause.
334. Lamennais, in order to prove his criterion to be the only one, appeals to the testimony of consciousness. In our opinion this testimony establishes directly the contrary. Who ever waited for the authority of others to be certain of the existence of bodies? Do we not see even brutes, by force of a natural impulse, making, in their own way, their sensations objective? Had we not in giving our assent to the words of men some other criterion than common consent, we could never believe any one, for the simple reason that it would be impossible to be certain of what others say or think without beginning by believing some one. Does the child refer to the authority of others before giving faith to what its mother recounts? Does it not rather obey the natural instinct communicated to it by the beneficent hand of the Creator? It does not believe because all believe; but all children believe because each one of them believes: their individual belief does not spring from a general belief, but rather the general belief is formed from the assemblage of individual beliefs; it is not natural because universal, but universal because natural.
335. Lamennais' chief argument consists in this: that in certain cases in order to make sure of the truth relatively to the other criteria, we appeal to that of common consent, and that folly itself is only the deviation from this consent. If you tell a man that his eyes deceive him as to an object which he sees, he instinctively turns to other men, and asks them if they do not see it in the same way. If all agree that he is wrong, and he is satisfied they are in earnest, he will experience a momentary vacillation of his faith in the testimony of sight; he will approach the object, will take a different position, or adopt whatever other means may seem to him best suited to make sure that he is right. If he still sees the object in the same way, and the same persons and others who arrive persist in assuring him that the thing is not as he sees it, he will distrust the testimony of sight, and believe himself subject to some infirmity affecting his sight. To this is the argument of Lamennais reduced. What results from it? Nothing to support the system of common consent. True, the other criteria are, in exceptional circumstances, liable to error; in certain cases when a doubt arises an appeal is taken to the testimony of others: but why? Simply, in order to make sure that one has not labored under one of those derangements to which human misery is subject. We know that what is natural is general; and he who doubts inquires of others, that he may ascertain if he has by some accident been out of his ordinary natural state. Who sees not the unreasonableness of raising an exceptional means to the rank of sole and general criterion? Who sees not the extravagance of asserting that we are assured of the testimony of the senses by the authority of other men, solely because, in extreme cases fearing some derangement of our organs, we ask others if something appears to them as it does to us?
336. Greater exaggeration we cannot have than that of Lamennais, when he affirms "that the exact sciences are also founded on common consent; that in this they enjoy no privilege, and that the very term exact, is one of those empty titles under which man seeks to conceal his weakness; that geometry itself only exists by virtue of a tacit convention, a convention which may be thus expressed: we are obliged to hold such principles to be certain, and we pronounce every one a rebel to common sense, that is, to the authority of the number, who shall demand a demonstration of them." This is an intolerable exaggeration. The arguments which he adduces in his notes to prove the intrinsic uncertainty of mathematics are exceedingly feeble; and some of them might make us suspect the author of the Essai sur l'Indifference to be a less profound philosopher than eloquent writer.
I am not ignorant of what has been advanced against the certainty of the exact sciences, nor of the difficulties they present when called before the tribunal of metaphysics. In the first volume of Protestantism compared with Catholicity, I consecrated a chapter to what I call instinct of faith; and this instinct, I there maintained, also exercises its influence upon the exact sciences. These I do not place above moral sciences; I esteem these latter the more; but I must avoid an exaggeration that would destroy them all.
SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION.
337. In concluding this book, I wish to give a summary of my views on certainty, wherein I shall show the connection between the doctrines exposed in the different chapters.
When philosophy meets a necessary fact its duty is to accept it. Such a fact is certainty. To dispute its existence, is to dispute the splendor of the sun at mid-day. Mankind are certain of many things; philosophers, skeptics not excluded, are equally so. Absolute skepticism is impossible.
Setting aside the question of certainty, philosophy is free from extravagance, and is established in the domain of reason; it can there examine how we acquire certainty, and upon what it is based.
The human race is endowed with certainty as a quality annexed to life, a spontaneous result of the development of the soul's faculties. Certainty is natural; consequently it precedes all philosophy, and is independent of the opinions of men. For the same reason the question of certainty, although important to the knowledge of the laws to which our mind is subject, is, and always will be, unproductive of practical results. It is a dividing line fixed by reason lest at any time something should descend from the realm of abstraction prejudicial to society or individuals. Thus from its first investigations, philosophy forms a kind of alliance with good sense; they mutually promise never to be hostile to each other.
When we examine the foundations of certainty a question arises upon the first principle of human cognitions: does it exist, and what is it?
