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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER

* e

I'UDI.ISHED BY

JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW,
JJublishci-g to the anitorrsitfi,

MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK.
Loua-ou, - - Simpkiu, Hamihon and Co.
Cmnbridge, - Macniillan and Bowes.
luiinOurgh, - Douglas and Foulis.

MDCCCXCV,

COMTE, MILL, AND
SPEiNCER

AN OUTLINE OF PHILOSOPHY

JOHN WATSON, LL.D.

FROKESSOR OK MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF QUKKn's COLLKGF,
KINGSTON, CANAUA, AUTHOR OF " KANT ANU HIS ENGLISH CRITICS "

GLASGOW
JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS
^ublishcra to the anibersitg

NEW VORK: MACMILLAN & CO.
1895

2ClGli)

PREFACE.

By the use of a double title I have tried to indicate that
my aim in this little work has been at once critical and
constructive. The philosophical creed which commends
itself to my mind is what in the text I have called In-
tellectual Idealism, by which I mean the doctrine that
we are capable of knowing Reality as it actually is, and
that Reality when so known is absolutely rational. Such
a doctrine seems to many to be presumptuous, contrary
to the sober spirit of inductive inquiry, and based on an
untenable theory of knowledge and conduct. My aim has
been to show that these objections rest upon a misunder-
standing of the idealistic position, at least as held by
such writers as the late Professor T. H. Green and the
present Master of Balliol. The general proof of Idealism
must consist in showing that, while the determination of
Reahty by such categories as coexistence, succession, and
causality, is capable of vindication so long as it is not
regarded as ultimate, it becomes false when affirmed to
be final, and that we are compelled at last to characterize
existence as purposive and rational. There are various
ways of enforcing this view. The method which I have
followed here is to attempt to show that the ideas which
lie at the basis of Mathematics, Physics, Biology, Psy-

PREFACE.

chology and Ethics, Religion and Art, are related to each
other as developing forms or phases of one idea — the
idea of self-conscious Reason. But, partly out of respect
for their eminence, and partly as a means of orientation
both for myself and for the students under my charge
(for whom this Outline was c riginally prepared), I have
examined certain views of Comte, Mill, and Spencer — and
also, I may add, of Darwin an 1 Kant — which appear to
me inadequate.

No apology seems needed fcr the publication at the
present time of an Outline of Philosophy. There is no
lack of Introductions to Psycho ogy and Ethics, but, so
far as I know, there is not in English any book which
seeks to give in moderate compass a statement of Phil-
osophy as a whole. I am well aware that there Is danger
in generalities, but there seems to be just now an even
greater danger that Philosophy, in the large sense in
which it was understood by Plato and Aristotle, should
be lost in artificial divisions and in a mass of empirical
detail. There is no doubt a vast body of material —
biological, psychological, and historical — which will have
to be reduced to system some day ; but in the meantime
there is a certain justification in a work like this, which
tries to fix the main outlines of a complete system of
philosophy.

A teacher naturally prefers his own way of putting
things, even when he agrees in general with another, but
perhaps the following pages, which contain the substance
of lectures delivered by the author to his own students,
may be of some use to students and even to teachers in
other Universities. Should any of my fellow-teachers think
of using this Outline in the class-room, I may mention

PREFACE,

Vll

that in my own practice lecturing is only a part, and
jjerhaps the least important part of the work actually
(lone. So far as practicable, it is my habit to insist upon
a first-hand study by the class of the authors I criticise.
Kvery year's experience confirms me in the conviction
which I ventured to express some years ago in the Preface
to my Selections from Kant, that lectures upon authors
who have not been read, have very poor educational results.
In preparing this Outline I have been most indebted
to Green's Prolegomena to Ethics and the criticism of Mill
contained in his Philosophical Works; to Mr. Caird's
Comte and Critical Account of the Philosophy of Kant;
and, in a lesser degree, to the late Professor Stanley
Jevons' articles on Mill's Logic in the Contemporary Review.

UnIVF.RSITY ok QuEKN's Cot.I-KGK,

Kingston, Canada,
19/"// Nov., 1894.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
THE PROBLEM OK FIIILOSOPHV.

The Aristotelian and Platonic (icfinitions of philosophy—These de-
finitions explained— Why it is ' ;tter not Vo define Philosophy as
a " science "—Philosophy and the sciences— Mathematics from
the point of view of eminent mathematicians like Riemann,
Helmholtz, Clifford, and Sylvester— Mathematics as J. S. Mill
views \\.~ Explanation of Mill's nnv of mat hematic s--{\) Mathe-
matics not an exact science— It rests upon definitions— Which
rest upon experience— No real lines, circles, etc.— Discrepancy
between geometrical definitions and " sensibles "— (2) Mathe-
matics not a necessary science— It rests upon induction— No
accumulation of instances can warrant a wwj/"— Imagination cannot
re-present what has not been //-^j<f;/to/— Experience can never
warrant a conclusion wider than itself—Nothing impossible in
straight lines enclosing a space, or in 2 -F 3 = 6— Apparent necessity
of mathematical propositions therefore explicable on the principle
of "inseparable association "—Mill's view may be put in a
sentence: "Mathematics is not an exact or necessary science,
but states what we have found to hold good within our limited
experience, its apparent necessity being due to confusion between
a necessity in the nature of things and the subjective necessity
of inseparable association "—Mill's view of mathematics will be
considered later— (i) The mathematician never thinks of asking
Mill's question— Explanation of the mathematician's view— He
has no theory of knowledge, and never asks Plato's question—

CON'KNTS.

Mill and all philosophers have asked that question — Hence iwo
questions : (a) What do we know about the number and magni-
tude of things-' (/>) What is the nature of matheniatic-d know-
ledge!* — (2) The absolute opposition of knowledge and the object
of knowledge cannot be maintained — Mill's "round square"
means that there is no absolute fixity in the quantitative relations
of things — Hence we are forced to inquire into the possibility of
knowing existence in its ultimate nature — If real existence cannot
be known, real knowledge is impossible — Car v/e not show that
we are capable of knowing reality as it truly is ? — This is genuine
humility, though it sound? like arrogance — (3) How mathematics
originated — It is not a collection of detached propositii/ns, but an
organized system. — Mill is well aware of this, and the first lesson
of students is to get at Mill's point of view — Familiar illus-
tration of that view — Summary: (l) Mathematics directs its
attention to the objects of knowledge, philosophy to the nature
of knowledge : (2) mathematics assumes that those objects are
absolutely ro*aI, while philosophy inquires into the truth or false-
hood of that assumption : (3) philosophy admits the internal
cpn.isiency of mathematics, but refuses to admit without criticism
that ai^y of its conclusions are true of things as they are in their
ultimate nature — The physical sciences assume that no change
ever takes place which is not due to some ^viw^t-- -Illustration
(taken from Mill's Logic): "A body is found io assume a
crystalline form: what is the cause of the change?" — No sensible
man ever did, or ever will, question so obvious a fact — Hume
thought ii impossible to show that there is any necessary con-
nection in nature — Explanation of Hume's view of Causation — (l)
Another proof (if any were needed) that there is something in
Philosophy — Hume's sceptical doctrine evidently rests upon his
peculiar theory of knowledge — Perhaps Locke, Hume, and even
Mill may be wrong — (2) Obviously, we cannot tell what is the
nature of knowledge without determining at the same time the
nature of real existence — Illustration from Shakespeare's Mid-
SHVimcr Atg/it's Dream — (3) We now see that Philosophy has to
examine the principles assumed by such sciences as physics and
chemistry — Philosophy admits that, in whatever sense any one
of the propositions which sciences contain is 'rue, all the rest
are true — Philosophy may (provisionally) be divided into — (i)
''hilosophy of Nature, (2) Philosophy of Mind, (3) Philosophy of
God, ...-..--... I

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER II.

rniLOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

Explanation c*" Conitt's view f)f the philosophical doctrine known as
the Relativity of Knowledge — His "subjective" and 'objective"
synthesis — In simple language he means: "Man must be con-
tent to gain such a limited knowledge of the world and of
burner, life as .vill enable him to make use of nature for the
perfecting of society" — Comte's own intellectual development is
partly explained by his relation to Rousseau and the French
Revolution — Sum of Rousseau's teaching: "All the evils of man
are due to society, and he can reach perfection only by being
freed from all restraint and allowed to foP' w his natural in-^
stincts" — Even in the economic region this form of individualism
was not justified of its children — What Comte learned from St.
Simon — Co ' . 's three stages, theological, metaphysical, positiz'c —
Fetichism, Polytheism, and Monotheism — Metaphysic — Physical
science — Extract from Cotirs <it Philosophie Positi'i'e — What has
been given a mere hint of the profound philosophy of Comte —
His social philosophy the most valuable part of his system —
Formulation of what is (unfortunately) known as Agnosticism
— Our question : Is such a doctrine consistent with itself? —
Ambiguity in ihe doctrine as expressed by Comte — (l) It some-
times means for him that the only true knowledge is of laws
not of causes — Illustration from the first book of the Iliad — How
Lewes and Comic deal with Homer — In his main contention
Comte is right ; it is no explanation of a pestilence to say tliat
an offended God sent it in his wrath, or that it is produced by
a "poisonous principle" — Hut Comte does not see that this docs
not banish religion or even philosophy — ('s) Comte also assumes
that the human mind is necessarily limi'ed to the knowledge of
phenomena, and is conscious of its own limitation — The conceit
of knowledge most vigorous in those who have recently learned
a few elementary truths — No man ever supposed we have com-
plete kiiowltdge (c^ue take the liberty of excluding maniacs) — The
question is : Has man a knowledge only of things as to his
finite mind they seem to be? — Comte's limitation of knowledge
to phenomena implies two mutually exclusive realms ; 'hink out
for yourselves what this means : Comte has not done so — Kant's
remark about dogmatism and scepticism worth noting — {a) Are

CONTENTS.

there two spheres of existence'? — Surely that is nonsense —
{b) After all a phenomenon is merely an appearance — Plato's M^a
helps to illiistrale Comte — Comte's doctrine implies that there
are two distinct kinds of intelligence — This seems to be greater
nonsense still : it at once affirms and denies the consciousness
of limitation, which is self-contradictory — Comte's doctrine of the
relativity of knowledge plausible because knowledge is only in
its infa'^oy — But knowledge cannot consist in adding particular to
particular — Is any knowledge the apprehension of particulars? —
A knowledge of mere particular is a contradiction in terms
— Simole illustration from seeing a piece of sugar — We cannot
pe'>'ceive, or even imagine, space as a whole, but we can think it
as one — Resides the particular aspect of an object there is always
implied a certain universal aspect — Bearing of this simple fact on
the doctrine of the relativity of knowledge — Illustration from the
law of gravitation (Comte's own instance), - - - - 21

CHAPTER III.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE.

GEOMETRY.

Mathematical knowledge is the science of magnitude — It is usually sup-
posed to deal with Space and Motion, though ^e might add Time —
In that case we should have three sciences: Geometry, Kinematics,
and Chronometry — Our object therefore to inquire whether geo-
metry is a real science of nature — We assume space to be of three
dimensions only — Mill says that geometry is not a science — (i) Ex-
amination of MilVs view ofi^comctry — His view re-stated, but more
in detail — Mill here takes it for granted that we have a knowledge
of the actual properties of real things : he is not contrasting a
reality unknown to us with a reality as we suppose it to be —
Kant takes n different view, holding that to an infinite in-
telligence the ^geometrical properties under which objects present
themselves t us are seen to be unreal — Mill's view is truer
than Kant's — Euclid would have been unable to understand
Mill — The mathematician, while aware that points, lines, etc.,
are not sensible objects, does not suppose that he is dealing
with mere fiction of abstraction — What are "real things?" —
Mill's answer— Objections to ii — (i) Our perception of the

■?

•«

.3.

CONTENTS.

XIU

position and figure of a sensible object is not derived from
sensation — Yet Mill mttst hold that the geometrical properties of
bodies are somehow given us in sensation — Perhaps a number of
sensations may be so associated as to appear extended — Hume
thought so — Illustration of Hume's view from the perception of
the edge of a desk — Conclusion : No geometrical property of a
sensible object can be derived from any number or variety of
sensations, nor from any association of sensations — An "ultimate
inexplicability " a mere refuge of the d-istitute — What is an
"object?" — We shall be helped to an answer by considering
how we come to have a perception of the position of a particle
of matier — If space were a sphere with a definite boundary we
might locate the particle, but space has no boundary that we
can perceive — Are there any purely individual particles? — In the
perception of objects as in space, their mutual exte/nality is
implied — Hence it involves a peculiar intellectual form of con-
sciousness — Now we are in a position to estimate the value of
Mill's view of geometry — In a sense every one is an un-
conscious mathematician — (i.vometry does not say that the edge
of any object is straight — (2) Mill's denial of the acctiracy of
geometry has no real foundation; but jjerhaps the propositions
of geometry are not universal and necessary — Detailed fxainina-
tion of AlilTs viezu — Conclusion : The nature of our consciousness
is such that any experience of the enclosure of a space by two
straight lines is an impossible experience — The author's own
view, 43

CHAPTER IV.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE {Continued).

ARITHMETIC AND ALGEBRA.

Statement of MiWs Theory of iVu/nl>ers--\\e has two main objects in
view : {a) to show that arithmetic and algebra rest upon induc-
tion from sensible obseivations ; {b) to prove that their supposed
accuracy and precision arises from their hyjjothetical character —
(i) Mill does not criticise the a priori view, but it might be put
thus : it rests (he says) upon induction from sensible observations —
The view of the "nominalists" — Mill objects thpt Nominalism
virtually denies the theory of numbers to be based upon inductiouy

XIV

CONTENTS.

and he is right — What, then, has led the nominalist to suppose
that there are no general propositions in regard to numbers? —
The reason is that in arithmetical and algebraic operations we
deal with symbols of sensible objects — "Ten" represents an actual
fact of sensible observation — Arithmetic differs in this respect from
geometry — {2) Examination of MilV s 7'heory of Numbers y - 76

CHAPTER V.
PHILOSOPHY OK NATURE {Continued).

THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES.

Mill seeks to distinguish the processes by which generalizations of
science are reached from various logical processes confounded
with them — (i) Induction not the mere registration in language of
a given number of individual observations — (2) Certain mathe-
matical processes not inductive — (3) Description of a set of
observed phenomena not inductive — Mill's definition of an induc-
tion — Examination of Mill's definition — Causation — Three kinds of
laws of nature — The ground of induction is the law of causation
— Definitions of a "cause" — Examination of Mill's definition of
a cause as an "invariable" and "unconditional" antecedent — A
cause is an unchangeable fact — Distinction drawn by Mill between
permanent and changeable causes irrelevant and misleading — This
introduces new problem, ------- 86

CHAPTER VI.

'^k

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE {Continued).

BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE.

Third problem of philosophy of nature — Like Aristotle we commonly
distinguish between organic and inorganic beings — The distinction
is denied by two sets of thinkers: (a) those who " level down"; {b)
those who " level up " — Therefore we must not assume it — Is there
a biological knowledge of nature? — Spencer defines life as "the
power of continuous adjustment of internal relations to external
relations" — Perhaps a better definition is " the principle by which
a being maintains its individuality by a continuous adaptation to

CONTENTS.

external conditions " — The individuality of a living being is
dependent upon the organization of its parts, as Aristotle saw —
Where there is little differentiation of organs, it is haril to say
whether there is one being or several — Living beings also produce
other individuals of the same general type as themselves — Appar-
ently, therefore, we must apply to them a different conception,
\\7..y final cause — Some, however, hold that the theory of develop-
ment, as enunciated by Darwin, is incompatible with a teleological
explanation of the world — Darwin himself assumes a line of
demarcation between organic and inorganic beings — Origin of
Species illustrated by Alfred Russell Wallace's instance of the
rook and croio — Darwin's view is that species are not immutable —
(l) Struggle for existence — (2) Principle of heredity — The doctrine
extended to man by Darwin [Descent of Man) — Animals saitl to
exhibit most, if not all, the mental and moral faculties, and even
to have the rudiments of r(.''gion — Lowest races of man very little
superior to higher animals — Darwin's view implies (l) a continuous
development of intellectual and moral qualities from lower animals
up to savages, and from savages up to civilized man ; (2) that this
development may be explained by the law of natural selection — As
non-scientific men, we must assume the truth of Darwinism as a
scientific theory — The principle of natural selection, as Huxley
shows, overthrows the old conception of design as formulated by
Paley — But is it inconsistent with a philosophical conception of
teleology? — Darwinism presupposes (i) that the laws of inorganic
nature are inviolable ; (2) that in each living being there is a
tendency or impulse to maintain itself and to continue its species ;
(3) that the variations in the several parts of the living being are
consistent with the impulse to self-maintenance and race-mainten-
ance — Do these assumptions not presuppose some form of tele-
ology? — Darwin, as an unsophisticated scientific man, was unaware
that Paley's conception of design was obsolete — Reasons for
maintaining a philosophical teleology — (l) If there were no harmony
between an organism and its environment, the organism could not
exist at all — (2) If there was no self-maintenance and the tendency
to race-maintenance, there would be no "struggle for existence " —
(3) The tendency to organization implies purpose of some kind —
These considerations do not proi'e teleology, but may show that it
is not absurd, ......... loi

XVI

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER VII.

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

Re-statement of Darwin's view of man in his relation to the animals
— Darwin certainly right in holding that the higher animals dis-
play elementary intelligence — What follows ? — Leibnitz saw phil-
osophy further than Darwin — Every real thmg he holds to be an
individual sulistance or to have a unique existence of its own
separating it from all other existence — All existence is discrete —
The Atomists made the mistake of supposing that there are real
material atoms existing in space, whereas there is no real space
(or time) — The "confused" perception of monads — Leibnitz'
doctrine suggests how the Darwinian conception must be com-
pleted — Tyndall and Ilaeckel saw this — Darwin really holds two
radically different views of the world without knowing it —
Tendency of the 'etter of Darwin to abolish the distinction
between intelligence and unintelligence — Rigid application of the
theory of natu-al selection to man yields this lesult — (a) No
freedom of knowledge — {b) Nor can there be any freedom of
action — Right and Wrong names for the pleasure of approbation
and the pain of disapprobation — Darwin's view implies that
mental and moral qualities are free of natural characteristics,
received by inheritance and called out by the reaction of the
organism on the environment — Natural selection cannot explain
the fact of knowledge as it exists in man — Meaning of curiosity,
interest, and attention — Knowledge, even as it existed for primi-
tive man implied (i) the 'onsciousness of a distinction between
the apparent and the real ; (2) the capacity of apprehending
the real in virtue of intelligence — Hence the attempt to reduce
knowledge to the mere flow of impressions in a subject that
passively receives them, makes even the simplest knowledge un-
intelligible — But we must be careful not to fall into Descartes'
mistake of supposing that there are "innate conceptions" — (r)
Suppose the mind to be absolutely separated from all objects,
and it has no conceivable nature — Descartes saw this, hence
he fell back upon the view that there are certain conceptions
which the mind has by its very nature, e.g., that of God —

pure

is a

This view untenable — To say, e.g., that a child
potentiality is to use language that has no precise signification —
(2) Descartes' other assumption, that there is an apprehension

CONTENTS.

XVII

by the mind of what is external to it, is equally inadmissible —
For him there is (logically) no naterial world— Proof of this
statement — The Cartesian doctrine of the separation of mind
and matter therefore leads to the denial of all knowledge —
Conclusion : Existence cannot be divided into two antithetical
halves — So far as we have knowledge we are freed from any
unintelligible force acting externally upon us — Final objection
to the principle of natural selection as an explanation of the
knowledge of man — (l) Darwin's "selfish tendency or impulse"
is neither selfish nor unselfish but non-selfish — The fact is that
man, grasping the law cf his environment, and grasping the law
of his own nature, turiis the environment into the means of
realizing his inchoate ideal — {2) Darwin's "social impulses" are
neither selfish nor unselfish but super-selfish — For (a) man is by
his very nature social (as Aristotle says), and forms part of an
organism in which the good of each is bound U]) with the good
of all ; and therefore (^) in submitting himself to the law of
reason he gains true freedom, 123

'^>

bjects,
hence
ptions
jod—
pure
tion —
tnsion

CHAPTER Vlll. ,
PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

Intelligence and will develop pari passu — Apparent conflict between
the idea of man and the idea of the world — Spencer says that
every philosophy musL assume the absolute distinction of "subject"
and "object" — His view explained — The plain man accepts it
as palpably true, because he does not understand it — Spencer's
problem is : Granting the opposition of subject and object, how
does the subject come to have a knowledge, or an apparent
knowledge, of the object? — His derivation of "relation of sequence
and relation of coexistence" (i.e., of time and space) — Parallelism
of "feelings" and nervous, changes — Apparently simple feeling
really complex — The subject thus reducible to units of feeling,
the object to units of force — Objection : How can the subject
apprehend the object ? — Spencer answers that we do not know
reality in its absolute nature — Hence we can think of matter only
in terms of mind, and of mind only in terms of matter — Spencer's
five propositions — All five untenable — (i) Examination of the
absolute opposition of subject and object — It involves a confusion
between (a) the separation and (^) the logical distinction of subject

XVUl

CONTENTS.

! •

n :'

i t-

and object — A sul)jecl conscious only of Us own states would never
become conscious of an external object — Why the separation of
subject and object seems indubitable — (l) The objective world
is not dependent upon anybody's knowledjje — (2) It existed //vVv-
to the subject — Similarly, the subject has different properties
from the object — The answer of Philosophical Idealism — (a) The
supposed "separation" of the object rests upon an untenable
dualism — Inorganic things are not independent of one another —
Nor are organic l)eings — Nor can we find Mind existing inde-
pendently — The objective world is therefore self-conscious — (/')
Scientific evolutionists deny the identity of subject and object,
because the objective world existed l>e/ore the subject —But (l)
this assumes that "subject" must mean this or that individual
subject — (2) It really abolishes the subject — The category of
"cause" falsely applied to the relation between existence as a
whole and its modes — Summary of the idealistic view — Comparison
of Scientific Evolutionism and Philosophical Idealism — Self-
determination in kntnvledge — Self-determination in action —
Criticism of Spencer's second proposition, that the object is for
us a complex of feelings, the subject a complex of movements, - 150

CHAPTER IX.
MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

ill! \

'ill

1 i

IDEA OF DUTY.