This question may have a double meaning. It may either mean a primitive truth containing all others, as the seed does plants and fruits; or simply a resting-point. The former gives rise to the question of transcendental science; the latter is the cause of the disputes in the schools on the preference of different truths in relation to the dignity of first principle.
If truth exists, there must be means of knowing it, hence the question of the value of criteria.
There is in the order of being one truth, the origin of all truths, God, who is also in the absolute intellectual order the origin of all truths. In the human intellectual order there is no one truth, the origin of all others; neither is there in the real, nor in the ideal order. The philosophy of the me can be of no account in establishing transcendental science. The doctrine of absolute identity is an absurdity; besides, it explains nothing.
The problem of representation is here proposed. The representation may be of identity, causality, or ideality. The last is founded on the preceding, but is distinct from it.
Besides the problem of representation we examined that of immediate intelligibility, a difficult problem, but one of the greatest importance to a perfect knowledge of the world of intelligences.
The disputes on the value of different principles, as to which has the right to be called fundamental, originate in a confusion of ideas. We attempt to compare things of very diverse orders, whereas this is impossible. Descartes' principle is the enunciation of a simple fact of consciousness; that of contradiction, an objective truth, the indispensable condition of every cognition: that of the Cartesians is the expression of a law of our mind. The three, each in its own way and sphere, are necessary; no one of them is totally independent of the others; the ruin of any one destroys our intelligence.
We have various criteria; but they may all be reduced to three: consciousness, or internal sense, evidence, and intellectual instinct, or common sense. Consciousness embraces all facts intimately present to our soul as purely subjective; evidence extends to all objective truths, upon which our reason is exercised; intellectual instinct is the natural inclination to assent in cases which lie without the domain of consciousness and evidence.
The intellectual instinct obliges us to give an objective value to ideas; in this case it mingles with the truths of evidence, and is, in ordinary language, confounded with evidence.
When the intellectual instinct operates upon non-evident objects and inclines us to assent, it is called common sense.
Consciousness and the intellectual instinct constitute the other criteria.
The criterion of evidence includes two things: the appearance of ideas, which belongs to consciousness; the objective value, existing or possible, which belongs to the intellectual instinct.
The testimony of the senses also has two parts: sensation as purely subjective, and this pertains to consciousness; and the belief in the objectiveness of sensations, and this pertains to the intellectual instinct.
The testimony of human authority is composed of that of the senses, which place us in relation with our fellow-men, and that of the intellectual instinct, which induces us to believe them.
Not everything is susceptible of proof; but every criterion stands the test of reason. The criterion of consciousness is a primitive fact of our nature; in that of evidence we discover the indispensable condition of the existence of reason itself; in that of the intellectual instinct by which we make our ideas objective, is found a law of our nature likewise indispensable to the very existence of reason; in that of common sense, properly so called, is the instinctive assent to truths, which, when examined, are seen to be perfectly reasonable; in that of the senses, and in that of human authority, we discover the same thing as in the other cases of common sense, which is a means of satisfying the necessities of sensation, intellectual, and moral life.
The criteria do not conflict with, but mutually aid and confirm each other. Neither is reason at war with nature, nor nature with reason; both are necessary to us; both direct us with certainty, although they are both liable to err, since they belong to a limited and very feeble being.
338. The philosophy which considers man only under a single aspect is incomplete, and in danger of becoming false. So far as certainty is concerned, we must bear in mind this last observation: to become excessively exclusive is to place one's self on the brink of error. We may analyze if we will the sources of truth; but we must not lose sight of their connection when examining them separately. To begin by conceiving a system, and then making everything conform to its demands, is to place truth in the bed of Procrustes. Unity is a great good; but we must be satisfied with the measure imposed upon us by nature. We must seek truth by human means, and in proportion to our capacity. The faculties of our soul are subject to certain laws, which we cannot abstract.
One of the most constant laws of our being is the necessity of a simultaneous exercise of our faculties, not only in order to become certain of truth, but even to discover it. Man joins the greatest multiplicity with simplicity: his soul is one, is endowed with various faculties, and united to a body of such variety and complication as to be called with much reason a little world. His faculties are in intimate and mutual relation; they exert a continuous influence upon each other. To isolate them is to mutilate, and sometimes to extinguish them. This remark is important, for it indicates the radical vice of all exclusive philosophy.
If a man have no sensations, his understanding has no materials, nor has it that stimulus, without which it remains dormant. When God united our soul and body, it was that one might aid the other; wherefore he established that admirable correspondence between the impressions of the body and the affections of the soul, which, therefore, needs the body as a medium, as an instrument, whether the action of the body upon it be supposed to be a true action, or only a simple occasion of causality of a higher order.