( I ) " Duty " implies an opposition of an ideal world and the actual
world — (2) It also implies an opposition between a law of reason
and a larv of inclination — Why the opposition seems absolute —
Analysis of desire — The contrast of the ideal and actual self not
absolute — Carlyle)saw this — The Stoical conception of " reason "
— How far it is true — The abstract idea of duty, and particular
duties — No " natural law" in the "spiritual world " — " Renuncia-
tion " not the last word of morality — No real opposition between
appetite and reason — "Duty" may be defined as " The identifi-
cation of the actual self with the ideal self, by a particular determin-
ation of it" — Kant holds that "Duty" implies (i) an absolute law
— (2) self-determination by this law — His reasons for maintaining
that action done from desire is contrary to duty — Objections to the
form of Kant's doctrine — His analysis of the " categorical impera-
tive " — Distinguishes between (i) duties of imperfect obligation,

CONTENTS.

XIX

and (2) duties of perfect obligation — 1 lis three formuhie — Dcsnc/or
pleasure involves (i) a particular o/)/\y/ or (■//(/, (2) conceived as
desirable for me, (3) which is distinguished both from the object
and the subject — Kant is therefore wrong in assuming that desire
for an object is desire for pleasure — Problem of morality is : What
is the distinguishing characteristic of the bject we oui^hi to desire
— 'ihe solution consists in each individual conceiving of himself as
a member in a social organism — Historical proof of this — Strength
and weakness of Kant's ethical theory, 195

CHAPTER X.
MORAL PHILOSOPHY {Continued).

IDKA OK FREEDOM.

The problem of freedom lias the same root as the problem of duty
— The solution turns upon our view of "motives" — "Deter-
minism " does not explain the transition from desire to action —
What a "motive" really is — Meaningless to say that "the
strongest motive " leads to action — There is no " liberty of
indifference" — Kant's view of freedom — He holds that in willing
the law of reason man is free — This would make man irre-
sponsible for doing wrong — How the contrast of freedom and
necessity arises.

THE su^:MUM bonum.
Hedonist view of the sumtnum bonum — Kant distinguishes between
(rt) the chief good and {l>) the complete good — Statement of his
doctrine — His "postulate" of immortality — His moral proof of
the being of God — Objections to his argument for immortality —
His proof of the being of God must be revised, - - - 235

CHAPTER XI.
MORAL PIHLOSOPHY (Continue<i).

PHILOSOPHY OF RIGHTS.

Self-realization is exhibited in the sphere of individual rights —
Kantian distinction of the sphere of rights from the sphere
of morals — Rights (l) belong to persons, not to things, (2) are
held against all other persons, (3) are reciprocal — Rights dis-
tinguished by Kant as {a) rights of property, {b) right of con-
tract, (c) personal rights— The State based upon an "original

CONTKNTS.

contract "-—Ultimate form of the State a Republic— All class
legislation wrong -Kant's view of penal justice — Basis of Inter-
national law — Articles for an everlasting peace — Kant's doctrine
of rights repeats his opposition of desire and reason in a new
form — (l) His theory of society not self-consistent — It virtually
admits that society is the basis of rights — Imperfection of his
view of the family and the State — (2) Kant's opposition of law
and morality untenable — (3) His view of punishment inadequate
—Kant's system of moral virtues —Two ends which we oufiht
to realize : (l) our own perfection, (2) the happiness of others —
Distinction of "ol/ligations of right" and "obligations of virtue '
— The three characteristics of duty — Duties to ourselves — Duties
to others — Kant wrong in opposing these, - - - - 257

i [

CHAPTER XII.
I'lIILOSOl'IIY OF THE ABSOLUTE.

RELIGION.

Kant separates Morality from Religion — Ilis interpretation of "Original
Sin" — How he treats the Pauline doctrine of Redemption — Kant's
conception of evil in advance of the doctrine of the Stoics —
But his doctrine must be reinterpreted — He has not got rid of
Individualism — No opposition of outer and inner law — Morality
not independent of Religion

ART.
Art an objective presentation of the ideal — Kant distinguishes
between the beautiful and the sublime — An aesthetic judgment
rests upon a disinterested contemplation of beauty — The sublime
due to the disharmony of the object as perceived and as conceived —
Two forms of the sublime: mathematical, or that which is too great
in magnitude to be pictured by the imagination ; and dynamical, or
the feeling which arises in presence of the forces of nature — Beauty
excludes the idea of definite purpose — The products of art a symbol
of moral ideas — Value of Kant's conception of beauty — Examination
of Kant's affirmations (i) that beauty rests upon feeling; {2) that
it involves thought, 282

ERRATUM.
Page 76, line 9 from foot, delete "not" after "do."

>lic— All class
Jasis of Inlcr-
^ant's doctrine
son in a new
; — It virtually
fection of his
).sition of law
nt inadequate
ich we ought
is of others —
)ns of virtue '
L'lves — Duties
■ 257

COMTE. MILL. AND SPKNCKR.

CHAPTER I.

of "Original
tion — Kant's
the Stoics —
t got rid of
w— Morality

Ustinguishes
c judgment
rhe sublime
:onceived —
is too great
namical, or
ire — Beauty
irt a symbol
lamination
g ; (2) that
- 282

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

"The feeling of wonder," says Plato in his dialogue the
T/ieaeietus,^ -is the genuine mark of the philosopher-
for philosophy has its origin in wonder ; and he was no
bad genealogist who said that Iris is the child of Wonder."
Those who are destitute of this feeling he calls the
"uninitiated," who "will not admit that there is any
reality but that which they can take hold of with their
hands." Philosophy, in other words, at first exists as an
immediate feeling or conviction, that things in their real
or ultimate nature are not what at first they seem to be
It looks beyond the shows of things to a reality that is
felt to be implied, although it is not yet grasped by the
mind as a definite object, the nature of which can be
expressed in precise and definite language. We can say
negatively, that reality, as it is behind the veil of sense,
IS not that which we see with our eyes and grasp with
our hands ; but at first we cannot apply to it any definite

^ Theaetetus, 1 55 c D.

,♦«

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

Ill

i' i

1 i

Ihi

i
I

predicates. Wonder may therefore be said to be a self-
contradictory feeling. It deniv.'S that what we know is
real, and yet it cannot tell us what reality is. We are
conscious of our ignorance, and yet we claim to know
that we have no knowledge. The man of hard common-
sense, the "uninitiated" as Plato would call him, can
therefore make out a very good case for his rejection of
philosophy as a useless ([uest for what can ne.er be
known. I^ike Mephistopheles in Goethe's Faust^ he jmdes
himself on taking things as they are, and refusing to
follow the lead of mere ideas. Plato, 0!\ the other hand,
finds in the vision of the ideal the true reality. Those
who are content with the first or unrefleciive view of
things he likens to men confined within a dark under-
ground cave, with a narrow opening tov/ards the light,
who see only the shadows of things thrown on the wall as
they are carried past the mouth of the cavti. In this con-
viction of the reality of the invisible and intangible, Plato
is at one with those who believe that in art and religion
there is revealed something truer than all that we can
directly perceive with our senses. Poetry and religion,
as well as philosophy, claim that there is a, contradiction
between what see7ns and what /x, and ths.t true reality
can be revealed only to the higher v^ision. He who is
satisfied with the first or unreflective view of things need
never hope to know reality as it truly is. There is a
divine unrest which compels us to search for the hidden
truth of things. As Aristotle says, it is in the effort to
be rid of ignorance that men have been led to construct
philosophies. The object of philosophy is therefore to
search for the first principles of things; to discover, if
that be possible, what is as distinguished from what seems

,f^

THK I'ROm.EM OF PlilLOSOPHY.

o be a self-

we know is

s. \Vc arc

m to know

rd comnion-

II liim, can

rejection of

II ne.er be

5/, he prides

refusing to

other hand,

lity. Those

ive view of

dark under-

s the light,

the wall as

In this con-

igible, Plato

md religion

lat we can

id religion,

3ntradiction

rue reality

ie who is

lings need

There is a

the hidden

le effort to

construct

lerefore to

discover, if

what seems

to be. Hence Aristotle well says that philosoph> has to
do with existence as it really is.

It must be observed, however, that philosophy cannot
be defined as the sa'e//a of reality. For it may be that
the ultimate nature of reality cannot be discoNjred by
man. As a matter of fact there is at the present time
an influential class of thinkers who hold that man is so
constituted that he never can have a knowledge of ulti-
mate reality. Human knowledge, they maintain, never
reaches beyond phenomena or appearances. Much may
be learned about the nature of phenomena, but nothing
about the reality which lies behind phenomena. Carry
your investigation to the extre'ne limits of the phenomenal
world ; lay bare the laws which govern the minutest and
the most distant object accessible to our observation,
even when it is aided by the most delicate instruments,
and you are as far as ever from the ultimate nature c*"
things. The progress of human knowledge does not
enable us to break through the charmed circle within
which we are compelled to move, but only serves to
bring into bolder relief the great unknowable reality
against which the bounded circumference of the known
world becomes visible. I hope to show that this doc-
trine of the unknowability of ultimate reality cannot be
accepted, but manifestly we cannot, in the face of such
a denial, assume that reality as it truly is can be known by
man. If it can be established that philosophy leads to
the knowledge of ultimate reality, we may then define it
as the science of first principles ; but, in the meantime,
we must be content to say, that it is t..e search for first ^f
principles.

To understand all that is implied in this definition we

' i

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

ill':,

!lii!

must make- clear to ourselves the distinction between
philosophy and other branches of human knowledge, and
especially between philosophy and science.

None of the sciences seems *o rest or so firm a
foundation as the science of mathematics. That 2 + 2 =
4 ; that the straight line between two points is the
shortest that can be drawn ; that the interior angles of a
triangle are equal to two right angles : such propositions
as these are usually assumed to be absolutely true and
to admit of no possible exception. The mathematician
is therefore accustomed to assume that the propositions
of his science are demonstrably true, and that no con-
ceivable advance of knowledge can ever upset them. He
does not speak with stammering tongue, as Aristotle
says of the early Greek philosophers, but announces his
results with perfect assurance of their truth. And yet
there is a question which mathematics has not raised,
and without resolving which the absolute truth of its
conclusions cannot be established. It is assum.ed by the
mathematician that the objects which we number and
measure could not be of an entirely different nature
from what they are for us. When it is said that a
straight line is the shortest distance between two points,
it is taken for granted that every possible space must be,
like ours, of three dimensions and absolutely devoid of
' urvature. Il is further assumed that what is affirmed of
lines, triangles, and circles in the abstract is equally true
of real lines, triangles, and circles. Now both of these
propositions have been denied. It is maintained by such
eminent mathematicians as Riemann, Helmholtz, Clifford,
and Sylvester, that our space of three dimensions is only
one of an infinite number of possible spaces, and that.

: !

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

ion between
Dwledge, and

so firm a

rhat 2 + 2 =

)ints is the

angles of a

propositions

jly true and

athematician

propositions

hat no con-

; them. He

as Aristotle

inounces his

1. And yet

not raised,

truth of its

m.ed by the

lumber and

rent nature

said that a

two points,

ce must be,

devoid of

affirmed of

sc|ually true

th of these

led by such

tz, CHfiford,

ons is only

;, and that.

were our experience wider, we should find that our
Euclidian geometry is of very limited and partial applica-
tion. It is further maintained by so eminent a thinker
as John Stuart Mill, that the propositions of arithmetic
and geometry are not absolutely true even in their
application to the sensible reality which we are capable
of knowing. The only source of our knowledge, it is
held, is experience. No real knowledge can be obtained
from the mere exercise of our own minds. To get at
reality at all we must go to experience. But experience
can never assure us that what has presented itself to us
in a certain way might not possibly appear in an entirely
different form. Hence, mathematics, if it is a science at
all, must rest upon the facts of experience. Let us see
the conclusion to which this doctrine of Mill naturally
leads.

In the first place. Mill maintains that the supposed
exactness and necessity of mathematics is a delusion,
(i) Mathematics is not an exact science. What is the
foundation of the science of geometry? Plainly the so-
called definitions. But upon what do these definitions
themselves rest ? They cannot be self-evident, because
all that a definition can tell us is the meaning attached
to certain terms. Definitions are purely verbal, and prow-
nothing in regard to the reality of that which is defined,
\ may define a centaur as a being half man and half horse,
but it does not follow that a centaur exists /;/ i-erum
natura. Similarly, I may define a circle as a figure the
radii of which are all equal, but it does not follow that
a real circle corresponding to my definition actually exists.
To determine whether the definitions of geometry are true
or false we must have recourse to experience. Now, when

i "

illllll^

f ^

6 COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

we go to experience, we find that there are no real things
corresponding to our definitions. Where in nature shall
we find a point without magnitude, a line that is perfectly
straight and without breadth, a circle with all its radii
exactly equal, a square with all its angles perfectly I'^ht?
An actual sensible point is a surface, a real line is the
edge of a sensible object, and such a line is never per-
fectly straight ; the surface of a thing is always more or
less uneven. There is no doubt that geometry deals with
real things, but the discrepancy between its definitions
.md sensible realities shows that it is not dealing with
ihose things as they truly are, but only with i partial
:ispect of them. We are therefore compelled to conclude
tliat geometry is not an exact science. (2) Nor is
geometry a necessary science. Like other sciences it
rests upon induction, or, in other words, it states in a
general form what experience has shown us to hold good
in a number of particular instances. No accumulation of
such instances can warrant us in saying that things f/msf
be as our experience has shown them to be. It is true
that geometry draws its conclusions from figures that are
not directly perceived, but are only represented in imagina-
tion. But imagination can never represent what has not
been presented beforehand in perception. When I have
once perceived two straight lines meet and then diverge,
I can imagine them diverging as far as I please, but I
can never imagine them as again meeting. It is this
peculiarity of our imaginative faculty which explains the
apparent necessity of geometrical propositions. We are
unable to imagine diverging lines as meeting, however far
we may prolong them, because our whole experience
contradicts the supposition. We have at one time seen

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY,

10 real things
I nature shall
Lt is perfectly

all its radii
irfectly I'^ht?
.1 line is the
is never per-
'ays more or
ry deals with
:s definitions
dealing with
ith a partial

to conclude

(2) Nor is
sciences it

states in a
hold good
umulation of

things must
. It is true
ires that are
i in imagina-
'hat has not
hen I have
ben diverge,
lease, but I
It is this
t;xplains the
s. We are
however far

experience
e time seen

two straight lines diverging from a point, and at another
time we have seen two straight lines converging, but we
have never seen two straight lines at once diverging and
converging. The supposition is excluded from the nature
of our experience. But it must be carefully observed,
that experience can never warrant a conclusion wider
than itself There is nothing impossible in the supposi-
tion that two straigh*- lines should enclose a space. The
supposition is contrary to our experience, but it cannot
be shown to be contradictory of the nature of things.
There is nothing contradictory in the notion that 2 + 3 = 6.
Were our experience wider we might meet with objects
of a different nature from those with which we havo
come in contact. Hence, in the second place. Mill ex-
plains the apparent necessity of mathematical propositions
on the principle of inseparable association. All that is
meant by the term "inseparable association" is, that two
ideas which have always gone together in our experience
become so closely united that, having no contrary experi-
ence, we cannot conceive of them as separated. Such
ideas are those which are combined in a mathematical
proposition. Their apparent necessity is merely the sub-
jective necessity of uniform association. Ideas that have
never been experienced apart we naturally suppose to be
inseparable in nature as they are in our experience. An
instance of inseparable association we have in the pro-
position that two straight lines cannot be thought of as
enclosing a space. We cannot say that two straight lines
cannot enclose a space, but only that we cannot think
of them as enclosing a space. The only reason we have
for our affirmation is that we have had no experience of
straight lines enclosing a space, which is a very different

\myi

>5B'*^*^SJffSi

I ii

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

thing from saying that such an experience is impos-
sible.

The general conclusion, then, is that mathematics is not
an exact or necessary science, but merely exp' esses what
we have found to hold good within our limited experience,
'ts apparent necessity being due to the natural confusion
between a necessity in the nature of things and the sub-
jective necessity of inseparable association.

An examination of Mill's doctrine of mathematics
cannot be profitably entered upon at present. In the
meantime we may learn from it something about the
relations of philosophy and science, (i) The first thing
to be noted is, that the question which Mill asks is one
which the mathematician as such does not think of asking.
The mathematician usually assumes that the conclusions
which he reaches are absolutely true, and can be applied
in the numbering and measuring of any object that can
ever come within the range of his experience. His
assumption, stated generally, is, that we can have a real
knowledge of the number and magnitude of things. It
is true that a mathematician may be aware that there is
a further probi m which he has not investigated, but it is
at least convenient, and conduces to clearnesb, if we say
that mathematics assumes the possibility of real know-
ledge, leaving to philosophy the task of inquiring into
the possibility and the conditions of knowledge. The
science of mathematics, then, as we may say, puts for-
ward no theory in regard to the nature of knowledge.
Whether its propositions apply only within the limited
range of objects as they appear to man, or hold good
of all possible objects, is for the mere mathematician a
matter of indifference. The question, What is know-

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

IS impos-

atics is not
' esses what
experience,
,1 confusion
id the sub-

aathematics

t. In the

about the

first thing

asks is one

k of asking.

conclusions

be appHed

:t that can

nee. His

lave a real

things. It

lat there is

d, but it is

if we say

real know-

uiring into

ige. The

puts for-

nowledge.

le limited

lold good

natician a

is know-

ledge? either has never occurred to him, or he sets it
aside as irrelevant to his special investigation. He may
be said to be in the attitude of the youthful T/icaetetus,
in the dialogue of Plato to which I have already referred,
who, when asked by Socrates, What is Knowledge ?
answers that " Knowledge consists of all the things we
can learn from Theodorus., geometry for instance." Mill,
on the other hand, and the same thing is true of all
philosophers, has become aware that the true meaning
of Socrates' question is, What is implied in the a'^t of
kr\owledge? What constitutes knowledge? In seeking
to answer this question. Mill is led, like the Greek Pro-
tagoras, as represented by Plato, to say that " Knowledge
is sensible perception." We may say. then, that mathe-
matics seeks to answer the question. What do we know
about the number and magnitude of things? while
philosophy tries to answer the question. What is the
nature of mathematical knowledge ? Let us call the first
problem scientific and the second philosophic. It would
then seem that science directs its attention to the objects
of knowledge, philosophy to the nature of knowledge
itself. (2) This seems to give us a clear distinction
between science and philosophy. But on closer investi-
gation we find that the absolute opposition of knowledge
and the object of knowledge is one that cannot be
maintained. If Mill is right, we must distinguish between
the objects with which mathematics deals, and those
objects which lie beyond the range of possible experience,
or rather, those objects which perhaps lie beyond that
range. For it is held that a time might come when the
whole fabric of our present mathematical knowledge would
be completely upset. We cannot tell, on Mill's theory,

y :

ii- ■

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

what a day or an hour might bring forth. Suddenly our
experience might completely change its complexion, and
diverging lines might be found to enclose a space, parallel
lines might meet, squares might appear round, and straight
lines curved. " To conceive a round square," says Mill,
" would only be to conceive two different sensations as
produced in us simultaneously by the same object ; and
we should probably be as well able to conceive a round
square as a hard square, or a heavy square, if it were
not that, in our uniform experience, at the instant when
a thing begins to be round it ceases to be square, so
that the beginning of the one impression is inseparably
associated with the departure or cessation of the other." ^
It is here implied that there is no absolute fixity in the
quantitative relations of things. Now this means that
there are infinite possibilities of experience such as we
cannot even imagine with any definiteness. A world in
which all our mathematical conceptions were completely
reversed is so different from anything we can figure to
ourselves, that we can only say, generally, that it would
be totally unlike anything of which we have had experi-
ence. The question is therefore forced upon us, whether
we can admit even the possibility of such a world. So
long as we admit its possibility, it is plain that we cannot
claim to have any knowledge of things as they truly are.
Now this conclusion is so contrary to what mathematics
and other sciences are accustomed to assume, that we
simply must inquire into the possibility of knowing
existence in its ultimate nature. The nature of know-
ledge is thus bound up with the nature of existence. If
real existence cannot be known, real knowledge is im-
^ Mill's Examination of Hamilton, ch. vi., p. 68.

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

I I

iddenly our
)lexion, and
ace, parallel
and straight
" says Mill,
Dnsations as
Dbject ; and
ive a round
, if it were
nstant when
square, so
inseparably
the other." ^
fixity in the
means that
such as we
A world in
completely
an figure to
lat it would
had experi-
us, w^hether
world. So
,t we cannot
ly truly are.
mathematics
ne, that we
of knowing
e of know-
icistence. If
edge is im-
1 68.

possible. Philosophy, therefore, must seek to determine
the relations of knowledge and existence. If it could
be shown that Mill's theory of knowledge is false, there
would be some presumption that his tacit denial of the
knowability of real existence is also false. But there is
no other way of coming to a satisfactory conclusion on
the question, than by entering into a thorough mvestiga-
tion of the relations of knowledge and reality. It is vain
to say that we cannot help believing in the reality of
knowledge. That is true enough, but many things that
men have firmly believed have turned out to be mere
prejudices. There is no possible way of satisfying doubt
but by facing it. To dismiss a problem without inquiry
leaves in the mind an uneasy consciousness that the
sceptic may after all be right. Philosophy, just because
it seeks to determine the ultimate nature of things, can
never be satisfied with anything short of truth that may
be verified by the unbiased exercise of reason.

Now if we could only show, by an inquiry into the
relations of knowledge i.nd existence, that we are capable
of knowing reality as it truly is, or, in other words, that
in whatever ^ense mathematics is true of any existence
it is true of all possible existence, the sceptical conclusion
of Mill would be proved untrue. It cannot be denied
that at first sight there seem to be insuperable difficulties
in the way of such a proof. To say that man can, so
to speak, contemplate existence from the point of view
of omniscience seems to be the extrv^me of presumption.
It must be observed, however, that it is not less pre-
sumptuous to say that man cannot know things as they \
really are. For how can any one say that we do not
know real existence unless he has some knowledge of

wmmm

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

;

■ii.i

\ I-

. what real existence is ? Presumptuous or not, philosophy
cannot avoid the (juestion : Is the knowledge of real
existence possible? Thus the inquiry into the nature of
knowledge is necessarily bound up with the inquiry into
the nature of existence. (3) We may now see, in some
degree, how philosophy is related to the science of mathe-
matics. It is the nature of the human mind to pass
from one stage of activity to another. The science of
mathematics had its origin in the desire to determine
with accuracy the number and magnitude of objects in
space and time. In a very gradual way more and more
perfect methods of measurement have been discovered,
until mathematics has now reached the dimensions of a
vast body of closely connected propositions. There is
no manner of doubt that all those propositions hang
closely toget'-"p.r, and that to deny any one of them is
to deny them all. The science of mathematics, in other
words, is not a collection of detached propositions, but
an organized system in which every part is connected
with and dependent upon e' ery other part. Now you
will observe that Mill does not in any way question the
coherence of mathematical propositions among themselves.
If a mathematician advances a new proposition, it is open
to another mathematician to say that it is untrue, on
the ground that it is inconsistent with what has been
already established, or that there is some flaw in the
reasoning by which it is sought to be proved. But this
is quite a different class of objection from that which
Mill makes when he denies the accuracy and necessity
of mathematics. Mill not only grants the internal co-
herence and organic unity of the whole body of mathe-
matics, but his argument expressly appeals to its internal

THE PROBLEM OK PHILOSOPHY.

»3

philosophy
,ge of real
2 nature of
nquiry into
e, in some
e of mathe-
id to pass
science of
determine
objects in
I and more
discovered,
nsions of a
There is
itions hang
of them is
:s, in other
sitions, but
connected
Now you
uestion the
themselves.
, it is open
untrue, on
has been
aw in the
But this
that which
d necessity
nternal co-
of mathe-
its internal

coherence and unity. Geometry, as he points out, is a
science only if its definitions are true, because all its
other propositions rest upon and presuppose the truth
of those definitions. Mill's objection is not to the inner-
consistency of mathematics, but to its claim to formulate
the relations of all possible existence. If it is true al
all, all its p'-jpositions are true; if it is false at all, all
its propositions are false. The truth or falsehood ol
mathematics is thus established, so to speak, at one
stroke.

Now, we may learn from this what is the relation of
philosophy to mathematics. The mathematician, in Mill's
view, is like a man who starts on a journey with no
other end in view but to see what objects of interest
may be found by the way. Every step he takes brings
him in sight of a new object, and he goes on continually
adding to what he calls his knowledge. By and by
some one suggests that the objects in which he has
been so interested, and which he has been at so much
pains to observe and systematize, are due to an illusion
of his own senses, and have no other reality than for
himself and those like himself. This is a new point
of view, and one which, once presented, cannot well
be dismissed without inquiry. The mathematician may
indeed say, that whether the objects on which he has
expended so much labour are realities or illusions, it is
worth while finding out their nature. Illusions they may
be, but there is a wonderful coherence in them. But,
granting this, he can never take quite the same view of
them as before. His implicit faith in their reality has
been shaken. He is doubtful whether they are realities
or only appearances. Philosophy, then, does not deny

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

the reality of mathematics so far as phenomena are con-
cerned, but it raises the question, whether the laws of
phenomena are also laws of things as they truly are.
Mathematics hands over this letter question to philosophy,
and hence by the decision of philosophy its ultimate value
must be determined. On the supposition that a single
proposition of mathematics holds good of real existence,
the whole body of mathematics holds good of it ; if a
single proposition is true only of apparent existence, the
same thing must be said of the science as a whole. VVe
see, then, that the truth of a special science can only
mean, prior to the philosophical criticism of its founda-
tion, that it is perfectly coherent within itself. Perfectly
coherent it may be, however, while yet it rests upon an
assumption that has never been justified. It is this
assumption that philosophy has to investigate, not the
truth of the individual propositions which rest upon it.
If philosophy can only show that what mathematics has
assumed as self-evident may be justified before the bar
of reason, the whole body of mathematics will then rise
to the dignity of demonstrated truth. If philosophy fails
to justify that assumption, we shall have to conclude that
mathematics is at the most merely an account of the
relations which we have found to hold good of objects
within our limited experience. Whatever conclusion we
may reach, this is evident, that philosophy presents us
with a problem which we cannot evade without mental
unrest and disquiet.

We have found then, firstly, that mathematics directs its
attention to the objects of knowledge, philosophy to the
nature of knowledge itself; secondly, that mathematics
assumes that those objects are absolutely real, while philo-

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

la are con-
he laws of

truly are.
philosophy,
imate value
at a single
1 existence,
of it: if a
istence, the
vhole. We
e can only
its founda-
Perfectly
ts upon an

It is this
:e, not the
St upon it.
imatics has
)re the bar
1 then rise
)sophy fails
nclude that
int of the

of objects
iclusion we
presents us
out mental

directs its
phy to the
lathematics
vhile philo-

sophy inquires into the truth or falsehood of that assump-
tion ; and, thirdly, that philosophy admits the internal
consistency of mathematics, but refuses to admit without
criticism that any of its conclusions are true of things as
they are in their ultimate nature. Let us now see whether
philosophy bears a similar or a different relation to the
other special sciences.

It will be admitted that those sciences assume that no
change ever takes place which is not due to some cause*
A body, for instance, is found to assume a crystalline form,
and the question at once arises as to the cause of the
change. As the change never occurs except in the case
of the solidification of a substance from a liquid state, we
conclude that such solidification is the cause of the crystal-
lization. And even in those instances in which we are
unable to assign the cause, we feel quite sure that the
event has not occurred without a cause. So much is this
the case that, were we to find instances in which crystal-
lization occurs when a substance was not previously in a
liquid state, we should not think of saying that the change
arose without any cause, but only that we had not yet
found out the cause. The assumption, therefore, which
lies at the foundation of all scientific discovery is that the i(
changes which occur in nature do not occur at random, /'
but are connected together in fixed ways. Given the
cause, and the effect must follow. As we have found,
however, that Mill denies what seems to be the even
stronger necessity of mathematical truth, it is not surpris-
ing that the assumed connection of events has also been
denied. According to Hume it is impossible to show thalfj
there is any necessary connection in nature. The only'
warrant we can produce for our belief that events could

1 6

COMTE, MILL, AND SI'ENCER.

f \

■t

not be connected otherwise than as we have found them
to be connected, is the fact that in our experience
we have always found them to occur in a certain
order.

Because heat and llame have presented themselves to-
gether in our observation, we naturally come to imagine
that the one could not occur without the other. It is true
that we have never found Hame that was not associated
with heat, but that does not entitle us to say that they
might not be separated. No number of observations can
ever rise to the dignity of a necessary law. There is
nothing to show that any two events which have been
connected in our experience nine hundred and ninety-
nine times, should not on the thousandth time be found
to be totally unconnected. The reason why we suppose
events to be necessarily connected may be explained by
the fact that any two ideas which have frequently occurred
together or in close succession are naturally supposed to
imply an objective connection of events. It is a law of
the human mind to expect the recurrence of that which
has frequently occunerl. Hence when an impression or
idea arises in our aind, we naturally pass to the idea
which has been often found associated with it. The con-
nection of ideas, however, does not prove any necessary
; connection of events. The supposed connection of events
/ is in reality the subjective connection of habit. Thus
I Hume completely inverts the ordinary conception of
/ causality. He attributes the connection to the ob-
serving subject, not to the observed object. No event
is really connected with another, but the transition
from one idea to another frequently associated with it
is so easy and natural that we are irresistibly led to

THE PROULEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

found them
experience
a certain

mselves to-
to imagine
It is true
t associated
ly that they
rvations can
. There is
have been
and nintty-
[le be found
we suppose
explained by
itly occurred
supposed to
is a law of
that which
npression or
to the idea
The con-
ly necessary
on of events
abit. Thus
)nc.eption of
o the ob-
No event
r transition
ted with it
ibly led to

suppose a real connection where none can be shown to
exist.

Now (i) the doubt which Hume casts upon the real
connection of events, like the similar doubt of the hcces-
sary truth of mathematics, makes it imperative on us to
imjuire into the nature of knowledge. The ordinary belief,
that all changes are due to somctliing in the nature of
things, can no longer be assumed without (juestion. If
what we have been wont to regard as a law of things
should turn out to be a mere fiction of our own minds,
we shall be compelled to alter our whole view of the
character of the special sciences. So complete a reversal
of our common beliefs cannot be allowed to pass without
the severest scrutiny. Hume's sceptical doctrine in regard
to causality evidently rests upon his peculiar theory of
knowledge. Like his follower Mill, and his master Locke,
he holds that what we know of nature must come to us
in the form of sensible impressions. It may be, however,
that this is a false, or, at least, an imperfect account of the
origin of knowledge, and that the denial of the real con-
nection of things is incompatible with the nature of know-
ledge as properly understood. Be this as it may, a
searching inquiry into the nature of knowledge is absol-
utely indispensable. The belief in causal connection,
which all the special sciences assume without misgiving,
must be either confirmed or rejected. Here again, there-/
fore, we find that, whereas science limits itself to objects,/
philosophy investigates the nature of knowledge. (2) It
lies on the very face of Hume's denial of ihe .eal con-
nection of objects and events, that we cannot tell what
is the nature of knowledge without determining at the
same time the nature of real existence. If Hume is

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

right, we must suppose that what we call the course of
nature is a perfectly arbitrary succession of events. On
his view there is no reason why any event might not be
followed by any other event, and therefore no reason
why at any moment the whole world of objects might not
literally

'* dissolve,

And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind."

The rays of the sun might suddenly freeze water
instead of vaporizing it, and the breath of the north
wind set the world on fire. We have no other guarantee
of what will be but a fancy of our own, which rests
upon a confusion between the customary and the neces-
sary. Hume's doctrine is therefore at bottom a denial
of all law. There is no limit to the variability of nature
but the possible combinations of particular events. What
we call laws of nature are merely the accidental juxta-
position of events. A theory of knowledge which reduces
the apparent connection of events to a "fortuitous con-
course" of disconnected particulars is not to be lightly
accepted. It compels us to ask whether the world is
destitute of internal coherency and system, as Huine
would have us believe. Thus the inquiry into the nature
of knowledge is once more found to be connected in the
closest possible way with the inquiry into the nature of
existence as a whole. (3) We may now see that philo
sophy has to examine the principles assumed by such
sciences as physics and chemistry, just as it has to
examine into the assumed necessity of mathematical
truth. Those sciences, taking for granted the principle
that every change must have a cause, go on to ask what

■ is;-

THE PROBLEM OF PHILOSOPHY.

2 course of
vents. On
ight not be
no reason
s might not

reeze water
f the north
er guarantee
which rests
i the neces-
om a denial
ity of nature
'ents. What
dental juxta-
lich reduces
uitous con-
o be lightly
le world is
as Hume
o the nature
ected in the
le nature of
that philo
led by such
it has to
lathematical
he principle
to ask what

are the particular causes which ac».ount for and necessi-
tate the multifarious changes that occur in nature.
Philosophy, on the other hand, asks in whrt sense we
can speak of causal connection at all. Thus, while the
special sciences are occupied with particular modes of
existence, philosophy deals with the relations of these
modes to existence as a whole. Should the final result
of philosophy be to confirm Hume's view of causality,
the assumed unity and systematic connection of nature
could only be explained as a disconnected assemblage of
objects and events. In any case, it is the task of '
philosophy to examine into the fundamental principles
on which the special sciences are supposed to rest.
Philosophy does not, any more than in regard to the
propositions of mathematics, deny the inner harmony of
the special sciences. It admits that, in whatever sense
any one of the propositions which they contain is true,
all the rest are true ; but it sets itself to inquire whether
any of them has more than a relative value. On the
result of this inquiry it depends whether we can, in any
proper sense, speak of science at all.

We have seen that philosophy Dears the same general
relation to the other sciences which it bears to mathe-
matics, and we may now sum up the results to which
we have been brought in three propositions. Firstly,
science deals '^^ith objects as such, philosophy with the
knowledge of objects. Secondly, science assumes that
real knowledge is possible, philosophy inquires into the
truth of that assumption. Thirdly, science deals with
j the relations of objects to one another, philosophy with
their relations to existence as a whole. More shortly,
science treats of modes of existence, philosophy of

1 V

^■^HiP

wmmmm

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

existence in its completeness. And as existence may
roughly be divided into the three great related spheres
of Nature, Mind, and God (whatever these may ulti-
mately be found to mean), there are three main divisions
of philosophy : (i) Philosophy of Nature ; (2) Philosophy
of Mind; (3) Philosophy of the Absolute.

h :

ii i

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IV'''

CHAPTER II.

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

Now, it might seem that, having defined the problem
of philosophy, and indicated its three great departments,
our next step would be to take up each of those de-
partments in turn. But, as we have seen, there are
eminent thinkers, who, either expressly or by implication,
maintain that man is by the very nature of his faculties
^01- ever incapable of knowing reality as it ultimately is ;
v,:l it is therefore advisable to begin by asking whether
;!]; . :eptical attitude in regard to the object of philo-
sopiiy has any rational foundation, or whether it does
no' rather rest upon an untenable assumption. Perhaps
the simplest way of approaching this problem will be to
examine it in the form in which it is presented by Comte.
The fundamental idea which underlies the doctrine of
Comte is, that all attempts to obtain an "absolute" viv../
of existence are necessarily futile. This Comte expresses
by saying that, while we are capable of a "subjective
synthesis" of existence, we are by the necessary limitation
of our knowledge incapable of an "objective synthesis."
Some explanation of these terms will be necessary.
Comte here uses the term "subjective" in the sense of

2ssas=?!

..i!"jiiL =?;

1( s

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

"limited" or "human"; and with this he contrasts an
"objective synthesis," as one in which things would be
looked at from the point of view of absolutely complete
knowledge. What he contends, therefore, is that man
must be content to gain such a limited knowledge of r^
the world and of human life as will enable him to make
use of nature, simply for the perfecting of society. Thus
Comte would turn our thoughts away from all specula-
tions upon the ultimate meaning of existence, and con-
centrate them upon the good of humanity. For we find,
as he maintains, a tendency to organization in humanity
itself, and the aim of the individual is to live a higher
life by seeking more anJ more to make himself instru-
mental in advancing the good of the race. This is the
main idea in the philosophy of Comte, but it will be
profitable to consider more in detail the process by which
it is reached.

The starting-point in Comte's own intellectual develop-
ment was his conviction of the falsehood of pure indi- ^
vidualism, as preached by Rousseau and written in letters
of blood on the French Revolution. The sum of Rousseau's
teaching was that all the evils of man are due to society,
and that he can reach perfection ^nly by being freed
from all restraint and allowed to follow his natural instincts.
This doctrine of pure individualism was not justified of
its children. Freedom from social restraint had not brought
liberty but licence. Even in the economic region, the
result was a fierce fight of individuals with one another,
in which the stronger and more crafty worsted the weaker
and less cunning. It was therefore natural that an attempt
should be made to find a solution of the problem in a
reconstruction of the fabric of society. One of the leaders

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

«3

ists an
luld be
miplete
It man
jdge of ^

make
Thus

specula-
nd con-
we find,
umanity

1 higher
f instru-
is is the

will be
by which

develop-
Lire indi- ^
in letters
ousseau's
D society,
ng freed
instincts,
stifled of
t brought
gion, the
another,
le weaker
n attempt
)lem in a
le leaders

of 'his movement was St. Simon, who saw the essential
weakness of the gospel according to Jean Jacques Rousseau,
and tried to substitute for it a new gospel resting upon
a socialistic foundation. The great problem of modern
times, he held, was the combination of men with one
another as a means of turning nature to the use of all.
The physical as well as the intellectual and moral advance
ment of all the members of society ought to be aimed
at, and especially the elevation of the poorer and weaker
members of society. Liberty he regards not as valuable
in itself, but only in so far as it is the means of a better
form of social organization. The weakness of St. Simon
is that, to secure this higher form of society, he would
institute a social despotism that wouL^. saciifice men's free
intellectual and moral development in order to make them
comfortable.

Now Comte, in his youth, was an ardent disciple of
St. Simon, and from him he learned two things : (i) he
came to see the essential weakness of pure individualism ;
and (2) he was led to seek for a solution of the social
problem in the idea of society as an organism. The
problem as it presented itself to his mind took this form :
How can the organization of society be preserved, while
yet the individual is not crushed by the despotic rule of
the more cultured members of the state ? And his answer
was, that by the development of science, which is secured
by the individual, and yet is the product not of caprice
but of reason, there may be discovered the best means of
securing the highest happiness of humanity.

The whole history of man is regarded by Comte as the
history of association by means of positive science. Man
in his primitive state has two opposite tendencies, — the

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

tendency to sociality and the tendency to ifidividualism.
The social instinct is at first weak, yet its triumph over
the personal or selfish instinct is essential to the welfare
and even the existence of humanity. Feeling rather than
understanding this truth, the first leaders of mankind
grasped at a mode of explaining the universe which had
at least the merit of strengthening the social bond. Thus
arose what Comte calls the theological stage of human
development. Nature was supposed to be ruled by a
number of supernatural beings. Such a mode of explana-
tion was doomed to destruction. As men came to see
more and more clearly that the world is governed by law,
the gods were removed to a greater and greater distance,
— Polytheism arose out of Fetichism, and Monotheism out
of Polytheism. What at first seems but the gradual puri-
fication of theology is regarded by Comte as really a
preparation for its final overthrow. The substitution of a
limited for an ir lefinite number of arbitrary wills, and of
one will for a limited number, were but steps in the pro-
cess by which all interference of supernatural agents was
denied. •

The work of dethronement was continued by metaphysic.
In this stage of development phenomena are explained,
not by the arbitrary volitions of divine beings, but by
abstract powers or essences, supposed to lie behind phe-
nomena. These powers or essences were in reality but the
ghosts of the vanished gods ; in other vvords, the truth of
the metaphysical era consisted in its negation of theology,
not i'l ^ny positive reconstruction of its own. The final
triumph of metaphysic was in the reduction of the various
powers of nature to the one abstraction of nature itself.
This is a great advance, but its fundamental weakness is

T'*f

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

ndualism.
nph over
e welfare
ther than

mankind
'hich had
d. Thus
)f human
led by a
f explana-
le to see
d by law,

distance,
;heism out
idual puri-
; really a
ition of a
lis, and of
a the pro-
gents was

letaphysic.
explained,
;s, but by
;hind phe-
ity but the
le truth of
f theology.

The final
he various
ture itself.

eakness is

that it still supposes nature to be something lying behind
phenomena, and distinct from them.

The third stage in the development of humanity is the
positive or scientific, in which man has at last come to
see that for him the only realities are neither supernatural
beings nor metaphysical abstractions, but the laws of the
resemblance, the co-existence, and the succession of phe-
nomena as these are revealed by positive science. Now,
the extreme degree of specialization which the sciences
have now reached makes it necessary to reduce them to a
system ; in no other way is it possible to turn the vast
accumulation of facts to account for the furtherance of
human welfare. This done, social benevolence will rest
upon the secure foundation of scientific truth. The secret
of the universe can be no further read than is necessary
for the development of humanity, but man can give unity
to his transitory existence by mastering the laws of
phenomena, and especially the laws of his own nature
and his immediate environment. To this task let him
devote all his powers, abandoning for ever the uselesfj
and worse than useless task of prying into the unfathom-
able mystery of the great universe.

In illustration of this hurried sketch of Comte's law of
the three stages, I may quote a few passages from the
introductory lecture of his Coiirs de Philosophic Positive.

"I believe," says Comte, "that I have discovered the
law of development exhibited by the human intelligence
in its diverse spheres of activity. — a law wnich can be
shown to rest upon a solid foundation by considerations
drawn from the nature of our organization, and which is
capable of being verified by a careful scrutiny of the past.
The law is this : that each of our main conceptions, each

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

branch of knowledge, passes in succession through three
distinct stages, — the theological or imaginative stage, the
metaphysical or abstract, and the scientific or positive.
In other words, the mind of man, by its very nature, em-
ploys one after the other, in each of its inquiries, three
method^, of explanation, the essential character of which
is not only different but radically distinct : first, the theo-
logical method ; next, the metaphysical ; and lastly, the
positive. Hence arise three mutually exclusive types of
philosophy, or gener^'^ systems, in regard to the totality
of phenomena. The first yields the necessary starting-point
of human intelligence ; the third, its fixed goal ; the second
simply serves as a means of transition from the one to
the other.

" In the theological stage, the human mind seeks to
discover the inner nature of things, the first and the final
causes of all the effects which strike the senses ; in short,
it aims at absolute knowledge, and regards phenomena as
due to the direct and continuous activity of supernatural
beings, more or less numerous, whose arbitrary interven-
tion explains all the apparent anomalies of the universe.

" In the metaphysical stage, which is at bottom merely
a modification of the theological, for supernatural agents
al-e substituted abstract forces, entities, or personified ab-
stractions supposed to be inherent in different classes of
things, and to be capable of producing by themselves all
the phenomena that we observe. The mode of explana-
tion at this stage, therefore, consists in assigning for each
class a correspondent entity.

" Lastly, in the positive stage, the human mind, recog-
nizing the impossibility of gaining absolute conceptions
of things, gives up the search after the origin and destiny

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

Ugh three
stage, the
• positive,
ature, em-
ries, three
of which
the theo-
lastly, the
; types of
lie totality
rting-point
the second
he one to

. seeks to
d the final
; in short,
lomena as
ipernatural
interven-

universe.
3m merely
iral agents
Dnified ab-

classes of
nselves all
)f explana-
g for each

nd, recog-
onceptions
nd destiny

of the universe and the inner causes of phenomena, and
limits itself to the task of finding out, by means of
experience combined with reflection and observation,
the laws of phenomena, i.e., their invariable relations of
similarity and succession. The explanation of facts, re-
duced to its simplest terms, is now regarded as simply
the connection which subsists between diverse particular
phenomena and certain general facts, the number of
which is contmually reduced with the progress of science.

" The theological reaches its greatest perfection when
it substitutes the providential action of a single Bemg for
the numerous independent divinities imagined to be at
work in primitive times. Similarly, the highest point
reached by the metaphysical system consists in con-
ceiving, instead of a number of particular entities, a
single great entity, called Nature, which is viewed as the
sole source of all phenomena. So also, the perfection
of the positive system, a perfection towards which it
continually tends, but which it is highly probable it will
never quite reach, would consist in being able to represent
all observed phenomena as particular instances of a single
general fact, such as, say, the fact of gravitation.

'' We thus see that the essential character of positive
philosophy is to regard all phenomena as subject to in-
variable laws. The aim of all its efforts is the precise
discovery of such laws, and the reduction of them to the
least possible number. What is called causes — whether
these are first caused! or final causes — are absolutely
inaccessible, and the search for them is a vain search.
Everyone knows, in fact, that in positive explanations,
even the most perfect, we do not in any way pretend to
exhibit the productive causes of phenomena, but only to

rffF

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

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analyze with precision the circumstances of their produc-
tion, and to connect them with one another by fixed
relations of similarity and succession.