If a man, having no sensations, were to think, he would only think as a pure spirit; he would not be in relation with the external world, nor would he be a man in the sense in which we use this word. In such a case the body is superfluous, and there is no reason why it should be united to the soul.
If we admit sensations, and abstract reason, man is converted into a brute. He feels, but does not think: he experiences impressions, but does not combine them, for he is incapable of reflecting. Every thing succeeds in him as a series of necessary, isolated phenomena, which indicate nothing, lead to nothing, and are nothing but affections of a particular being who does not comprehend them, nor render to himself an account of them. It is even difficult to say of what kind are his relations with the external world. Arguing from appearances and analogy, it is probable that brutes also make their sensations objective; but ordinarily, their objectiveness differs from ours. Let us take sleep for example. If brutes sleep, and they probably do sleep, as certain appearances seem to indicate, it would not be strange should they not distinguish as we do between waking and sleeping.
This supposes some reflection upon acts, some comparison between the order and constancy of some, and the disorder and inconstancy of others; a reflection which man makes even in infancy, and continues to make all his life without adverting to it. When we awake from a deep sleep, we sometimes remain for several moments in doubt if we are asleep or awake: this doubt alone supposes a comparative reflection of the two states. What do we do in order to resolve this doubt? We examine the place where we are; and the fact that we are abed, in the silence and darkness of night, indicates that the previous vision had no connection with our situation, and therefore that we were asleep. Without this reflection, the sensations of sleeping and waking would be connected, and all confounded in one and the same class.
The instinct conceded to brutes, but denied to men, shows that reason was given to us in order to appreciate sensations.
There are, then, in man no criteria of truth absolutely isolated. They are all in relation with each other, they mutually affirm and complete each other; for we must note that those truths, of which all men are certain, do in some sense rest upon all the criteria.
Sensations instinctively lead us to believe in the existence of an external world; and if this belief be submitted to the examination of reason, it confirms the same truth, resting upon the general ideas of cause and effect. The pure understanding knows certain principles, and assents to them as to necessary truths. The senses, if these principles be submitted to their experience, confirm them as much as their own perfection, or that of the instruments which they use, permit. "All the radii of a circle are equal." This is a necessary truth. The senses perceive no perfect circle, but they see that the more perfect the instrument is with which they construct it, so much more nearly equal are the radii. "There is no change without a cause to produce it." The senses cannot prove the proposition in all its universality, for they are by nature limited to a determinate number of particular cases; but, so far as their experience goes, they discover the order of such a dependence in the succession of phenomena.
The senses mutually aid each other. The sensation of one sense is compared with those of the others, when there arises a doubt as to its correspondence with its object. We seem to hear the whistling of the wind; but our hearing has more than once deceived us: to make sure of the truth we look at trees or other objects. We see a figure, but there is not light sufficient to distinguish it from a shadow, we approach and touch it.
The intellectual and moral faculties also exercise a salutary influence upon each other. Ideas rectify sentiments, and sentiments ideas. The value of the ideas of one order is verified by those of another order; and the same with sentiments. Pity for one suffering punishment inspires the pardon of all criminals; the indignation inspired at seeing the victims of crime, induces to the application of punishment; both sentiments involve something that is good; but the one would engender impunity, the other cruelty; it is to temper them that the ideas of justice exist. But this justice in its turn might pronounce excessively absolute sentences; justice is one, and the circumstances of peoples very different. Justice only considers the culpability, and consequently pronounces such sentences. A sentence may not be proper; for here come in other moral ideas of a distinct order, the amendment of the guilty joined with reparation made to the injured party; ideas also of public convenience which are not repugnant to sound morals, and which may direct their application.
Complete truth, like perfect good, exists only with harmony. This is a necessary law, and to it man is subject. Since we do not intuitively see the infinite truth in which all truths are one, and all good is one; and as we are in relation with a world of finite, and consequently multiple beings, we need different powers to place us in contact, so to speak, with this variety of truths and finite goods; but as they, in their turn, spring from one same principle, and are directed to one same end, they are submitted to harmony, which is the unity of multiplicity.
339. With these doctrines we believe philosophy without skepticism to be possible. Examination is not excluded; on the contrary, it is extended and completed. This method has another advantage; it does not make philosophy extravagant, and philosophers exceptional. Philosophy cannot be so generalized as to become popular; human nature is opposed to this; but there is not on the other hand any necessity of condemning it to a misanthropic isolation by force of extravagant professions. In such a case philosophy degenerates into philosophism. Exposition of facts, conscientious examination, clear language; such we conceive sound philosophy to be. This does not require it to cease to be profound, unless by profoundness be meant darkness. The rays of the sun light up the remotest depths of space.