" Thus, we say that the general phenomena of the
universe are explained^ so far as that is possible, by the
Newtonian law of gravitation, because, on the one hand,
this theory shows the immense variety of astronomical
facts to be the very same fact looked at from different
points of view, viz., the constant tendency of all the
molecules of matter towards one another in direct pro-
portion to their mass, and in inverse proportion to the
squares of their distances ; while, on the other hand,
this general fact is presented simply as the extension of
a phenomenon with which we are all familiar, and which
by that very fact we regard as thoroughly known, I mean
the weight of bodies at the surface of the earth. But
i what attraction and weight are in themselves we cannot
possibly tell ; such questions do not belong to the domain
of positive philosophy, and must be relegated to the
imagination of the theologian or the subtlety of the
metaphysician."

You must not take what has been said as a complete
statement of the philosophy of Comte, but only or chiefly
of that philosophy on its negative side. Comte's social
philosophy, which is the most valuable part of his system,
I have purposely passed over as foreign to our present
subject. Now herv> we have a formulation of the main
principle of Agnosticism — the unknowability of any reality
beyond phenomena and their laws — a principle which is
endorsed by many who would not accept his social
philosophy. Our question therefore is, whether Comte
and all who accept the general agnostic position are

F'HILOSOPMY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

:ir produc-
by fixed

na of the
lie, by the
one hand,
tronomical
[1 different
3f all the
direct pro-
on to the
her hand,
:tension of
and which
n, I mean
arth. But
we cannot
be domain
id to the
ty of the

L complete
or chiefly
ite's social
lis system,
ur present
the main
any reality
2 which is
his social
ler Comte
>sition are

justified in denying to man all knowledge of the Abso-
lute. Is such a doctrine consistent with itself? Is it
tenable? Can we limit ourselves in our inquiries to
what goes on upon chis "bank and shoal of time,"
shutting our eyes to all that may lie beyond it?

We must begin by pointing out an ambiguity in the
doctrine of the Relativity of Knowledge, as exjjrcsscd by
Comte, — an ambiguity of which he was not himself clearly
conscious. (0 ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ place, the doctrine sometimes
means for him that the only true knowledge is of laws,
not of causes. " What is called causes," he says in the
passage quoted, "whether these are first or final causes,
are absolutely inaccessible, and the search for them is a
vain search." What Comte has here before his mind
mainly is, that theology and metaphysics have, in his
estimation, given a wrong explanation of the facts of
nature. Homer, e.g., tells tis that Apollo

/St) 5^ Kar' OvXvfnroio Kaprjvojv xwo/uei/os /c?jp,
rd^' wfioiffip ^x'^" CLfjL(pr)p€<f>^a re (pap^rpriv,
^K^ay^ap 5' dp' diarol eV Clifiup x^oAt^J'oto,
avTov KivTjd^PTOi' 6 5' -fjie vvktI eoiKdji.
^fer' ^ireiT airdvevOe veQp, fxerh 5' ibp ^rjKtp'
Sfivr; 5^ KXayyr] y^per' dpyvpioio jjioio.
ovprjas fjikp irpG>rov itripx^'^o '^'^' Kijpai apyo6s,
avrap ^ireir' avro'iffi jSe'Xos ^x^^'^'"^^* i(pi€ls
/SdXX'' aUl d^ irvpal peKtJwp KaioPTO Oa/xeiai.^

The fact here, Comte would say, was that a pestilence
occurred among the Greek host encamped before Troy;
but Homer; instead of attributing it to exposure to the
intense heat of the sun and other physical conditions,
personifies the sun as Apollo, and supposes the pestilence

1//. I. 44-52.

nT^

fii

»' . „i

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENLEK.

to l)e due to the wrath of the god. Yet false as the
explanation is, mere was here no attempt to answer an
insoluble problem. To attribute the pestilence to the
arbitrary will of a supernatural being is to ass'gn a "cause"
instead of giving a law^ but it is not to raise a (luestion
which, from the very nature of the case, can admit of
no solution. The '■'■ explanation" as Mr. Lewes says, "so
absurd in our eyes, was acceptable to the facile acquies-
cence of that epoch ; and expiatory offerings were made
to the irritated deity, in a case where modern science,
with its sanitary commission, would have seen bad drainage
or imperfect ventilation." ^ So in the metaphysical st-
men speak of nature as active, forgetting that ther
no "nature" apart from the special laws of phenomena.
To say, e.g.^ that " by virtue of her vis medicatrix (cura-
tive principle) nature cures a torn tissue or a broken
limb, IS as absurd as to say that death by poisoning
must be attributed to a ' poisomng principle.' " - But,
foolish and mischievous as all^^^nexplanations are, they
are merely inadequate answers to questions that we are
entitled to ask. They are provisional hypotheses which
the advance of science sets aside. In the theological
stage, men accounted for observed facts of experience by
the arbitrary intervention of divine agency ; in the meta-
physical stage, they re/erred them to personified abstrac-
tions ; but in both stages they were occupied with problems
of perennial interest. In this sense Comte can only mean
by the doctrine of the Relativity of Knowledge, that, with
rthe progress of science, the confused and imperfect con-
ceptions of an earlier age tend to disappear, phenomena

i - - ^ Comte's Philosophy of the Scietices, p. 28.

- Lewes' Cor.dt', p. 30.

I'HII.OSOI'HV OF AUGUSTK COMTE.

3«

Isc as the
answer an
ice to the
a "cause "
a ([uestion
I admit of

1 says,
le acquies-
were made
rn science,
1(1 drainage
'sical St'
It ther
ihenomena.
itrtx (cura-
a broken
poisoning
" -' But,
s are, they
at we are
2ses which
theological
erience by
the meta-
d abstrac-
1 problems
only mean
that, with
srfect con-
henomena

being explained by laws of nature, not by supernatural
agents or by metaphysical abstractions.

tNow, properly interpreted, the main contention of
Comte may be accepted. So far as it merely says that
the explanation of particular facts of experience is to be
found in the statement of the uniformities obtaining
among phenomena, not in the arbitrary will of super-
natural agents or in hidden essences which are merely
abstractions that tell us nothing, he is simply afl'irming
the principle upon which all modern science rests. It
is no explanation of a pestilence to say that an offended
god sent it in his wrath, or that it is produced by a
" l)oisonous principle." The universality and necessity
of natural law, in other words, is a principle without
which no progress in knowledge is possible at all.
But what Comte does not see is, that when we have
rejected such inadequate explanations of the facts ol
experience, we have not thereby banished religion and
I philosophy to the region A^ falsehood and error. Grant-
f ing that the phenomena of nature occur in conformity
with fixed and unchanging law, it does not follow that
J; in science we have reached the extreme limits of our
- knowledge, nor would this follow even if we could reduce
all phenomena to invariable laws of resemblance, suc-
J cession, and co-existence. Before we can say that all
I theology and all metaphysic are but confused and
I erroneous explanations of the facts of experience, we
I must be able to show that in bringing phenomena
I under the dominion of law we have given an ultimate
explanation of the universe, or at least the only explana-
tion that is possible for us with our limited capacities.
Unless Ihis is firmly establisl.ed — unless it is shown that

f ;

^mm

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

there is no other problem to be solved but that which
the special sciences set before us —we are simply starting
r^-Dm an unverified hypothesis, and falling into a mistake
not less disastrous than that of explaining experience by
the fictions of a false theology and a false metaphysic.
Now it may, I think, be shown that Cornte /las fallen
into this fundamental mistake.

For (2), in the second place, in his doctrine of the
Relativity of Knowledge, Comte also assumes that the
human mind is necessarily limited to the knowledge of
Jf/it :ymena, and is conscious of its own limitution. This
is the question which lies at the basis of all knowledge,
and we must therefore subject it to the most careful
scrutiny.

I have no desire to underestimate the force of the
objection to the possibility of absolute knowledge. It
is obvious that there is a sense in which man can no
more claim to be perfect in knowledge than he can
claim to be perfect in conduct. The shadow of ignor-
ance accompanies us all through life, and as some things
stand out for us in a clearer light we become more
conscious than ever how little we know. The conceit
of knowledge is most vigorous in those who have recently
learned a few elementary truths, just as spiritual conceit
is found in its purest form in men whose religious ex-
perience is of a rudimentary and undeveloped kind.
The question, however, that is at present before us is
not whether man has, or can have, complete knowledge,
but whether what he calls knowledge is, strictly speaking,
not the apprehension of things as they really are, but
only of things as to his finite mind they seem to be.
That this is the question will be evident if we draw

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

,t which
starting
mistake

ence by

;aphysic.

IS fallen

: of the
that the
ledge of
n. This
owledge,
t careful

: of the
idge. It
can no
he can
of ignor-
le things
ne more
J conceit
; recently
l1 conceit
gious ex-
ed kind,
ore us is
lowledge,
speaking,
are, but
m to be.
we draw

out the meaning of Comte's limitation of knowledge to
phenomena. Observe —

(a) That this limitation implies that there are two
mutually exclusive realms — the realm of phenomena and
the realm of things in themselves. Within the former
man is free to move. He can range at will through the
whole of this domain, ever learning to know it more exactly
and more fully. Thus he adds to his knowledge of the
laws of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and biology,
and, in Comte's view, of the laws of society and even
of humanity as a whole. But beyond this he cannot go.
He is as absolutely shut up within this limited sphere
of existence as Mephistopheles was confined within the
pentagram drawn by Faust. At the same time Comte
implies that there is a realm of existence lying entirely
outside the realm of phenomena. What is the nature
of this realm man cannot possibly tell, his knowledge
being only of the realm of phenomena.

{b) Before examining this doctrine further, it is important
to see clearly all that it involves. Let us suppose, then,
that there arc two distinct realms — the realm of phe-
nomena and the realm of things in themselves. At first
sight the theory seems to imply that there is absolutely
nothing in common between the two spheres. For, how-
ever far we may push our knowledge of phenom-ia, we
never penetrate to the realm of ultimate realities. It is
implied, however, that there actually exists a realm of
realities, which might be apprehended if our capacities
were different from what they are. We assume, in other
words, that there are two kinds of intelligence — the finite
or limited intelligence of man, and a higher kind of

intelligence which is infinite or unlimited. We must there-

' )r ',

{

I
(I i

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

fore present the matter to ourselves in this way : The
sphere of phenomena is the object of finite intelligence,
the sphere of things in themselves is the object of infinite
intelligence. Not only, therefore, does the theory of Comte
assume two kinds of existence, but it assumes two kinds
of intelligence corresponding to them.

Now, if we allow these assumptions to pass unquestioned
without asking by what right they are made, the con-
clusion of Comte, that man is incapable of knowing reality
and must content himself with a knowledge of appearances,
follows as a matter of course. But what Comte has not
tried to do is to justify those assumptions. Every theory
of knowledge must at least be consistent with itself, i.e.,
it must not hold two principles that contradict each other.
This, however, is just what Comte has done. In his
theory, as we have seen, he makes a double assumption :
(i) that there are two realms of existence; (2) that there
are two kinds of intelligence. I think it may be easily
shown that both assumptions are self-contradictory, it
^ is one of the many incisive remarks of Kant, that Dog-
matism always leads to Scepticism. In other words, if
something is assumed without the previous question being
raised, whether it is compatible with the very possibility of
knowledge, the logical result is the denial of all knowledge.

(i) It is said that there are two distinct spheres of
existence — phenomena and things as they are. These
two realms are supposed to be so different in their nature,
that there is no point of contact between them. But (a)
it is assumed by Comte that both are forms of existence.
The phenomena that we know are not mere fictions of
our own individual minds ; they are real objects and
events, occurring in a real world. On the other hand,

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

The

Comte tells us, that we have no faculty by which we
can apprehend the Absolute, and therefore we cannot go
behind the veil of phenomena to see things as they are
sufi specie aeternitaiis. If that be true, does it not follow
that the phenomena which appear to us have no proper
reality? If we could contemplate the universe from a
point of view higher than the human, all would be different.
We should then be as gods, knowing existence in its real
nature. But, confined as we are to a small section of
the great universe, we cannot possibly do more than
arrange in an orderly way the illusions that we call
realities. In other words, we have no knowledge at all.
{b) On the other hand, Comte speaks of the objects
and events that we perceive as phenomena. Now, a
phenomenon is an appearance. Of ivhat, then, are the
objects and events that we apprehend " appearances " ?
They can only be appearances or manifestations of the
absolute realities which do not appear. Manifestly, that
is what Comte means. But, if things as they truly are
^jfesent themselves to us even imperfectly, it cannot be
said that our ignorance of them is absolute. Ignorance
is the complete negation of knowledge, not an incomplete-
apprehension. There is, as Plato said, a middle-region
lying between complete ignorance and complete know-
ledge, and partaking partly of the nature of both. To
this form of apprehension, which Plato called opinion
(So^a), the knowledge of phenomena must correspond.
A man is not blind because he is short-sighted. So if
the objects that we know are really manifestations of
absolute realities, we cannot be completely ignorant of
those realities, though our apprehension of them may be
incomplete. Comte's theory therefore involves this funda-

"^r^

, !

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

mental contradiction : it asserts, on the one hand, that
we know nothing; but phenomena, and, on the other hand,
that what we know are manifestations of reality.

(2) Comte's doctrine further implies that there are two
distinct kinds of intelligence, — that which apprehends
phenomena only, and that which knows reality as it truly
is. The self-contradictory character of this aspect ot
Comte's doctrine is even more apparent than the other.
What would be the character of an intelligence that was
absolutely limited to the apprehension of phenomena?
Obviously it would have no consciousness of its own 1
limits. Appearances it would take for realities, and no
advance in knowledge could ever suggest to it that its
apprehension was only of appearances. The men of
Plato's cave supposed that the shadows on the wall of
their prison were the only realities, but they were not
incapable of freeing themselves from their chains, going
up to the light, and seeing the sun and the stars.
Comte's conception of human intelligence, on the other
hand, is of an intelligence so absolutely limited in its
apprehensions that it is absolutely incapable of any know-
ledge of absolute reality. Such an intelligence would not
be aware of its own limitations. If I know that my
knowledge is limited, I must also know something of
what is beyond the limit. If we are conscious that the
facts and laws that constitute what we call science are
manifestations of absolute realities, it must be because
our intelligence in some way comprehends both spheres.
Comte's doctrine, however, is that human intelligence is
absolutely limited to phenomena, and therefore differs
fundamentally from an intelligence that knows reality as
it is, In other words, he holds that our intelligence is

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

absolutely limited, or, in other words, is incapable of any
comprehension of real existence. But, as we have seen,
this is the same as saying that human intelligence is un
conscious of its own limits. On the other hand, Comte,
in afhrming that our knowledge is limited, assumes that
our intelligence '^jscerns its own limitations. That is to
say, he at once affirms and denies the consciousness of I
limitation, which is self-contradictory.

It seems to me, then, that the doctrine of the Relativity
of Knowledge, as understood by Comte, rests upon a
fundamental contradiction. It separates existence into
two mutually exclusive parts — the phenomenal and the
real — and it assumes two opposite kuids of intelligence.
Both assumptions are self-contradictory. Existence is one,
and intelligence is one. In other words, man must be
capable of knowing reality as it truly is, and of such
knowledge he is capable because in his intelligence is
contained the principle by which the secret of existence
may be discovered. I propose therefore to start from the
principle that there is one intelligible universe and one
kind of intelligence. This is not, I think, an assumption,
because, as we have seen, any one who begins with the
supposition that the universe is not intelligible, and that
there are two kinds of intelligence, falls into insoluble
contradiction.

But before attempting to apply the fundamental principle
of the unity of the world and the unity of intelligence,
in the construction of a system of philosophy, it seems
advisable to say a few words on the distinction between
absolute knowledge and knowledge of the absolute.

What gives plausibility to the Comtean doctrine of tht;
Relativity of Knowledge is the manifest fact that knowledge

J M.

i r,

; "

COMTK, MILL, AND SPENCER.

is continually growing, and that it is still only in its
infancy. But if wc know only in part, how, it is naturally
asked, can we claim to know the whole?

Now, it must be pointed out, to begin with, that this
way of putting the problem assumes //lat knowledge con-
sists in adding particular to particular, and, as a con-
sequence, that a knowledge of the whole is possible only
by summing up an infinity of particulars. So stated, the
problem is manifestly insoluble. If we can know reality
as it is only after we have exhausted all possible par-
ticulars, we shall never have a knowledge of reality. We
must therefore begin by asking whether any form of
knowledge, even the most elementary, can be correctly
defined as the apprehension of particulars, and the exten-
sion of knowledge as an accumulation of particulars.

Now, I think it may easily be shown that a knowledge
of mere particulars is a contradiction in terms. . Take
any instance of what would naturally be regarded as the
apprehension of a particular, and it will be found to imply
a universal. I have before me, e.g.^ a piece of sugar.
Now, certainly we should say that here, if anywhere, we
have an instance of a pure particular. The piece of sugar
I see is this piece, not any other. It is not like the
conception sugar, which, as every one would admit, is not
particular; but it seems to be a unique thing, separate
and distinct from every other thing in the universe. Let
us, then, go on the supposition that the piece of sugar
is a mere particular. If so, I must apprehend it purely
in itself, and as in no way dependent for its properties
on anything else. Now, if I perceive this particular
thing to be sugar, manifestly I must perceive its pro-
perties. Apart from the properties which characterize

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

it, it would not be what it is. That is, I must apprehend
the object before me as occupying a certain position : as
cubical, hard, white, sweet, of a certain weight. Take
the property of position. This is a property which seems
to belong to the sugar as a particular object. For the
position which it occupies is unique, and cannot be
occupied at the same time by any other object. But
what is position ? If it were possible to suppose that
there was only one part of space, viz., that occupied
by this piece of sugar, I could not say that the sugar
had position. For the position of a thing is relative to
the position of other things. This sugar is perceived as
here^ i.e., it is distinguished from other objects that are
not here. If there were no other actual or possible
objects, I should not perceive the sugar as here or in
this position. Position therefore does not attach to the
sugar as isolated from all other objects, but only to the
sugar as occupying a different part of space from other
objects. But this contradicts our first view, that position
is a property of this particular thing, the sugar. We
might go on to show that every other particular object
perceived has position only relatively to other objects.
Manifestly, therefore, every so-called particular object
exists in a single space, no part of which is peculiar to
any one object. That is to say, space is a form oi
things which unites them together and makes them all
belong to one world.

Now, there is no possibility of perceiving, or even ol
imagining space as a whole : extend our perception as
far as we please and we never come to the end of space.
Space must therefore be grasped, not by sense or imagin-
ation, but by thought. We can think space as one,

i 'i

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

ri'i

though we cannot perceive it as one. But what is most
important here is, that we cannot perceive any particular
object as here, without thinking of it as belonging to
the one single space. Even in our simplest knowledge
therefore, we are dealing not with particulars, but with
particulars connected together in a unity. Knowledge is
never of the mere particular.

I have brought forward this illustration of the sugar in
order to show that knowledge is not a mere accumulation
of particulars but a comprehension of the particular as
a special aspect of one world. If there really were any
true particular — any unique object absolutely independent
of all others — it would exist in a world by itself: and
therefore there would be as many worlds as there were
particular objects. Now, even Comte would admit that
all the phenomena that we know belong to one world.
He is therefore bound to admit that in our apprehension
of particulars we must presuppose that they are all parts
of one world. More especially, he is bound to admit
that every sensible object must, to be known at all, be
known as occupying a certain definable position in the
one single space which embraces all such objects. And if
so, we can lay down this universal proposition: There can
be no knowledge of any sensible object that is not in space.

We have learned then, that besides the particular aspect
of an object there is always implied a certain univeisal
aspect. I never can perceive a piece of sugar that does
not occupy a certain relative position in space. I am not
in my knowledge tied down to what I am perceiving at
any given moment, but I can foretell the necessary con-
ditions of all my perceptions, future as well as present.
If so, is it not obvious that to have knowledge it is not

i^^WP

PHILOSOPHY OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

necessary that 1 should have an infinite number of per
ceptions ? When the principle of knowledge is discovered,
we have at the same time discovered what holds true
universally and necessarily. if no sensible object can
be apprehended at all that is not in space, we can say,
without any limitation : Every sensible thing must occupy ^
some position.

Let us see the bearing of this principle on the general
doctrine of the Relativity of Knowledge. Comte argues
that the continual advance of knowledge makes it im-
possible for us to claim that we know things as they are
in their u .'imate nature. For how can we say that we
comprehend the whole universe if we know only a limited
part of it? Now, the direction in which an answer to
this difficulty lies may be seen from what has been said.
It is not necessary to have a knowledge of all the aspects
of the universe in order to show that we apprehend it
as it truly is. For when we grasp the fundamental
principle, without which a certain kind of knowledge is
impossible, by that very fact we establish the absoluteness
of our knowledge. However 1 may extend my know-
ledge of sensible objects, I cannot possibly apprehend a
sensible object that is not in space. I can therefore
say, that while my knowledge of the particular objects
existing in the univers<i may be indefinitely extended, it
can be extended only on the lines that I have hitherto
followed. Science is continually adding to our knowledge
of objects, but it does so in accordance with the nature
of space, or — what is the same thing — with the principles
of mathematics. Every scientific man assumes that no
two bodies can be in the same part of space at the same
time. Whether he is aware of it or not, this assumption

.^'

I- I

COM IE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

I .1/

(,;

III!

11 II:

can be seen to follow from the very nature of space, all
the parts of which are mutually exclusive. It is sub-
stantially the same with the other principles of science.
The law of gravitation, e.g.^ which Comte adduces as a
striking instance of the triumph of the "positive" method,
is not merely that every body attracts every other body
so long as we perceive them ; but that every body must
always attract every other body. A law, in other words,
is always the expression of a fixed relation that admits
of no exception. The extension of knowledge can never
overthrow the law, though it may sliow that it is only
one form of a higher law. From all this it follows, that
there is nothing in the progress of science to shake our
faith in the absoluteness of knowledge. It is not claimed
that we have all knowledge, but only that what we know
expresses the true nature of things. The progress of
knowledge always has two sides : on the one hand, it is
an advance to a fuller apprehension of the particular
aspects of existence, and, on the other hand, it is an
advance to a better comprehension of the laws or fixed
relations of existence. We cannot have the one without
the other. The very idea of the progress of knowledge
implies that as we advance we carry with us what we
have already acquired. The course of science is not by
discontinuous leaps : it is an evolution in which a principle
already grasped is seen to involve a higher principle.
But the higher principle does not destroy but only re-
interprets the lower. Thus the principles of mathematics
are not abolished by physics or chemistry, but are
accepted and shown to involve more concrete prin-
ciples. Biology does not destroy physics and chemistry,
but only shows that they imply wider principles.

CHAPTER III.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE.

J'f

GEOMETRY.

Philosophy is an inquiry into the possibility and tlie
conditions of real knowledge. As there are three real or
apparent spheres of knowledge — Nature, Mind, and God-
it will be convenient to begin by asking whether a real
knowledge of nature is possible, and, if so, what are its
conditions ? This problem again breaks up into three
subordinate problems — (i) Is there a mathematical know-
ledge of nature ? (2) Is there a physical knowledge of
nature ? (3) Is there a biological knowledge of nature ?

Mathematical knowledge, supposing it to be possible, is
the science of magnitude. Now, magnitudes may be dis-
tinguished as either continuous or discrete. If I say, "It
is a .nile to the post-office," I imply that to get there I
must proceed continuously from the place where I now
am. On the other hand, in judging that the number of
objects before me is twelve, I count or sum up units which
are regarded as distinct or discrete. But we must further
distinguish in continuous magnitudes between those that
are extensive, or imply mutual externality, and those that

Mil

;i,

H-

l. i

COMTE, MI 1-1,, AND SPKNCER.

are intensive^ or exclude mutual externality. Thus every
part of space or time is continuous and extensive, whereas
the magnitude of a force is continuous and intensive.
Limiting ourselves at present to extensive magnitudes, we
find that under this head come Space, Time, and Motion.
The mathematics of space is Geometry; the mathematics
of time has no generally accepted name, but it might be
called Chronomctry, the mathematics of motion is now
commonly known as Kinematics. Let us begin with
( '.eometry.

The object we have in view is not to construct a system
of geometry, but to inquire whether it is a real science of
nature. To this it must be added that the geometrical
Vnowledge of which we speak is that which rests upon
the supposition that space is of three, and only three,
dimensions ; in other words, that while three lines may be
drawn in it at right angles to one an'^*^her, it is impossible
to draw a iburth line which will not L,oincide with one ot
the others. It cannot, of course, be said without in-
vestigation that a space of more than three dimensions is
impossible; but as even those who maintain such a space
to be possible do not claim that we have any direct know-
ledge of it, we may assume provisionally that space is
only of three dimensions. Our question is therefore this :
^Do the propositions of ordinary or Euclidian geometry
form a real science ?

Mill, as we know, maintains that geometry is not a
science, if by this we mean that its propositions express
the real properties of things and are absolutely true. For
these propositions, he contends, rest upon the assump-
tion that there are real points, lines, surfaces, etc., cor-
responding to the definitions of geometry, and this

PHII,()SOPHV or NATURE — GEOMKTRY.

assumption is nat borne out by facts. He furtlier
maintains that geometrical propositions rest upon induc-
tion, and therefore cannot be shown to be universal or
necessary.

Is Mill right in saying that geometry is not an exact
science? His doctrine may be put in this way. If
geometry is a science at all, the elementary conce?)tions
or definitions on which it rests cannot be mere fictions of
the imagination, for no system of fictions, however con-
sistent it may be with itself, can tell us anything as to
the real nature of things. Geometry must therefore be
based upon our percei)tions of real things. But when we
try it by this test, it is found to be wanting in precision
and accuracy. Sensible objects possess, among other pro- *
perties, a certain definite figure. This desk, e.g., has a
certain shape. To my unaided eye its edges seem straight,
but if I put them under the microscope I find that they
are only approximately straight. No sensible object can
be found in nature whose edges are perfectly straight. In
fact, " their existence, so far as we can form any judgment,
would seem to be inconsistent with the physical constitu-
tion of our plane; at least, if not of the universe." It is
true that no error of any importance will be made by suj)-
posing the edges of objects to be straight which seem to
be so, but this does not alter the fact that geometry does
not express the precise nature of sensible magnitudes. The
peculiar accuracy supposed to be characteristic of the first
principles of geometry is therefore an illusion. The in-
ferences which geometry draws from its premises are
correct, but as the premises are only approximately true,
the conclusions deduced from them share in the same
want of precision.

ill
1 i

""■■■"-^- fSJfSliWW"

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

f : |('

kI i

It is obvious that, in denying the accuracy of geometrical
propositions, Mill takes it for granted that we have a know-
ledge of the actual properties of real things. The reason
why a straight line, as defined in geometry, is not a precise
statement, is, that no actual object can anywhere be found
v/hose edge is perfectly straight. We know that as a
matter of fact real things differ in their figure from the
figures with which geometry deals. The contrast which
is drawn is not between some reality that is unknown to
us and reality an we suppose it to be, but between the
sensible objects which we do know and the inadequate
conceptions of them which are found in geometry. It is
a possible hypothesis that we have no knowledge of reality
as it truly is, and that to a perfect intelligence none of the
properties that we ascribe to things really belong to them.
Kant, for example, holds that to an infinite intelligence
the geometrical properties under which objects pret^ent
themselves to us are seen to be unreal. We suppose real
things to lie apart from one another, and to have figure
and size ; but (from the point of view of a wider intelli-
gence) these properties are merely the manner in which
we present things to ourselves, not the manner in which
they actually exist. There is no other way in which we
can be conscious of things than by exhibiting them as in
spare, but this arises from a limitation which attaches to
us as finite beings, and which prevents us from knowing
reality as it truly is.

After what lias already been said in regard to the
doctrine of the limitation of human knowledge, we
may assume with Mill that real things actually possess
geometrical properties which we are capable of knowing.
Nor does there seem any reason to dispute the view

PHILGJOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMFTRY.

that no actual object can be found with its edges perfectly
straight, or with a figure exactly corresponding to a
triangle, a circle, or any other geometrical conception.
Does it follow from this admission, that geometry is not an
exact science ? It certainly seems to follow ; for if we
know the properties of real things to be different from
what geometry assumes them to be, it is hard to resist
the conviction that geometry is inconsistent with an
actual knowledge of things, and therefore is not, strictly
speaking, entitled to the rank of a science. We have
therefore to ask whether Mill's conception of geometry is
correct.

The first thing that strikes 'is is, that whether correct
or not, Mill's view of geometry is not that which the
mathematician would be inclined to accept. It is safe
to say that Euclid, in defining a line as " length without
breadth," did not mean that any actual object could be
found in nature all length and no breadth. A line is
not something that can be seen or felt. We can see or
feel the edge of a sensible object, but we cannot sec
or feel a line. A line drawn on i)aper or on a black-
board is a visible object, but this is not the line with
which geometry deals. A line that can be defined as
" length without breadth " is from the nature of the case
invisible and intangible. It is thus obvious that, in sonii-
sense, geometry does not deal with visible or tangible
objects, but with invisible and intangible objects. How,
then, it is naturally asked, can geometry be said to deal
with real things ? Are not all real things sensible objects ?
If so, does not geometry in dealing with objects that are
not sensible, turn away from reality and oi)erate with
fictions of its own construction?

.1; .

n 1

1.1

€^

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

•■ ■, i'l 1

Now, here again it may be observed that the mathe-
matician, while he is perfectly aware that the points,
lines, and circles with which he operates are not sensible
objects, does not suppose that he is dealing with mere
Motions of abstraction. He applies without hesitation the
• onclusions he reaches to the actual world. The whole
of appHed mathematics is a proof of this conviction.
Hence, unless the mathematician is totally mistaken,
there must be a sense in which geometry deals with
the real properties of things, though it does not deal
with their seiisible properties. At first sight this seems
to be self-contradictory; it apparently admits that things
as they actually exist have sensible properties, and yet it
claims that in dealing with non-sensible properties it is
dealing with realities and not with fictions. Is there any
way of avoiding this contradiction ?

To answer this question we must ask what is implied
in the knowledge of real things. By "real things" is
here to be understood sensible objects existing in a space
of three dimensions. To take a simple case, how do I
know that this desk is an object in sp ce, having a certain
figure and size? Mill would answer that we obtain a
knowledge of it by means of our senses; or, more pre-
cisely, by means of our sensations, actual or suggested.
As T run my eye over the desk I have a series of
sensations of colour; if I press it at any point, I find
that I experience a feeling of hardness and of resistance ;
if I strike it with my ha d, it gives forth a sound. At
the present moment, when I am merely looking at the
desk, I have no sensations from it of hardness, resistance,
or sound ; nor have I all the sensations of colour that
I am capable of having from it by inspecting it minutely.

\U\'

J!jMI?IW!!)W!WPPf«?<|ifPH«>«^'Vt'

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

xMy actual sensations are therefore limited to those of
colour, and to some only out of the great number which
I am capable of having from this object. But, if you ask
me what is the nature of the desk, I can recall in idea
the various sensations I have formerly felt, and these sug-
gestea sensations I regard as indicating real projjerties not
less than those I actually experience at this moment. The
desk, therefore, so far as its sensible qualities are concerned,
may be said to be a "permanent possibility of sensation."

At present I shall net dispute this account of how we
obtain a knowledge of the sensible qualities of an ex-
ternal object. Our immediate concern is not with these,
but with the geometrical properties. Granting that I
know this desk by means of my sensations to be coloured,
hard, solid, resonant, how do we obtain a knowledge of
its position, shape, size, etc. ? Are these also revealed tc
us in sensations, actual or possible ? Mill would answer
that they are. He speaks of " the exact resemblance of
our ideas of form to the sensations which suggest them ' '
and of our "impressions of form."- I run my eye along
the edge of the d'sk, and I have a series of impressions
of colour which giv me the perception of its straightness,
or rather apparent traightness. This series of impres-
sions, and others of a like kind, are the source and the
only source of my knowledge of straight lines. It is
true that I cannot have a percei)tion of the edge alone,
but I can i:oncentrate my attention upon the edge, and
neglect the other sensations actual and possible which
make up my perccDtion of a desk, including those of its
breadth and '-.eight.

Now, in the first place, it may be shown that our per-

^ Logic, lik. 11., ch. v., S 5. -' Ibid., ^a,.
D

mmmJ^r

5°

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

,ii

;

ception of the position and figure of a sensible object is
not derived from sensation. If it is held to be so
derived, it must be possible to state from which class
of our sensations, or from what comLination of sensations
it is derived. Position or figure is not an object of sight,
or it would be a colour ; not of touch or the muscular
sense, or it would be a feeling ; nor of hearing, or it
would be a sound ; certainly not of taste or smell. Now,
if the figure and magnitude ot objects cannot be given
in sensation, there is no other source from which, on Mill's
theory of knowledge, they can be derived. The old
saying, Nihil est in ifitelleciu, quod non fnerit in sensu, is
the cardinal principle of that theory. Whatever is present
to our minds as .m object must first exist, either in whole
or in part, in our sensation. When I am not actually
experiencing a sensation of colour from this desk, I may
yet have an idea or image of it ; but if I had never had
the sensation I could not have the idea. Even the
elements out of which pure fictions are formed must first
have existed as sensations. The Cerberus of classic
mythology was formed out of elements given in actual
sensation. Imagination can associate sensations in an
infinite variety of ways, but it cannot create a single new
element. This being Mill's view of the nature of know-
ledge, he simply must hold that the geometrical pro-
perties of bodies are somehow given to us in sensation.
Now, it is manifest that they cannot be given in indi-
vidual sensations. No number of sensations of colour,
hardness, resistance, or sound can present to me this
desk as extended. ; ■ .

- It may, however, be thought that, while extension is not
given in any of these sensations separately, it yet is deriv-

mmm

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — (lEOMETRY.

able from them in this sense, that a number of sensations
may be so associated as to appear extended. This is the
view which Mill, following Hume, adopts. Thus he would
say that, when I have repeatedly had a series of imprc>
sions of colour, as when I perceive the edge of this desl..
they become so associated together, that though they aji
really successive they seem to be coexistent. In this Wi'.y
it is thought that extension may be explained without aul
from any principle but association. This explanation may
be easily shown to be inadequate. It is admitted that
sensations of colour are not themselves extended ; hence
no number of them, however they may be associated, can
yield the perception of extension. It is no answer to say
that by frequency of association they come to seem co-
existent when in reality they are simply closely successive ;
for the coexistence of sensations of colour is simultaneity
or coexistence in time, not extension or coexistence in
space. If I look at this desk and at the same time hear
the bell ring, the sight of the desk and the sound of the
bell are simultaneous, but they are not coexistent in space.
Every attempt to reduce extension to simultaneity, or
apparent simultaneity, of impressions owes its plausibility
to the assumption of what it pretends to explain. Thus
Hume, after asserting that our perception of extension is
reducible to impressions of colour or hardness, goes on to
speak, not of these, but of "points or corpuscles en-
dowed with colour and solidity." As by a " point or
corpuscle" he can only mean a coloured surface or solid,
it is easy enough apparently to account for visible or
tangible extension from sensations : the extension is simply
assumed, in defiance of the fact that on Hume's own
showing no sensation is extended.

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

We may conclude, then, that no geometrical property
of a sensible object can be derived from any number or
variety of sensations, nor from any association of sensa-
tions. But, if the sensible figure and magnitude of
individual objects is not explicable from sensation. Mill's
explanation of the manner in which geometry obtains its
data must be false. A sensible line, he says, has breadth
as well as length; but "we can reason about it as if it
had no breadth, because we have . . . the power,
when a perception is present to our senses ... of
attending to a part only of that perception, instead of
the whole." In other words, a sensible line is a coloured
or tangible surface, but we can abstract, not only from
its colour and hardness, but even from its breadth, and
direct our attention only to its length. But we cannot
abstract from breadth if there is no breadth to abstract
from ; we cannot attend to length if there is no length
to attend to. You must catch your hare before you
cook it. Mill's sensible surface, as we have seen, reduces
itself to a number of sensations that are really or appar-
ently simultaneous, but it contains no hint of extension
cither in length or breadth. There is therefore no material
for abstraction to work upon, and the line of geometry
is equally inexplicable with the sensible line from which
it is said to be derived.

We come back, then, to the point that, granting the
sensible properties of things to be sufficiently explained
by sensation, their geometrical qualities cannot be so
explained. Now, we cannot rest satisfied with that refuge
ef the destitute, the conclusion that we here reach an
"ultimate inexplicabilit}," which is simply another way
of saying that our theory has broken down. There can

•.J

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

be no doubt that we have the perception of sensible
objects as extended and figured, and it cannot be impos-
sible to explain how we come to have that perception.
The theory that sensation and associations of sensation
account for the facts having failed, we must inquire whether
there is not in the perception of an extended object an
element or operation implied that cannot be described
either as sensation or as an association of sensations.

We have the perception of sensible objects as having
position, magnitude, and figure. This is the fact to be
explained. Let us first be clear as to what we mean by
an "object." This desk may be viewed as an object,
but so also may every particle of which it is composed.
For the sake of simplicity, let us suppose that we per-
ceive one of these particles. Now, according to the
hypothesis from which we have started, the colour, hard-
ness, and other sensible properties belonging to the particle
may be explained by sensation, but not its position, mag-
nitude, or figure. Let us ask, first of all, how we come
to have a perception of the position of the particle. A
very natural answer is, that we apj^rehend the particle as
in a certain part of space, and thus come to know its
position : in other words, position is supposed to be a
quality belonging to this individual particle. If that is
the case, obviously the particle would retain its position
even if there were no other particle in the whole of space.
Now, we need not trouble ourselves to ask whether the
particle as it is in itself, or apart from our knowledge,
has position as a quality attaching to it individually ; for
this at least is plain, that of position in that sense we
have no knowledge. I apprehend the particle, it is said,
as having a certain position in space. But what is its

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

ii i

position ? What part of space does it occupy ? W/iere
is it? If I could perceive the whole of space, I might
be able to fix the position of the particle by reference to
space alone. Thus, if space were a sphere with a definite
boundary, I might locate the particle as occupying a
certain position on this sphere. But space has no
boundary, or at least no boundary that we can perceive-
No one ever saw the end of space. Hence I cannot
locate the particle by reference to space. How, then, do
I locate it? Manifestly by reference to other particles.
Thus, if I view the desk as made up of a number of
particles, I can determine the position of any one of
them by reference to the position of the others. It thus
appears that no individual particle as such has position,
but that its position is fixed by reference to the position
of other particles. In other words, position is not a
quality attaching to the individual particle, but to indi-
vidual particles in their relation to one another. What
!:- the nature of this relation ? It is a relation of pure
' .ternality or outwardness, and of outwardness as imply-
ing coexi::t'.nce. Observe also that the particles have
position relatively to one another, because every part of
this outwardness is exactly the same as every other part.
I nless this were so, I could not determine the position
of any one of them. If, e.g., we suppose the particles
to be at rest, and the distance between them to be con-
tinually contracting and expanding, we could not say that
they had any fixed position. But the conception of dis-
tance as contracting and expanding is contradictory of the
very idea of spatial outwardness. The particles may
approach or recede from one another, but space always
remains the same, and unless it did so, we could not

PHILOSOPHY OK NATURE — GEOMETRY.

perceive the particles to approach or recede from one
another. Thus, if two particles approached each other
at the rate of one inch per second, and the space between
them expanded at the same rate, we could not perceive
the particles to move. What this shows is, that in the
perception of the distance of one particle from another,
we must necessarily presuppose that all the parts of space
are absolutely alike.

We may see the same thing from another point of
view. We have supposed that the sensible objects jier-
ceived by us are individual particles. But are there any
purely individual particles? Obviously we cannot per-
ceive a particle as concentrated in a point. For a particle
to be perceived at all must admittedly be perceived as
coloured or hard, and we cannot perceive a mere point
as either coloured or hard. The supposed individual
particle must therefore be perceived as having within itself
parts that are external to one another. We cannot pos-
sibly perceive any object, however small, that is not
perceived as having parts external to one another. Just
as we cannot perceive a maximum of space, so we cannot
perceive a minimum of space. Space is illimitable both\
as a whole and in every one of its parts. Now, if space (
cannot be perceived either as a whole or as a part, it is
plain that it is not something that exists ready-made and
can be apprehended or taken up by us as such. There .
must be in us a peculiar form of consciousness by which
it becomes an object for us. What is this form of
consciousness?

We have found that in the perception of objects, as in
space, there is implied their mutual externality, and that
this mutual externality is a relation. But the relation of

n ,;

lllii'ii

Mt! 1

COMTK, MILL, AND SPLNCKk.

mutual externality implies an act of thoih^ht^ i.e.y a dis-
crimination and yet relation of elements. If we do not
discriminate the objects we cannot [)erceivc them as ex-
ternal to one another; if we do not relate them to one
another, we cannot perceive them as occupying any jiosition.
Now, this complex act of discrimination and relation is
essential to every perception of an object, because apart
from it the object could not be perceived at all. In other
words, the conception of mutual externality is the absolute
condition of there being for us any perception whatever.
It is not a conception that can be derived from a per-
<:eption, for without it there could be 1' is no perception.
It cannot be reduced to sensation, for a sensation as
individual cannot yield the consciousness of relation.
Space or the mutual externality of the sensible is there-
fore the consciousness of the outwardness of sensible
objects as constituted by the activity of thought. It is
a purely intellectual element, and in no way a product
of sense.

The perception of an object as in space thus involves
a peculiar intellectual form of consciousness. It must
not be supposed, however, that this form of conscious-
ness could exist purely by itself. As we have seen, pure
space is not of itself an object of perception. We per-
ceive sensible objects as in space,, but we cannot perceive
space by itself. And the reason is, that space is simply
the conception of the mutual externality of the sensible ;
it is a relation, and no relation has any independent
reality. We can therefore say on the one hand, that
apart from the sensible properties of things we have no
consciousness of their geometrical relations ', and, on the
other hand, that apart from the geometrical relations of

rUlLOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

things we have no consciousness ot their sensible pro-
perties. But there is this difference between the two
elements implied in perception, that, whereas the sensil)le
properties may widely vary, every sensible object is in
space. Hence we can treat .-,pace as if it had a reality
independently of all the other properties of objects ; and
this, as we shall immediately see, is the key to the peculiar
character of geometry.

We are now in a position to estimate the value of Mill's
view of geometry. According to that view geometry must
express the precise nature of sensible magnitudes or it
cannot attain to the rank of a real science. The points,
lines, circli s, etc., of which it speaks must agree with
those that present themselves to us in our sensible ex-
perience. It is found that this harmony does not exist,
and hence geometry is declared to be deficient in pre-
cision and accuracy. Now, after what has been said, it
must be obvious that this view of geometry is funda-
mentally unsound. Cieometry cannot deal with sensible
points, lines, and circles, for there are no such magni-
tudes. If by a sensible point is meant the faintest
impression of colour that we can have, there is no
similarity between the point of geometry and this so-
called sensible point; if it means the corner of a sensible
object, it is not itselt sensible though it is implied in
v;hat is sensible. All magnitudes in short are non-sensibleA
To perceive a particle as in space is to determine its
position relatively to other particles, and the idea of posi-
tion is just the idea of a point viewed by reference to
particular things. We cannot see the position of a particle
with our eyes, we can only think it as a limit in a con-
tinuous space. Similarly there is no sensible line. The

■

COMTK, MII,L, AND SPF.NCER.

edge of an object is not visible or tangible ; it is merejy
the boundary of the object, and a boundary can exist for
us through the conception of two surfaces as h iving a
common limit only. Hence geometry cannot deal with
sensible magnitudes. With what then does it deal?