340. I am aware that some philosophers of our age think otherwise, that they deem it necessary, when they examine the fundamental questions of philosophy, to shake the foundations of the world; and yet I have never been able to persuade myself that it was necessary to destroy in order to examine, or that in order to become philosophers we ought to become madmen. We may render the unreasonableness and extravagance of these masters of humanity sensible by an allegory, although the simplicity of my language may somewhat mortify their philosophical profoundness. The reader needs some solace and rest, now that he has followed me through such abstruse treatises, which all the power of the writer does not suffice to illustrate, and still less to render attractive.
A noble, rich, and numerous family preserves in magnificent archives the records of its nobility, alliances, and possessions. Some of these documents are hardly legible, either on account of the handwriting, their great antiquity, or the wear and tear of years. There is also a suspicion that many of these documents are apocryphal; although it is certain that many must be authentic, since the nobility and other rights of the family, so universally recognized, must be founded on some of them, and it is known that no other exists. Such is the state of things. Some curious person enters the archives, and casting a glance upon the shelves, recesses, and drawers, says: "This is all confusion; to distinguish what is authentic from the apocryphal, and put all in good order, we must light a fire at the four corners of the archives, and then examine the ashes."
What shall we think of such a proceeding? This curious person is the philosopher who, to distinguish the true and the false in our cognitions, begins by denying all truth, all certainty, all reason.
We may be told that there is no question of denying, but of doubting; but whoever doubts all truth, destroys it; whoever doubts all certainty denies it; whoever doubts all reason annihilates it. Prudence and common sense in small things are based upon the same principles as wisdom in great things. Let us go on with our allegory, and see what common sense would indicate ought to be done in this case.
To take an inventory of whatever now exists, without forgetting any thing, however contemptible it may appear; to make such temporary classifications as are deemed most proper to facilitate the examination, reserving the final classification to the close; to note carefully dates, characters, references, and thus to distinguish priority and posteriority; to see if there may be found some primitive documents, referring to others anterior, which certify the origin of the family; to establish clear rules for the distinguishing that which is primitive from what is only secondary; and not to insist on referring all documents to one alone, exacting a unity which, perhaps, they have not; for it may have happened that there were several primitive and mutually independent documents. It would even be advisable in distinguishing the authentic from the apocryphal not to burn any thing, for the apocryphal sometimes aids in the interpretation of what is authentic, and it may be desirable to ascertain who were the falsifiers, and what their motives. Moreover, who knows but what he judges a document to be apocryphal, which seems to him so to be solely because he does not understand it? Care, then, is to be taken to make a due separation, and if the apocryphal is of no use in establishing titles, or in defending them, it may serve for the history of the archives, which is no trifling reason for distinguishing the apocryphal from the authentic.
The human mind does not examine itself until well developed; then, at the first glance, it sees in itself a connection of sensations, ideas, judgments, and affections of a thousand kinds, the whole interwoven in an inextricable manner. To increase the complication, it is not alone, but in intimate relation with its like, in mutual communication of sensations, ideas, and sentiments; and all in their turn in contact with, and under the influence of, dissimilar beings of amazing variety, the union of which forms the universe. Shall it begin by throwing it all down? Shall it reduce all to ashes, and hope to rise like the phenix from the pyre? Shall it arbitrarily invent a fact, a principle, and say: "I must have a resting-point, I will take this, and upon it I will found science!" Shall we, before examining, before analyzing, say: "all this is one; there is nothing if there be not absolute unity; in it I place myself, and all that I do not see from my point of view I reject?" No! what we have to do, is first to ascertain what is in our mind, and then to examine, classify it, and give to it its true value; not commence by mad and impotent efforts against nature, but to lend an attentive ear to her inspirations.
There is no philosophy without a philosopher; no reason without a rational being; the existence of the subject is then a necessary supposition. No reason is possible if the contradiction of being and not-being be possible; all reason, then, supposes the principle of contradiction to be true. When we examine reason it is reason that examines; it needs rules, light; all examination, then, supposes this light, the evidence and the legitimacy of its criterion. Man does not make himself, he finds himself already made; it is not he who imposes the conditions of his being; he finds them already imposed. These conditions are the laws of his being, and why contend against them? "Besides factitious prejudices," says Schelling, "man has others primordial, placed in him not by education, but by nature herself, which in all men hold the place of principles of cognition, and are a shoal to the free-thinker." For my own part I do not seek to be more than all men; if I cannot be a philosopher without ceasing to be a man, I renounce philosophy and adhere to humanity.