There is a sense in which every one is an unconscious
mathematician. To present to oneself any sensible object
whatever, one must be guided by the conception of ex-
ternality, and of the absolute identity of every part of
externality. Jkit in our ordinary consciousness we do
not make the relation of externality an explicit object of
thought. Our interest is not theoretical but i)ractical ;
we wish to know how far it is from one point to another,
what is the size of this desk, or table, or chair, and
hence the separation in thought of the conception of ex-
ternality fiom its applications in individual existences is
not made. We assume that there is no break in the
continuity of space, and that if the length of one object
is a foot, we shall find every other object which may
occupy the same space to be also a foot ; but we do not
make the conception of spatial magnitude the exclusive
object of our attention. This direction of attention to
pure magnitude is the distinction of geometry from ordinary
consciousness. What geometry does is to formulate the
intellectual condition of the perception of individual magni-
tudes. It sets aside as irrelevant for its purpose the
conditions of the perception of the sensible properties of
things, and deals only with the conditions of the quanti-
I tative relations of things. But, as without the latter no
J perception of an object is possible at all, geometry may
I very well be called a science of reality. It is not a
science of reality in its completeness, for reality as a

wmm

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — i;EOMETRY.

whole has many other conditions besides those of (luantity ;
but it is a science of reality in that special aspect of it
that geometry alone considers. We can thus see how
geometry may bo a real science without dealing with the
specific i)roperties of sensible objects. The knowledge
of such properties is not identical with a knowledge ot
the fixed relations implied in their being extended objects,
but it presupposes such fixed relations. I cannot dis-
tinguish the figure, size, or position of a body without
presupposing the homogeneity and continuity of space.
If I say, "This body is not perfectly round," 1 pre- ^
suppose the conception of a circle ; if I observe the edge
of this desk not to be ([uite straight, I am testing it by
I the conception of a straight line, even if I have never
heard of luiclid's definition of a straight line. Mill would
have us believe that w^Jirst perceive objects as apparently
round or straight, next confuse apparent with real round-
ness or straightness, and then concentrate attention upon
this supposed roundness or straightness. He forgets that
nothing exists for our knowledge except what actually
enters into it. A man may pronounce an object to be
round that is not round, but he cannot judge it to be
round without having the conception of roundness. Thus
even the false judgment, "This is round," presupi)Oses
the conception of a circle, though it need not be made
an explicit object of consciousness or be formally defined
as a line every point of which is equidistant from a
central point. Again, when apparent is confused with
real roundness, the confusion does not destroy the con-
ception of roundness, but presupposes it. And lastly,
when an advance is made to the judgment, "This object
is not round," that which changes is not the conception

\ '

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

nil

of roundness, but the identification of the figure of a cer-
tain object with that conception. This illustrates the
sense in which geometry is i' real science. As expressing
ihe figures that may be drawn in consistency with the
•onception of space as homogeneous and continuous,
,r;eometry enables us to make i)recise judgments in re-
gard to the quantitative relations of real things. It tells
us what are the conditions under which one given figure
can alone be an object of our knowledge, and thus en-
ables us to determine how far the figure of a given object
deviates from the figure conceived. Geometry does not
say that the edge of any object is straight, but it gives
us a means of determining with absolute precision its
deviation from straightness ; in other words, it tells us
whc.t the character of an object would be if there were
no other relations of things than those of position. So in
oiher cases. There is an abstraction even within geometry
itself. There can be no position of objects without
figure, but figure does not affect position, and, therefore,
the latter may be considered by itself. Then we advance
from the point to the line, from the line t^ the surface,
from the surface to the solid. Hut even if we could
determine all the possible figures that are consistent with
the conception of space, we should not completely de-
termine reality. There are many other aspects of things
besides the geometrical. Geometry, therefore, deals with '■
abstractions in this sense, tht t it determines the con-
ditions under which objects can be known as extended
magnitudes, without determining the other conditions.
The elements of reality with which it deals are real as
viements, but they have no reality if they are supposed
to be real purely by themselves. The only adequate con-

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURK — GEOMKTRV.

ception of reality is that which imi)lies a knowledge of
all the conditions of reality, and such a conception takes
us a long way beyond geometry.

2. I think we may now conclude that Mill's denial ol
the accuracy of geometry has no real foundation. The
definitions of geometry merely express the simplest rela-
tions between sensible objects ui the way of pure exter-
nality, and the very nature of relatic is that they are
real without being sensible. If th were no law by
which the relative position of bodies could be determined,
v-e could say nothing in regard to their position, and s(^
as to other relations of the same kind. vStraigh* lines are
what geometry defines them to be, circles have all thtir
radii equal.

The next question is whether the [)ropositions of geo-
metry are universal anrl necessary. Mill, as we know,
answers that they have no wider application than is war-
ranted by observation. To say that "two straight lines
cannot enclose a space" merely means that "all the
straight lines that we have observed are such that they
do not enclose a space." But we have no ground for
saying, in the strict sense, that two straight lines cannot
enclose a space. " We should probably have no difficulty
in putting together the two ideas supposed to be incom-
patible, if our experience had not first inseparably asso-
ciated one of them with the contradictory of the other."

A complete answer to this doctrine could only be given
by showing that the supposition of a world which is spatially
determined, and yet admits of the coexistence of elements
that in the world as i^resent to our consciousness are
incompatible, is a self-contradictory supposition. To
attempt the proof of this view would at present lead us

»t lipi I limtwjyjUHHtlll I I. I

COMTE, MILL, AND jPENCER.

I' i.

W It

too far ; I shall therefore merely endeavour to show that
if there is a world in which straight lines enclose a space,
at any rate it is not a world of which we can ever have
any exjjerience. If this is proved, it will follow that the
propositions of geometry are true, not merely as state
ments of what we /lave experienced, but as laws of what
we always shall experience.

We propose to show, in other words, that the nature
of our consciousness is such that any experience of the
enclosure of a space by two straight imes is an impossible
experience.

Mill holds that, as a matter of lact, we have never
found the two ideas of intersecting straight Inu:: and en-
closure of a space associated, ana this, he contends, is
the reason why we suppose them to be necessarily dis-
connected. He assumes, therefore, Oat the picture or
image of intersecting straight line.s i', a picture of which
we have repeatedly been conscious. How did this image
get into our consciousness? To this Mill would of course
answer that it is due to an effort of abstraction by which
we attend only to the dir.'ction of the two lines. But
the lines as we perceive them are sensible lines : let us,
for the sake of simplicity, say visible or coloured lines.
We have, then, the image of two coloured lines as inter-
secting, i.e., as not enclosing a space. On the other hand
we may have the image of two coloured lines as meet-
ing at both their extremities, i.e., ts enclosing a space.
But we never have the picture of two coloured lines that
at once intersect and meet. Yet we might. Mill maintains,
have such an image.

Now, the question is this. What is implied in the
consciousness of a picture such as Mill speaks of? A

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

C^3

picture or image is necessarily individual. I cannot have
the image of a line that is neither straight nor curved,
for such an object, whatever it might be, would not be
an image. Nor, again, can I have an image of a line
that is not sensible ; for a non-sensible line would not
be an image, but a relation or abstraction.

We have, then, before our minds the image of a line.
What does this imply? The line is coloured, but the line
cannot be defined as colour, for the colour may be changed
while yet the image is in other respects the same. Suppose
the image is that of a coloured straight line. How do
we come to have such an image ? We must be conscious
of the colour as disposed in a certain direction, /.e., as
disposed so as to be straight. I-^ovv this image of a
straight line cannot be present to our consciousness as
straight unless we mentally draw the line. That is, we
must produce one jjart after the other. And each part
as coloured will, when it is produced, be a succession of
colours, i.e., we must have one sensation of colour after
the other. Unless, therefore, we have a succession of
colours, we can have no image of a coloured line. The
succession of colours, however, is not the line ; what con-
stitutes the line is the manner in which these colours
are disposed in the image ; and that manner is that of
uniform direction. It is therefore evident that the image
of a line can be present to our consciousness only if we
arrange the colours in a certain fixed way. If the colours
are disposed irregularly, we shall have no image of a
straight line. At first sight it seems as if the colours
might be disposed in any order ; but, on closer examina-
tion, it becomes obvious that there are fixed limits to
their disposition. If I am to have the image of a coloured

W».i^«^'"-'JJHi'''iUpii

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

object at all, the cotours must be in some direction —
straight or curved, or partly straight and partly curved.
In other words, there is a fixed law in regard to the
disposition of colours, if they are to form an image. The
law is this : that they must be arranged as out of one
another or as mutually external, and as mutually external
in the three dimensions of space. If, e.g., there were no
mutual externality of the colours, they would vanish in
a point, and a point cannot form an image. Every part
of an image must therefore be of such a nature that any
part of it is external to any other part. Hence, to have
the image of a line is to produce each part as '^"^ernal
to the others.

But our image must also be individual, i.e., the parts
produced as mutually external must be in a straight
line or in a curved line. The image we have been
considering is that of a straight line. The condition
of the consciousness of a straight line is in the mental
production or construction of parts that are mutually
external and yet are combined in a unity. Now this
combination of mutually external parts is not given in
the successive feelings of colour : it is an act of thought
due to the activity of our minds. The image of a coloured
straight line can therefore be ])resent to our conscious-
ness onlv if there is an act of combination which takes
place in accordance with the principle, that all the jjarts
of the line are (i) mutually external, (2) together, (3)
homogeneous, (4) in one direction.

(i) suppose mutual externality absent, and we shoulc
have no line, but a number of detaciied points. ^2)
Suppose they are not together, and we shoul*^ 'lave ft
vanishing series like the moments of time. (3) Suppose

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE— GEOMETRY.

•I

they are not homogeneous, and we should have parts of
different length, i.e., we should really have a line of
discrete parts. (4) Suppose they are not all in one
direction, and we should have not a straight but a
curved line of some form or other. Hence we can
have no image of a straight line that contradicts any
of these conditions. But if two straight lines enclosed
a space, it must be because one or other of them, or
both, is not straight. Thus we affirm and deny straight-
ness. But if we deny straightness, we can have no
image of a straight line, because the straightness is
not in the sensations of colour, but in the manner
in which they are disposed. Now, if we could have
experience of two straight lines which enclosed a si)ace,
I.e., of a line that was in two directions at once, it must
be because we can form images that have none of the
characteristics of those we do form. For a straight line
that encloses a space is the same as one that is in two
opposite directions at once. Such a line could not be a
determination of space as we know it, but of a totally
different space. Thus it would not be an image of the
kind we know. Such an image could not be connected
with those we have as belonging to the same world.

What Mill overlooks is, that all images of extended
magnitudes are formed in consonance with the principle
of the homogeneity of the parts of space. To suppose
that we can have a sensible image whicii contradicts this
homogeneity is to suppose that we can have an image
which contradicts the fundamental condition of such
images. The condition is not one that lies in the sen-
sations, but one that lies in the manner in which they
must be combined. We cannot present to ourselves the

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COMTK, MILL, AND SPENCER.

image of a coloured line that is in two directions at once,
because such a colour would not appear to us as colour,
every coloured line being necessarily pictured as in one
direction or another. If a line may be in two direc-
tions at once, this means that it is not an image, and
if there is ?io image there can be no ^^ associatioti" of images.
All determinateness vanishes, and we are in a ghostly
world in which we can present nothing as external. Now,
if association of images is impossible, Mill's reason for
denying the absoluteness of the connection of images
vanishes. Where there is no possibility of making images
at all there can be no association of images. Deny
images, and Mill's objection falls to the ground. His
argument in reference to the judgment, " Two straight
lines cannot enclose a space," amounts to this, that we
have never found subject and predicate together in our
experience, but have only found repeated associations of
subject and predicate. But there can be no repetition
of an association where there is nothing to associate.
Hence, if we deny the universality of the elements im-
plied in our judgment, we are denying the possibility
of both subject and predicate. To have either we must
have both, i.e., the relation is not variable, because its
invariability is the condition of any image. A relation
which is the condition of any object of consciousness
about which we can judge at all is not variable but
fixed. Hencf we do not obtain geometrical propo&itions
by a repetition of particular judgments; but each judj^ment
is universal.

Let us now state somewhat more freely what we regard
as the true view of the proof of mathematical judgments.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

Whatever we can present before our consciousness as an
extended magnitude is external to all other magnitudes,
and if we distinguish par»s in this extended magnitude,
each of these is external to all the other parts, and to all
parts that we can distinguish in any other extended mag-
nitude. Now, we cannot perceive any part by simply
apprehending it as in a particular or separate space. For,
firstly, the particular space in which the part is cannot
be regarded as a unit which admits of no further division;
so regarded it would be a point, and that which is in a
point, if there could be such a thing, would not be
extended. Secondly, we cannot perceive space as a
whole, and fix the position of the part by reference to
this whole. To perceive spat e as a whol ; would be to
have a perception of space as limited, i.e., as having no
space beyond it ; and such a perception .» impossible.
We can only perceive one >pace as surrounded by
another wider space, this by a still wider, and so on ;
but we can never reach a space beyond which there
is no wider space. How then can we perceive an object
as external to other objects? Only by combining data
of sense in such a way as to present them as a singlt
image, the parts of which are mut...tlly external, i.e.,
by relating tzie data of sen^e in such a way as to
present them as in space. If this is not done there is no
sensible image, and therefore no perception of an ex-
tended sensible object.

So far in regard to the perception of individual sensible
images, e.g., this desk, this chair. We may, however, reach
a further stage of knowledge by neglecting the peculiarities
of this and that sensible object, and directing our atten-
tion solely to the relation of mutual externality itself.

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

This is what geometry does. In ordinary perception we
form images by applying the principle that every part of
space is homogeneous with every other, but when we
make space itself an object we become conscious of this
principle. Tlie reason, then, why geometry applies to all
sensible magnitudes is that it simply states explicitly the
principle that the mind must make use of in having the
l)erception of any object as extended.

From these considerations we may see that Mill's account
of the manner in which geometrical judgments are formed
is unsatisfactory.

(i) Is every geometrical judgment paHkular? Is any
such judgment particular?

His view may be stated as follows : In my experience
I observe two sensible straight lines meet and then diverge
further and further from each o^her. Thus I make the
particular judgment : the straight lines AB do not enclose
a space. On another occasion I again perceive two
straight lines which do not enclose a space, and this
yields another particular judgment : the straight lines CD
do not enclose a space. Nor have we in our sensible
experience ever found two straight lines enclosing a space.
It may be objected, however, that the judgnjent, " tlic
straight lines AB do not eisclase a space," states more
timn is warranted by perception. For these linui^ are
finite in length : " we < annot follow them to infinity ; for
aught our senses can testif\ . they may imnBediately l/eyond
the furthest point to which we have traced thein \m%w\ to
approach and at last meet." Thus the judgment waviauled
by perception would seem to be, not that the straight
lines AB do not enclose a spa<;e, but that the straight
lines AB, so far as we have observed them, do not

i'HILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

not

enclose a space. Such a proposition, so far from l)eing
identical with the axiom of Kuclid, that " two straight
lines cannot enclose a space," /.<■., that //o two straight
lines can enclose a space, will not even warrant the judg-
ment that the straight lines AB cannot enclose a si)ace.
Geometrical propositions would thus seem to be doubly
particular, firstly, as not warranting a judgment about a//
straight lines; and secondly, as limiting what is said about
particular straight lines to what has been observed. The
subject, " no two straight lines," must run, " these two
straight lines," and the predicate, " can enclose a space,"
must be modified to " enclose a space so far as our
perception goes." Mill, however, refuses to limit the
predicate of the judgment. It is true, he says, that we
cannot perceive two infinite straight lines, but we can yet
affirm that they do not enclose a space. For, if the two
lines wh'ch we perceive to diverge ever do meet, it must
be at a finite distance, and hence we can picture in
imagination the manner in which they woulu presujlt
themselves to jierrepiioii. Now, we caimol Imagine two
straight lines as diverging and then meeting at a finite
distance ; and hence we can say that the two straight lines
AB cannot enclose a space. We are entitled, then, it
would seem, to make such judgments as, AB cannot en-
close a space, nor can CZ>, EF, etc. ; but we are not
entitled to say unconditionally, A^o two straight lincH can
enclose a space. For the only warrant we have for our
particular judgments is that of particular experiences, and
no number of particular experiences can carry us beyond
those experiences. A universal judgment is merely a
short-hand statement or summary of a neanber of par-
ticular judgments, and no summation of particulars can

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

reach the infinite. The precise meaning of the axiom,
"Two straight lines cannot enclose a space," is, "No two
straight lines observed by us have enclosed a space." But
this is not equivalent to the judgment, " No two straight
lines can enclose a space." Generality is not necessity.
There is nothing to hinder us from supposing that we
might in our observation find two straight Unes enclosing
a space. Hence the axioms of geometry are not neces-
sary truths, but generalizations from sensible exi)erience.

According to Mill, then, the particular judgment, " These
two sensible straight lines cannot enclose a space," is
legitimate, but the universal judgment, " Two straight
lines cannot enclose a space," is illegitimate. It is, in
fact, the assumption of the validity of the former which
is made the basis for the denial of the latter. We have
therefore to ask whether, on Mill's premises, we are entitled
to make even a particular geometrical judgment.

It might be pointed out, as a contradiction in Mill's
own theory, that he here assumes the possibility of two
sensible lines being straight, whereas he has before main-
tained that no sensible lines are straight. This objection,
however, we shall not press. Let it be granted that
sensible lines are observed by us, and are observed to be
straight. Now, it must be carefully borne in mind that
the question here is not in regard to any sensible lines
which may be supposed to exist in nature independently
of our observation. Any one who affirms that there are
such lines must be prepared to explain how we come to
have a knoivledge of them. No doubt there are m.iny
things in nature of which we have no knowledtr-, but if
we affirm nature to be constituted in a certain way, we
must be able to show that we have a knowledge of how

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE— GEOMETRY.

it is constituied. It would therefore seem that the lines
affirmed to be straight are lines actually j^rescnt to sense.
Obviously such lines cannot extend beyond the visible
lines perceived. How, then, can we .say that the lines
AB cannot enclose a space? This would mean, as Mill
admits, that they would not meet however far they were
produced. But we cannot have a perception of sensible
lines beyond the [mint where they cease to be visible.
Hence it does not seem that we are entitled to say, The
lines AB, if followed out, do not enclose a space, but only
that, so far as they have been followed out, they do not
enclose a space. Mill is aware of this difficulty, and tries
to meet it by .saying that, though sensible lines are finite
in extent, yet we can imagine them to be produced beyond
the point of vision, and we are sure that tlie imaginary
lines exactly resemble the real ones. No doubt ; but
there is no guarantee of reality in imaginary lines if Mill
is right in holding all real lines to be objects of sense.
If the sensible lines AB are one foot in length, the lines
imag'ned as continuing these are not real, and to show
that the latter do not meet tells us nothing in regard to
the former. We cannot therefore consistently hold that
the straight lines AB do not enclose a space ; our judg-
ment must be that the straight lines AB, so far as our
judgment has gone, do not enclose a space.

When we look more closely, however, we shall find
that even this judgment goes further th;in is warranted
by tl.e data on which it rests. Mill evidently assumes
that the sensible lines AB are shown to be real pro-
perties of objects, accessible to the observation of any
one who looks at them. This, however, is an assumption.
If I have no guarantee that two straight lines do not

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meet beyond the point observed by me, what guarantee
have I that they do not meet beyond the moment of my
observation ? It thus appears that my judgment must
be still further limited. I must now say, not that two
straight lines cannot enclose a space, but that these two
straight lines, so far as perceived, and so long as per-
ceived, do not enclose a space. For aught I can tell
they may take a sudden freak when I am looking the
other way, and alter their whole nature.

A still further limitation has to be made. When I
say that the two lines now before me do not enclose a
space, I am tacitly distinguishing between the lines as
real and my perception of them. Such a distinction is
not possible unless I regard my individual state of the
moment as indicating a reality not determined by that
state. I cannot indeed affirm that the lines in question
are as they appear to me when I do not perceive them,
but I must distinguish their appearance from their reality.
But if 1 have no other guarantee for their reality than
the sensation of the moment, I cannot go beyond that
sensation. I am thus limited to the judgment : I have
now before my consciousness two straight lines which do
not enclose a space.

Only one step more has to be taken. Two straight
lines as meeting and diverging is a complex image, in
which there are at least two elements, the colour of the
lines and their direction. But sensation can give only
the colour : the direction of the hues, as we have already
seen, is a relation involving an act of thought. Exclude
th s act of thought, and we are reduced to the mere
sensation of colour, which is not a possible image at all,
but merely an element in an image. Thus the subject of

PHILOSOPHY OP^ NATURE — GEOiMETRY.

the judgment disappears, and with it the whole judg-
ment.

Mill's theory, then, does not explain even the judgment,
" I am consdous of the straiglit lines AB as not enclos-
ing a space,' but is inconsistent with the possibility of
any judgment whatever. But if there are no particular
judgments, there can of course be no general judgments,
which on his doctrine depend upon an inference from
particular judgments.

The conclusion to which we have been brought con-
firms the lesult of our inquiry into the accuracy of
geometry. If the assumption that a real line is merely
sensible leads to the denial of all judgments, we cannot
explain even the appearance of knowledge. A flux of
sensations, supposing it to be possible, would not yield
even the consciousness of the sensations forming the flux,
much less the consciousncbs of any fixed nature in their
content. A real line, in other words, is just one of the
fixed relations by which perceptible objects are deter-
mined. Like all geometrical relations it rests upon the
conception of pure externality. When we get at the righi
point of view it becomes obvious that no geometrical
proposition is based upon induction, in Mill's sense of
the word. That two straight lines cannot enclose a space
is not a belief generated by repeated experiences of par
ticular lines as not enclosing a space; it is a necessary
proposition implied in the simplest perception. The
reason we are apt to think otherwise no doubt is, that
in our ordinary experience we make use of universal
principles of which we are not explicitly conscious. Take
the familiar experience of the two lines in a railway

COMTE, MILL. AND SPENCER.

track. We speak oi" these as parallel to each other,
because when we apply a measure at any point we find
that the distance between them is the same. What is
implied in this inference? It is manifestly implied
that there is outness between bodies, and that this out-
ness is exactly the same wherever we measure it.
Now, this is implicitly the judgment that parallel lines
will never meet. We do not come to this conclusion
by frequently observing that given parallel lines do
not meet, but assuming constancy in the relations of
outness, we affirm that these particular lines are parallel.
Our direct interest, however, is not in the principle here
made use of, but in the particular objects in question.
If we are constructing a railway track, we are concerned
to make the lines parallel, not to lay down the principle
implied in parallel lines. Thus we seem to be making
the merely particular judgment : These lines are parallel.
In reality, however, the universal judgment that all e([ui-
distant lines are parallel is presupposed, and, if it were
not presupposed, the particular judgment would not be
true. It is not by accumulating particular judgments
about parallel lines that we reach the general judgment ;
but the general judgment is implied in each of the par-
ticular judgments. Geometry simply states in the form
of an explicit judgment the conception implied in every
one of the particular judgments. Thus the propositions
of geometry are universal, because they explicitly formu-
late the fixed relation which in the particular judgment
is implicit. No induction or accumulation of particular
judgments is needed, because the universal principle is
already present in the particular judgment. Hence it is
not surprising that Mill is at last driven by the stress of

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — GEOMETRY.

logic not only to deny that there are, properly speaking,
universal judgment?, but even to resolve particular judg-
ments into an association of particular mental states or
images. Thus the judgment that two straight lines
cannot enclose a space, merely means that we have fre-
quently had the experience of the image of two straight
lines accompanied by the image of their divergence,
while we have never had the experience of such an image
accompanied by the image of their enclosure of a space.
The fundamental objection to this view is that it assum.es
as possible what it tacitly afiirms to be impossible. If the
image of str .ight lines is possible at all, as it is assumed
to be, the image of their enclosure of a space is im-
possible. This may not piove that there cannot be a
world in which straight lines enclose a space, but it at
least proves that no such world can possibly be an
object of our experience. The judgment is therefore not
due to an association of images that are independent
of one another, but there is one single image of such a
character that we cannot be conscious of it as other than
it is. In other words, every image implies the conception
of an unalterable relation in the elements of sense.

III

i'Mi

hi 1

I M

•U i i

CHAPTER IV.
PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE (Continued).

ARITHMETIC AND ALGEliRA.

In his Theory of Numbers Mill has two main objects in
view : first, to show that arithmetic and algebra rest upon
inductions from sensible observations; second, to prove
that their supposed accuracy and precision arises from
their hypothetical character.

First. The Science of Numbers rests upon Induction.

Mill does not here, as in the case of geometry, directly
examine the a priori view, which maintains that arith-
metic and algebra rest in no way upon sensible observation
but upon pure conceptions; but indirectly he seeks to
overthrow it by showing that they do ndt rest upon sensible
observation. We can easily, if we choose, supply the
missing disproof of the a priori view. The a priori philo-
sopher, Mill would say, must hold that the proposition
2 -t- 2 - 4 is an identical proposition, in which the predicate
4 is identical with the .subject 2 + 2 ; in other words, that
it is impossible to conceive 24-2 as forming anything but
4. Now to this view Mill would of course answer, that
no real proposition can be based upon the inconceivability

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE -^ARITHMETIC.

of the opposite, as has been shown in the case of geometry,
for there is nothing to hinder us from supposing that in
some other planet 2 + 2 might -5. In fact Mill, when
he is dealing with the question of inconceivability, expressly
says that the proposition 2 + 2 = 5 is not self-contradictory,
since we should "probably have no difficulty in putting
together the two ideas supposed to be incompatible, if
our experience had not first inseparably associated one
of them with the contradictory of the other."

Assuming then, that the theory of numbers is not an
a priori science, it must rest upon inductions from sensible
observations. Now this means that it cannot be based
upon "logical definitions," i.e., upon propositions which
are purely verbal. The proposition 2 -f r - 3, if it is a
logical definition, merely means that 2 + t is another name
for what is more neatly expressed by the term 3. This
in fact is the view of the nominalists, who maintain that
the only real things are individual things, and that the
propositions of arithmetic and algebra are but an elaborate
system of naming these things. If I see three chairs or
three tables, each chair and each table is real; but
when I call them three, I only mean that I give the
name three to a group of three tables or a group of
three chairs. Now Mill's objection to this view is, that it
virtually denies the theory of numbers to be based upon
inductioti. For, if we are limited to particular observa-
tions in this way, there is no transition from the known
to the unknown, and therefore no induction. The nomin-
alist therefore denies all general propositions, and thus
makes a science of numbers impossible. Mill therefore
has to show that arithmetic and algebra do really involve
inductions, i.e.^ inferences from particular observations to

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCKK.

il:h

general propositions. He agrees with the nominalist in
holding that the theory of numbers must rest upon par-
ticular observation?, but he differs in maintaining that
from these particular observations general propositions
are derived by a process of inductive inference.

What then, he asks, has led the nominalist to suppose
that there are no general propositions in regard to numbers,
or, in other words, that a general proposition is merely
verbal ?

The reason is that in arithmetical or algebraic operations
we deal with symbols of sensible objects as distinguished
from actual sensible perceptions or copies of these in
imagination. In geometry we have before us either a
sensible figure on paper or on a blackboard, or we form a
mental image of a sensible figure ; and thus it is evident
that all our reasonings are about rea' sensible things.
But in arithmetic and algebra we have no sensible object,
and no image of a sensible object before us, and tiierefore
we do not seem to be dealing with real sensible things
at all. The reasoner has nothing in his miiid during the
process but the symbols or names, and hence it is natural
to suppose that it is with the symbols or names that he
is dealing. If that were the case, there would of course
!)e no induction, for every induction is the process by
which we pass from particular observations to a new truth
lint contained in these observations. Mill must therefore
show that in every step of an arithmetical or algebraical
calculation there is " a real inference of facts from facts."

Now the word ten represents an actual fact of sensible
observation : it really means ten bodies, or ten sounds,
or ten beatings of the pulse, and apart from such particular
sensible observations the word ten would be meaningless.

wmm

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE— ARITHMETIC.

But the peculiarity of numbers is, that whatever is true of
ten bodies is true also of every object of which we can
have sensible observation. In this respect arithmetic differs
from geometry; for such a geometrical proposition as that
two straight lines do not enclose a space is true only of
Imes, not of angles, or squares, or circles, whereas the
proposition that 2+1=3 i^ true of all sensible objects,
since every such object consists of parts which can be
numbered. Thus the number one will serve as a represent-
ative of any sensible object whatever, and hence the
inferences we draw will hold of every such object. Accord-
ingly, arithmetical propositions are based upon inductions
from the observation of actual sensible things, and are not
merely verbal.

There is another thing which gives plausibility to the
nominalist view, that the theory of numbers deals only
with names : the predicate seems to be identical with the
subject. If we take a special case, such as " two pebbles
and one pebble are three pebliles," we seem to be stating,
not that the two collections of pebbles are er/ua/ in quantity,
l)ut that they are precisely the same or identical. But,
in point of flict, what is really affirmed is not identity but
equality. Yox what is meant is, that the same objects
produce a different set of sensations when they are
grouped in two different ways. And as this is a fact
which holds good in all cases, we can say quite generally
2 + 1=3. 'fhe scieni .J of number thus rests upon prin-
ciples which, like thoso of geometry, are generalizations
from experience.

Second. The science of number rests upon inductions
which are not exactly true, but true only under the hypo-
thesis that actual sensible objects are what they are

COMTK, MILL, AND SPF.NCER.

assumed to be. In mimOrical calculations it is taken for
granted that the objects numbered are identical as regards
(juantity. " Hut this is never practically true, for one
actual pound weight is not exactly e([u.il to another, nor
one mile's length to another ; a nicer balance, or more
accurate measuring instrument, would always detect some
difference."

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(t) Mill's first pr()j)osition is, that the science of num-
ber rests upon induction, i.e., it contains inferences drawn
from sensible observations ; and in seeking to make good
this proposition he is led to reject (d) the doctrine of the
a priori school, who maintain that its judgments are not
derived from experience, but are self-evident ; and (fi) the
doctrine of the nominalists, who hold that its judgments
are purely verbal.

Now (a) Mill is undoubtedly right in rejecting the
doctrine that the truths of arithmetic and algebra are in-
dependent of all experience, and can be proved to be so
by the logical principle of contradiction, iu:, by the im-
po.ssibility of conceiving the opposite. No proposition
can be proved to be true on the ground that its opposite
is inconceivable. The opposite of i'zr;^' proposition is
inconceivable so long as we assume that the proposition
is /rue, but not otherwise. Thus the opposite of the
proposition, " Light is due to the transmission of material
particles," is inconceivable so long as we assume the truth
of the proposition ; but if we deny itri truth, there is no
inconceivability in its opposite. Similarly we cannot con-
ceive 2 + 1 to be = 4, so long as we assume the truth of
the proposition, 2 -f i = 3 ; but if that proposition is denied,
there is no inconceivability in its opposite. It is thus

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — ARITHMETIC.

evident that we cannot base the truth of a proposition
upon its inconceival)inty, but, contrariwise, the inconceiva-
bility depends upon its truth. 'Die opposite of every true
proposition is inconceivable, but not the opposite of a
false pro[)osition. The a prioN philosoi)hers, therefore, in
assuming that the truth of numerical t)ropositions can be
established by the inconceivability of their opj-osite, have
really committed themselves to the view that such pro-
positions are mere analyses of conceptions, or, in other
words, merely state what is already conceived to be true.
15ut manifestly the question still remains whether the con-
ceptions are really true, and this (question can only be
solved by showing that real things are as they are con-
ceived to be.

{l>) Mill is also right in rejecting the nominalist doctrine,
that the only realides are particular things, and that general
propositions are purely verbal. The question is whether
his own doctrine can consistently avoid the imperfections
of nominalism. Mill evidently assumes that by sensible
observation we obtain a knowledge of particular things
as distinct from each other, and therefore as numerable,
and that the process of induction consists in inferring that
all particular things are similarly distinct from each other,
and therefore numerable. To this explanation two objec-
tioi.? have to be made. In the first place, pure sensation
can give no distinction of one thing from another, because,
as we saw in the case of geometry, each sensation is a
purely individual feeling, and is therefore capable of re-
vealing nothing but itself. It is only in so far as one
sensation is discriminated from another that there is any
consciousness of distinction. But this discrimination is
an act of thought. Hence in the simplest form of know-

COMTK, MILL, AND SPKNCKR.

•li

ledge the operation of the distinguishing and relating
activity of thought is already implied. Now, number pre-
supposes this activity of thought, and hence it is not correct
to say that by sense we obtain a knowledge of particular
things as distinct from each other, and therefore as numer-
able. What is called sensible observation already implies
the distinguishing activity of thought. Ln every act of dis-
tinction, therefore, there is implicitly a numeiical judgment.
But though all perception implies such a judgment, it is
only when attention is directed to the ([uantitative element
implied in every such judgment that we form explicit
numerical judgments. And, when at'antion is so directed,
we set aside all the qualitative aspects of things and con-
centrate our thought purely ui)on their quantitative abpects,
or rather upon that quantitative aspect of them in which
they are viewed as distinct or discrete, abstracting from
all other aspects. The science of number is thus, from
its very nature, abstract, />., it sets aside for its purpose
all other aspects of the real world except its numerical
aspect. Hence the science of number never deals with
the concrete objects of perception as ' concrete ; it does
not deal with pebbles and boxes as pebbles and boxes,
but only with these in so far as they are identical^ i.e., as
discrete units capable of being discriminated from each
other, and therefore of being counted. If the objection
is raised, that the science of number must deal with real
things or it will be no science, but a mere fiction, the
answer is that no science deals with real things in their
completeness, but only with real aspects of real things,
and that number is ther'^fore a science in the same sense
as other sciences. Mill's mistake is in assuming that
number must deal either with sensibles nr with mere

rillLOSOPHY UF NATURE— ARITHMKTIC.

abstractions, whereas it really deals with the sensible as
abstract, />., with an abstract but real element of existence.

If we bear this in mind, we shall have no diftlculty in
seeing that number does not rest upon induction, in Mill's
sense of the word. On his view, we must su[)pose that
we have a number of particular observations of sensible
things as numerable, and then infer that all sensible
things are numerable. For induction, as he explains it,
is the i)rocess of inference by which we pass from some to
all. W this were a true account of the nature of induc-
tion, every general [)roi)Osition would be based upon a
pure assumption, which admits of no possible justification.
For how can we legitimately conclude that a// possible
sensible things are numerable if our data give us only ome
sensible things ? Mill, therefore, if he were consistent,
would limit himsc.f to particular numerical propositions,
and deny that there are any true general propositions, i.e.^
he would take the same view as the nominalists.

This may be shown in another way, if we consider his
admission that 2 + i inigJit make 4 in another planet, for
this startling conclusion is just the legitimate inference
from his doctrine that all general propositions are in-
ferences from particular propositions. Here, in fact, he
tacitly admits that beyond those particular propositions
we have no right to go, and that general i)ropositions are
due merely to the illegitimate extension of particular pro-
positions under the influence of association.

Mill's doctrine, then, that number rests upon induction
from particular propositions cannot be accepted. The
true view is, that in the simplest numerical judgment the
universal judgment is already implied. For since dis-
crimination is presupposed in even the simplest and most

COMIE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

iJii :

Ei^:

l-^

elementary consciousness as its necessary condition, num-
ber is miplicit in every act of consciousness. In other
words, we can give no explanation of consciousness at all,
and therefore no explanation of a particular numerical
judgment, unless we admit that every distinguishable
element of consciousness is numerable. The numerical
relation of things is therefore shown to be absolutely
necessary, because without it there would be no conscious-
ness at all. It is, in other words, a fixed and unchange-
able relation of every possible element of reality that each
element is not identical with any other element of reality,
i.e., that it must be counted as a unit among other units.
In numerical judgments, then, we do not pass from some
to all, but in eacA judgment a// is implied.

(2) After what has been said, we need not spend much
lime upon Mill's second point, viz., that the theory of
number rests upon a hypothesis which is not strictly true.
The hypothesis is, that each unit is the same as every
other, whereas it is impossible to find in nature any two
units exactly the same. The whole force of this reasoning
evidently rests upon the assumption, that the science of
number can be a real Lcience only if its judgments are
derived from sensible things. But if, as we have main-
tained, its aim is to state what holds good of all things
only in so far as they are looked at from the point of view
of discrete magnitude, the fact that any given object differs
in its size or in its weight cannot in any way affect the
absoluteness of the science of number. And net only so,
but no difterencf; in the size or weight of a particular
object could be discerned, unless we presupposed the
absoluteness of quantitative relations. We could not
possibly tell that one pound or one mile was not equal

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE—ARITHMETIC.

to another pound or another mile, unless the standard
of measurement were absolute. There is therefore no
hypothetical element in tJie mathematical sciences, unless
'e falsely assume that these sciences formulate the complete
nature of things. Viewed as expressing certain unchange-
able relations which are presupposed in all our knowledge
of real things, mathematics is not a hypothetical but a
necessary science.

CHAPTER V.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE (Continued).

THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES.

INDUCTION,

We have seen that, according to Mill, mathematics rests
upon sensible observation ; and we naturally expect to find
him giving the same explanation of the foundation of other
sciences. But first of all he seeks to distinguish the in-
ductive process by which the generalizations of science
are reached from various logical processes which are often
confounded with it. In the first place, induction is not
the mere registration in language of a given number of
individual observations. No single observation, and no
number of single observations, is an induction, because
here there is no inference from the known to the unknown.
The observation, that the moon shines by the sun's light,
no )ne would call an induction ; nor can there be any
ind ction in the successive observations that Mars, Neptune,
Saturn, and the other planets each shine by the sun's
light. And if v/e collect all these separate observations
in the proposition, that "all the planets shine by the
sun's light," we are merely recalling what we already
know, not advancing to any new truth. In the second

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

place, there are certain mathematical propositions which
are improperly called inductions ; as, for instance, the
proposition that a straight line cannot meet any section
of a cone in more than two points. And, lastly, the
description of a set of observed phenomena is not induction.
Thus Kepler, after observing a number of the places
successively occupied by the planet Mars, found that
when joined together they formed an ellipse. The pro-
position that Mars described an ellipse was therefore
merely the summary of a number of different observations,
not the inference to a new truth not contained in those
observations ; and hence it cannot be called an induction.

What, then, is an induction? It is defined by Mill
as the process by which we infer that what we know
to be true in a particular case or cases will be true in
all cases which resemble the former in certain assignable
respects. The " resemblance " may be either (a) that of
individuals belonging to a class, or (/>) that of the same
individual at different times ; but, in either of these cases,
the essence of the induction consists in making a really
" general " proposition, />., one which holds good, when
v;e pass from the particular to the universal. Thus, the
conclusion that "all men are mortal" is an induction,
because we pass from what we know of SiV//e men to a//
men. Similarly, when Kepler inferred that, as the orbit
of Mars had hitherto been elliptical, it would always be
elliptical, he made a genuine induction.

Now, if Induction implies in all cases a transition from
the particular to the universal, it is naturally asked by
what right the transition is made. It is obvious that,
in every case of real induction, we tacitly assume that
what holds good in the cases observed will hold good

■i

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

in all similar cases ; ' we assume, in other words, that the
course of nature is uniform. What, then, is the justifica-
tion of that assumption ? Mill answers that it is itself
an instance of induction, and by no means one of the
most obvious or the earliest. But, before attempting to
prove this, he asks what precisely is meant by the
"uniformity of nature."

(t) It is obvious that by the uniformity of nature it is
not meant to exclude infinite diversity. Nobody expects
one day to be the mere repetition of the previous day.
Yet there is a natural tendency in the human mind to
expect that phenomena which have frequently presented
tliemselvey in combination will always recur in the sa7Ne
combination. This method of inductio per etmvierationcm
simplicetn is rightly condemned by Bacon. It would be
legitimate only if we were certain that we had exhausted
all the instances, and such certitude is practically not obtain-
able. The truth is that induction to be valid does not
depend upon the number of instances observed, but upon
something very different. A single instance may be
sufficient in one case, a million may not be enough in
other cases.

(2) If, then, the uniformity of nature docs not mean
invariability, what is its true meaning?

The first thing to observe is that by the uniformity of
nature we should understand a number of uniformities.
These uniformities, when reduced to their simplest expression,
are called laws of nature. Three such laws are these: (i)
that air has weight, (2) that pressure on a fluid is propagated
equally in all directions, (3) that pressure in one direction,
not opposed by equal pressure in the contrary direction,
produces motion, which does not cease until equilibrium

PHILOSOPHY OK NAIURE — PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

is restored. From these three laws or uniformities the
rise of mercury in the Torricellian tube might be predicted.
But this is not properly a law of nature, but a result of
the three laws of nature mentioned. Every true induction
is therefore either a law of nature, or a result of laws of
nature ; and the problem of induction is to ascertain the
laws of nature, and to follow them into their results.

.IKJllf

CAUSATION.

Now, laws of nature are of three kinds : they are either

(a) laws which apply indifferently to synchronous or
successive phenomena ; (d) laws which hold only of syn-
chronous phenomena; or (r) laws which hold only of suc-
cessive phenomena, (a) The first sort of laws are those of
number^ which hold whether the phenomena are syn-
chronous or successive. Thus, 2 + 2 = 4, whether we are
speaking of two coexistent objects or of two events.

(b) The second set of laws are those contained in geometry^
which apply only to coexistent objects. {c) The third
set of laws are those which express uniformities in the
way of succession. It is with these only that we have
here to deal. It has already been shown that the laws
of number and of geometry are inductions, and the
question is as to the inductions wlvicb concern the
succession of phenomena, or rather the principle which is
presupposed in all such inductions. That principle is
causation. The ground of induction, so far as successive
phenomena are concerned, is the law of causation, which
may be thus stated : " P>ery fact which has a beginning
has a cause." AVhat, then, is a " cause " ?

By a " cause " is to be understood in all cases a
phenomenon, i.e., a particular fact or event. Whether

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

!•

there are causes which are not themselves phenomena
we shall not inquire. There are certain thinkers (the
Cartesians, for example) who hold that, besides physical
causes, there are also efficient causes, /.c, causes which,
without being themselves events, produce events. But,
whether there are such causes or not, at any rate these
are not at present in question. In affirming that every
event has a cause, we are only affirming that every phe-
nomenon in nature is invariably preceded by some other
phenomenon.

Now, as there are at any given instant many phenomena,
each of these is preceded by another phenomenon^ and
invariably p'-eceded by it. A cause is thus an '* invariable
antecedent" or "set of antecedents," an effect, an "invari-
able consequent." There are many antecedents or sets
of antecedents = ^, B, C, D, etc., and many consequents
= "> fti 7j ^7 etc., and each of these is separate and
distinct from the others. To find out such antecedents
is to perform an induction, so far as the succession of
phenomena is concerned. If there were any event which
had no such antecedent, no induction could take place.
The universality and certainty of the law of causation is
therefore the basis of all induction as to successive
phenomena.

A cause, then, is an antecedent or set of ante-
cedents. But it seldom, if ever, happens that there is
only one antecedent of a given consequent. In ordinary
language one of these antecedents is singled out and called
the cause, the others being distinguished as conditions.
But the real cause is the whole of the antecedents, i.e.,
all the conditions without which the consequent would
not exist. The reason why one antecedent is specially

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

selected as the cause, is, that it alone is an event, the
others being states, which existed i)rior to the effect, but
did not begin to exist immediately \mox to it. It thus
seems that a cause is the sum of antecedents .vithout
which a given event does not take place, i)Ut that of
those antecedents the greater number are not themselves
events. It has to be added that in considering the sum
of conditions, we must take into consideration the negative
as well as the positive conditions, i.e., those facts which
must be absent if the consequent is to take place. The
full definition of cause, therefore, is, "the sum total of
the conditions, positive and negative, taken together,
upon which the consequent invariably follows."

This view of causation does away with the absolute
distinction of agent and patient. A stone falls to the
earth, and it is said that the earth acts, and the stone is
acted upon. But it is just as correct to say that the
stone attracts the earth, as that the earth attracts the
stone. The distinction between agent and patient is
purely verbal, since patients are always agents. All the
positive conditions of a ])henomenon are agents, in the
sense that without the whole of them the consequent
could not take place.

The cause of anything is "the antecedent which it
invariably follows," but it is not "the antecedent which
it invariably has followed in our past experience." The
sequence must be not only invariable but unconditional.
Hence we may define a cause as " the antecedent, or the
concurrence of antecedents, on which a phenomenon is
invariably and unconditionally consequent."

It may be admitted that there are cases in which
the cause may not be antecedent to an effect, but simul-

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

HW-

taneous with it. But this is a matter of minor importance.
To avoid the difticulty, a cause may ])e defined as "the
assemblage of phenomena, which occurring, some other
phenomenon invariably commences." An effect, at any
rate, never precedes a cause, though perhaps it may be
simultaneous with it.

Among the causes of phenomena some are permanent,
i. e., have subsisted ever since the human race has
been in existence, and for an indefinite time previous.
Such are the sun, the earth, and planets, with their
various constituents, air, water, and other substances. We
cannot account for the origin of these causes themselves,
nor can we tell why they are distributed as they are, or
why they are commingled in certain proportions. These
permanent causes are sometimes not objects but recurring
events, such as the rotation of the earth. But though
we cannot trace these causes back to others, all other
things or events are the immediate or remote effects of
those primeval causes. Hence the state of the whole
universe is the consequence of its state at the previous
instant, and if any particular state could ever occur a
second time all subsequent states would also recur, and
history would repeat itself. That this does not happen
arises from the fact that no two states of the universe
are identical.

How far can Mill's account of induction, and especially
of that form of induction which consists in the discovery
of causes, be accepted ? So far as induction is main-
tained to be an inference from 'some' to 'all' resting upon
resemblance, it is inadequate. Induction always consists
in the discovery of identity, not of resemblance. It is of

V>. 'I

PHILOSOPHY OF NA lURK— PHYSICAL SCIKNCE.

.' !/

course true that in every instance in which an identity
has been discovered there must be resemblance, but the
induction is not, and cannot be, based upon resemblance.
The reason why "all men are mortal" is not that they
resemble one another in other ways, and therefore also
in the way of -mort.iity," but because they are identical
in the possession of a body which cannot permanently
resist the external influences against which it reacts.
Certainly, there never is any identity of nature between
two things which in no way resemble each other— for no
two things can be found which are not similar in certain
respects and different in others-but the closest resem-
blance will not entitle us to affirm identity, and without
identity there is no induction. .

^ Is Mill's account of causation more satisfactory than
his account of induction ?

_ (i) Mill is undoubtedly right in rejecting the concep-
tion of a mysterious ''power" in one thing to bring
another into existence. A body falls to the ground if
unsupported, but the earth does not contain within itself
any occult "power" by which it draws the stone to
itself, nor does the stone contain any occult power of
gravitation by which it moves to the earth. The /aa is
this, that when a body is placed at a certain distance
from the earth it begins to move towards the earth at a
, certain.velocity. If it were beyond a certain distance it ^ l^^ ^\,
•would not so move. The fact we may state by saying, ' '" "" *
either that the stone is attracted by the earth, or that the
stone falls by its own weight; but the essence of the
fact is the motion of the stone under certain fixed con-
ditions. Given these conditions and the effect takes place. "^
(2) Mill, however, goes on to say that a "cause" is an

COMTE, MILL, AND SI'PINCKK.

"invariable antecedent" or "set of antecedents," an effect,
an "invariable consequent." Two questions arise here
therefore: 1. Is a cause an "antecedent"? II. Is it an
" invariable " antecedent ?

I. (a) At first sight it seems as if every effect were a
consetiuent, seeing that it is an event or change. But
it is to be observed that we cannot affirm an event to
be a " consequent " merely because it is se(iuent on some-
thing else. No doubt there can be no event that does
not imply sequence ; but it is not proved to be a con-
sequent merely because it is an event. To call an event
a consequent is to imply that its cause is antecedent to
it, or existed prior to it. But this assumes that the cause
cannot be simultaneous with the effect. Now, in the
course of his inquiry, Mill admits that a cause may not
be antecedent to its effect, though he says that the point
is of little or no importance. Whether it is of import-
ance or not, it at least compels us to revise the first
definition which Mill gives of cause. We can no longer
say that a cause is an "invariable antecedent": we must
now say that a cause is that which invariably precedes or
accompanies a certain event, an effect that which invariably
follows or accompanies its cause.

{b) Can we accept this revised definition ? It is obvious
that it presupposes a separation between cause and effect,
such that each is an independent phenomenon, not depend-
ing for its reality upon the causal relation. Whether
the phenomenon or sum of phenomena called the cause
precedes or accompanies the phenomenon called the effect,
the one exists apart from the other. Thus, the formation
of water is one phenomenon, and the bringing together
of oxygen and hydrogen in the proportion of two to one

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE— PHYSICAT- SCIENCE.

is another phenomenon or rather sum of phenomena. Here
the cause seems to precede the effect. Again, fire is the
cause of warmth, but the fire is one phenomenon and
the warmth is another, though here the cause and the
effect seem to be simultaneous, not successive. If, how-
ever, we look more closely, we shall find, I think, that
the supposed distinction and independence of cause and
effect cannot be maintained. Take the case of the forma-
tion of water. It is true that oxygen and hydrogen may
exist as separate phenomena, and that as long as they are
separate they are distinct from water. IJut oxygen and
hydrogen in their separation are not the cause of water.
As Mill himself points out, the cause is the sum total of
the conditions. Hence oxygen and hydrogen must he
brought together before they can be the cause of the
formation of water. When do they become the cause?
Only at the moment when the formation of water takes
place. Obviously, therefore, the cause is not antecedent
to the effect, but must at least be simultaneous with it.
But is even this account correct? What has become of
the hydrogen and oxygen at the moment when the water is
formed? They have ceased to be hydrogen and oxygen,
and become water. In other words, the formation of
water is precisely the same fact as the union of oxygen
and hydrogen ; i.e., the cause neither precedes nor accom-
panies the effect but is identical with it. Thus in dis-
covering the cause of the event we are simply discovering
an identical relation. The difference between a cause ant!
an effect is not the difference between one phenomenon
and another, but consists in the discover of the fixed
nature of the one single fact or phenomenon.

Take the other instance of fire and heat. Nothing

'■'in

■■ it

III

'11

./,

COMTE, MM-r,, AND SI>RN'(:KR.

seems to be more certain than that wc have here two
distinct i)hen()mena. The fire does not cease to exist
because no one feels its heat; the heat does not at once
cease when one is out of range of the fire. Thus the
cause and the effect seem to be two distinct phenomena,
which are only externally related to each other. But
here again it must be observed that the fire is not a
cause of heat except in so far as heat is actually pro-
duced. Not only so, but, as Mill himself telis us, the
cause is the sum of conditions without which the effect
could not take place. Now among these conditions the
sensitive organization of the subject is indispensable.
There is no sensation of heat in any but a living being.
The cause of heat is thus the excitation of the living
organism, under certain physical conditions. But the
excitation of the living organism is the sensation of heat,
/.('., the cause is simply the effect resolved into its con-
stituent elements or conditions. Wherever these con-
ditions are present, heat exists ; in other words, heat is
a fixed relation obtaining between distinguishable phe-
nomena. And as there is no meaning in saying that
the relation called the cause precedes or accompanies
the relation called the effect, the cause neither precedes
nor accompanies the effect, but is identical with it.
In the same way it might be shown that every instance
of causation is the apprehension of a fixed relation.

II. If then a cause is identical with an effect, it is
plain that we cannot say that a cause invariably precedes,
or even that it invariably accompanies, its effect. What
then is the meaning of " invariable " ? It can only mean
necessary or universal. Hydrogen and oxygen in the
proportion of two to one necessarily form water, because

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

les,
hat
[an
[he

ise

their union is involved in the unchanging constitution of
things. That it is so is a fact, and a fact grasped, not
by sensible observation, but by thought. There is no
difference in principle between the chemical law, H^O,
and the geometrical proposition that the interior angles of
a triangle are equal to two right angles. The one fact
is as necessary as the oti er. This is virtually admitted
by Mill when he tells us that a cause is not only
" invariable " but " unconditional " ; for *' unconditional "
can only mean " universal " or admitting of no exception,
and therefore belonging to the unchangeable nature of
things.

A cause, then, is neither an invariable nor an uncon-
ditional antecedent, but an unchangeable fact. Mill
says that the distinction of agent and patient is purely
verbal, since the patient is in all cases an agent, in the
sense of being one of the antecedents. It would be more
correct to say, that the whole distinction of agent and
patient is false. When a stone (iiWs to the earth, neither
the stone nor the earth can be regarded as agents. This
way of looking at the matter supposes that the stone
and the earth have each a separate and independent
existence, and that each would be what it is even if
the other did not exist. Now, it is of course true that
the whole nature of the earth is not exhausted in its
relation to the stone, or the whole nature of the stone
in its relation to the earth. But when we are seeking
for the cause of the fall of the stone, we purposely
set aside all the characteristics of the earth and the
stone except the fact of the motion of each towards the
other. The fact to be explained is therefore purely the
approximation of a body of a certain mass to another

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENC^:R.

of a much greater mass, and this fact stated in its pre-
cision constitutes the cause. The cause is discovered
when it is seen that bodies move towards each olher
(unless there is some negative or counteracting condition)
in proportion to their mass and inversely as the square
of their distance. This is a Jixed relation, and therefore
it applies in all cases. But as it is a relation^ there can
be no more meaning in calling either of the masses the
agent or the patient than in calling either the antecedent
of the other. Neither, taken by itself, is a cause or an
effect; the cause is the relation between the two masses
viewed as unchangeable, and the effect is the same rela-
tion viewed as manifested in the particular movement of
the one towards the other at a certain rate.? xv^i^u/\i? . v^-n

This view of causation explains why we do not suppose
invariable succession to establish causal connection. If
Mill were right in saying that a cause is an "invariable
antecedent," all invariable antecedents ought to be causes.
But, if a cause is never an antecedent, we at once under-
stand why we distinguish invariable succession from causal
connection. Night and day have invariably succeeded
each other in all human experience, but the one is never
supposed to be the cause of the other. The reason is
that they are not related as cause and effect, but as
district facts, each having its own cause. The condi-
tions under which night occurs are as unchangeable as
•those under which day occurs, but they are not identical,
and therefore the one is not the cause or the effect of
the other. Each involves an identity, but it is a different
identity.

The last distinction drawn by Mill is between permanent
and changeable causes. The sun, the earth, the planets

PHIIOSOPHY OF NATURE — PHYSICAL SCIENCF,

Its pre-
scovered
:h oilier
jndition)
2 square
therefore
lere can
sses the
tecedent
e or an

masses
ne rela-
tnent of

suppose
on. If
variable
causes,
under-
causal
ceded
never
.son is
)ut as
condi-
le as
ntical,
ect of
Ferent

'ane?it
anets

are permanent causes, as ako the rotation of the earth ;
the phenomena of life, on the other hand, could not exist
before the origination of living beings. In drawing 'ihis
distinction Mill has gone entirely beyond the (juestion of
causation and has introduced a new problen). All that
causation tells us, is, that no event occurs which does
not ini'ply fixity of conditions : tliat wherever the same
conditions exist the same event must occur ; but it does
not tell us that the same conditions have always existed,
or will always exist.

Thus, if living beings with an organism so differentiated
as to have the senses of sight, hearing, laste, smell, and
touch exist, the sensations relative to their senses will occur
according to fixed laws; but it by no means follows that
such beings have always existed or always will exist. The
causes of sensation are therefore not permanent in the
sense of continuing through all time : they are only per-
manent in the sense that they are always the same when
they occur. But the same holds good of what Mill calls
permanent causes. No doubt the earth existed prior to
the appearance of living beings upon it. But this only
means that there were causes which took the form of the
relations of material masses to one another, before there
were causes which took the form of the relations implied
in the sensations of living beings. Whether material masses
have always existed the law of causation caniiot determine:
that is a question which takes us beyond the point of view
of causation, and compels us to ask what is the ultimate
condition of the existence of any reality. Scientific men are
therefore justified in refusing to say whether the material
world did or did not begin to be, and limitini^ themselves
to an investigation of the condidons of particular facts,

lOO

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

«?■»

leaving the question of the ultimate explanation of reality
to philosophy. The distinction of permanent and non-
permanent causes is therefore irrelevant and misleading.
Since every cause is on its particular side an event, no
cause can be permanent ; and as every cause on its
universal side is a fixed relation or unchangeable fact, in
whatever sense one cause is permanent all are permanent.
The totality of causes is thus eith-ir the totality of events,
or the totality of relations consti Jting these events, i.e.,
the system of relations constituting nature as a whole.
But what is the ultimate condition of there being such a
system or whole we cannot tell without going beyond the
conception of causality.

CHAPTER VI.

PHILOSOPHV OF NATFTRF in

\jr iiaiuKt, (Continued).

BI0LOGIC,\L .SCIENCE.

^VE have now dealt with two of the three philosophical
problems that ar.se in regaM to the knowledge of nl"'
we have mquired into the nature of „,athema.ieal and of
hysical knowledge, and we i,ave found that in both cases
a ke knowledge rests upon the discovery of certain fixed
elatrons tn,pl,ed in the very constitution of the world Is
known to us. Our next step is to ask whether o
knowledge of nature is exhausted in the apprehension o
™athe»at,cal and physical relations, or whe'Lr th e are
-t certatn facts which force us to e„,ploy a diff re
-nceptton of things. That there are sucif facts sel
to be miphed in the distinction between organic and
norgan.c be ngs, between living things and thin; witCt
•fe. It >s true that this distinction, which to com.non

as been dented, and that from two opposite points o
v^w According to one set of thinkers there is no

bsolute distinction between organic and inorgan.c b ings
for all the facts of hfe can be explained in the sanie w';

III

:lr^

102

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENXEK.

as we explain the changes which take place in the material
world. If we adopt this view, obviously no conception but
that of mechanical causation will be required. Another
set of thinkers take exactly the opposite view, mamtaining
that, instead of saying that organic beings are in no way
different in their nature from inorganic beings, we ought
to say that inorganic beings are of the same nature as
organic; in other words, though there seem to be objects
which are entirely destitute of life, this is an illusion :
all things are living, and nowhere in the v.-hole world
can there be found beings which are inorganic. It is
therefore maintained that tlie conception of mechanical
causation is not the only or the highest conception ot
the world. The distinction between these two sets of
thinkers may be expressed by saying that the former
"level down," and the latter "level up"; the one class
reduce organic beings to the level of inorganic, the other
class raise inorganic beings to the level of organic.

In the presence of such opposite views, it is obvious
that we cannot assume the popular distinction between
organic and inorganic beings, but must first deal with
the 1 ^liminary question, whether su^h a distinction is
justifiable at all. On the other hand, supposing it to be
proved that the characteristic phenomena of living beings
cannot be explained by the conception of mechanical
causation, I do not think that we need encumber ourselves
with the question, whether even those things which seem
to be inorganic are not in reality organic.

Our problem, then, is this. Is there anything in the
nature of those beings ordinarily distinguished as living
or organic, which compels us to apply to them a conception
different from that which we employ in our physical in-

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. I 03

vestigations ; in other words, is there a biological as
distinguished from a physical knowledge of nature? or
is biology simply a branch of physics?

DEFINITION OF LIFE.

If we direct our attention to beings usually distinguished
as living, can we state wherein their life consists? Mr.
Spencer defines life as "the power of continuous adjustment
of internal relations to external relations." This definition
is so far true, that it emphasizes one aspect of the living
being, viz., that it is perpetually going through changes
which do not leave it unaltered, but involve new relations
to its environment. Thus the living being in one point of
view exhibits a great degree of instability. It i'j continually
changing, and the more complex the being, the greater
is the number of changes through which it passes in a
given time. Mr. Spencer's definition, however, implies that
the living being not only changer^, but that there is a series
of adjustments to new conditions. The relations of a stone
to things external to itself are of a comparatively fixed
and unchanging type, and seem to imply nothing more
than mechanical and chemical relations. After the lapse
of an indefinite time it displays the same essential features
as at the first. It is otherwise with the living being, which
not only exhibits relations to external circumstances, but
presents continually new relations from moment to moment.
So far therefore, we may regard Mr. Spencer's definition as
true. But there is one aspect of life which it does not sufti-
ciently accentuate. For not only does the living being dis-
play continual adjustment in its relations to its environment,
changing as they change, but it preserves its unity through
all the changes which it undergoes. External forces are

I04

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

n'\

perpetually acting upon it, and threatening to destroy its
unity, but so 'ong as life continues the being recovers
its unity. Thus a living being is a unity in a different
sense from that in which we can speak of the unity of a
stone. The unity of a stone consists in the fixed un-
changing identity of the mechanical forces by which its
parts are held together : the unity of the living being is
an identity which maintains itself by continuous adaptation
to external forces which it cannot avoid. In other words,
life implies not only adjustment to external relations, but
the persistence of unity or individuality. We may therefore
define life as f/ie priticiplc by which a being maintains its
individuality ly a continuous adaptation to external conditiojis.
Now, the unity or individuality of a living being is
dependent upon the organization of its parts. If we break
up a stone into parts, each part retains the same pro-
perties as it had prior to the separation. A living being,
or at least a living being which exhibits a definite organiza-
tion, cannot be thus broken up into parts without losing
its character as a living being. If a limb is severed from
the body, it ceases to display the function which it
possessed when it formed part of the body. Hence its
function does not belong to it in its isolation from the
other parts, but only in its relation to them. And this
is true of every part of the living being; in fact, we
determine what belongs to the individuality of the being
by asking what is incapable of being severed from the
whole without losing its characteristic function. A hand
cannot grasp, an eye cannot see, an ear cannot hear,
the lungs cannot breathe, the heart cannot beat, unless
the hand, the eye, the ear, the lungs, the heart, form
parts of one individual unity. It is not the mere juxta-

^ ■

u ">, ^

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. I05

being
111 the

hand
hear,
mless
form
juxta-

position of the parts which determines the unity of the
living being, but a union so close and intimate that none
can be what it is apart from its relation to all the rest.
Now, this muHial dependence of parts as regards their
functions is what we mean by organization. An organism
is a union of parts, but the parts are what they are only
in their relations to one another, and hence we say that
each part is an organ of the whole.

That this conception of an organic unity is the basis
of our distinction of a living from a non-living being may
be seen from this, that where there is little differentiation
of organs, we find it hard to say whether there is one
being or several. The lowest form of animal is simply
a mass of tissue, with no distinction of head and foot,
digestive and nervous system. Such a being we regard
as living at all mainly because it has the capacity of
assimilating material, and loses this capacity when it dies.
But though there is thus in it a certain unity of parts
which cooperate in securing an end, the unity is of
such an external character that a part will perform the
same function as the whole. Such a being may be cut
into parts, and the parts still have life. On the other
hand, we find that the greater the division of labour
between the parts, the closer is the relation by which
the parts are bound together in the unity of the whole.
Thus the differentiation of the organism is correlative to
its integration. This principle is displayed even in beings
which have a distinct nervous system. In lower animals,
such as the frog, the spinal cord or the lower part of
the brain is capable of discharging functions which in
higher animals are devolved upon the higher part of the
brain. Thus the more truly individual a being is, the

lii

'?t

il !

I 06

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

greater is the complexity of its organs, and the more
highly specialized their functions.

There is another characteristic which distinguishes living
beings from other objects : not only are they organized
individuals, with the faculty of self-maintenance by adapta-
tion to changing external conditions, but they produce
other individuals of the same general type as themselves.

Now, if living beings have the power of adaptation to
external conditions, and if they exhibit such an organiza-
tion of parts as tends to their own maintenance, and the
maintenance of their species, it seems as if we were forced
to apply to them a different conception from that which
was adequate so long as we were viewing the world from
the purely physical point of view. For a being which
not only passes through changes, but in all its changes
realizes the end of self-preservation, cannot, it would seem,
be p perly understood without the conception of final
cause. The conception of causality as employed in the
physical sciences does not require us to say more than
that there are certain fixed conditions under which all
the changes in the world take place. The conception of
final cause adds that, in the case of living beings at
least, those fixed conditions are of such a nature that
they are subservient to an end. Thus the conception
of external causation tells us that under certain condi-
tions there arises the sensation of light ; the conception
of final cause affirms that this sensation of light subserves
the preservation of the sentient being for whom it exists.
If this is so, we must widen our conception of the world
by saying that it not only implies unchanging mathematical
relations and unchanging physical relations, but also un-
changing biological relations. In other words, not only

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCK. I07

is the world a connected system, but it is an organic
system. For, if the living being has the power of per-
petuating itself by a continual adaptation to external con-
ditions, these conditions must be of such a nature as
to admit of such self-adaptation. The world must there-
fore be conceived as an organic whole, in which each p;^rt
is related to all the other parts, ;>., the world must be
conceived from a teleological, and not from a mechanical
point of view. Accordingly, the physical as well as the
mathematical sciences must be regarded as true only in
so far as they express what holds good of the world
from their limited point of view. Just as there are no
separate lines or figures in nature, so there can be no
separate objects which are purely mechanical.

It may be said, however, and indeed it has been said,
that, while the teleological view of the world has much
plausibility so long as we suppose living beings to form
separate and distinct species, this plausibility vanishes
when we find that they have all originated in a purely
natural and therefore mechanical way. In other words,
it is maintained that the theory of development, as enun-
ciated by Darwin, is incompatible with a teleological
explanation of the world, and hence we must regard the
conception of mechanical causation as the ultimate view
of things. We must, therefore, ask whether the theory
of development confirms, or casts doubt upon, the con-
clusions reached independently of it.

THE DARWINIAN THEORY.

As stated by Darwin himself, the theory of development
assumes that there is a line of demarcation between organic
and inorganic beings; and no attempt is made to derive

io8

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

ir ■

the former from the latter. What Darwin maintained in
his Origin of Species was, that all living beings have been
derived from "one or more primordial forms"; but these
"primordial forms" he regarded as themselves living.
What Darwin denied was the older biological doctrine
that certain animals are clearly distinguishable by pecul-
iarities of form, size, colour, etc., and produce oftspring
that closely resemble their parents, these peculiarities
being permanent. Thus, the rook and the crow were
regarded as distinct species, because (i) they differ from
each other in structure, form, and habits, and because (2)
rooks always produce rooks, and crows crows, and they
do not interbreed. It was therefore supposed that all
existing crows were descended from a sirfgle pair of
crows, and all the rooks from a single pair of rooks.
How the primitive ])airs were formed was a "mystery."

In opposition to this view, Darwin maintains that
" species are not immutable, but that those belonging to
what are called the same genera {e.g.^ the crow and the
rook) are lineal descendants of some other and generally
extinct species, in the same manner as the acknowledged
varieties of any one species are the descendants of that
species." There are two fundamental principles which
explain how species have originated. In the first place,
all living beings multiply in a geometrical progression.
In the second place, the offspring differ slightly from the
jiarents, though generally they closely resemble them. " J

(i) Now, it is impossible that all the beings born into
the world should live, because there would not be sufficient
food to sustain them. Hence arises a struggle for ex-
istence, resulting in the extinction, on an average, of as
many as survive. They kill one another, they starve

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — IHOLOGICAL SCIENXE I09

ned in

e been

t these

living.

octrine

pecul-

itspring

iarities

' were

r from

iise (2)

d they

hat all

)air of

rooks.

:ery."

' that

ing to

id the

lerally

edged

that

which

place,

ssion.

n the X

)

into
cient

ex- ^
)f as
tarve

one another, and the forces of nature carry many of them
y)(C. Which of them survive? Naturally, those that arc
stronger, or swifter, or hardier, or more cunning. " The
fittest always survive 'not necessarily the strongest, but
those which have some j)eculiarity that enables them to
escape destruction.

(2) There is also another principle at work, the principle
of heredity or transmission of variations. In the case of
plants or domestic animals, we can improve the stock by
carefully selecting the best seed and the finest animals.
After a time they may have so improved that it is hard
to recognize them as identical with the primitive stock.
So, in a state of nature, the beings that have some pecul-
iarity that gives them a superiority in the struggle for
existence, survive ; but when this variation is no longer
useful, those individuals that chance to have a new quality
or modification more favourable to their continuance will
gradually displace the old. It is in this way that new
species originate. The general conclusion reached by
such considerations is, that all plants and animals have
been gradually evolved from "one or more primordial
forms."

This doctrine, however, is applied not only to plants
and the lower animals, but to man. The most superficial
examination of man's body shows that it agrees in all
essential features with the bodies of other mammalia.
" Every detail of structure which is common to the mam-
malia as a class is found also in man, while he only differs
from them in such ways and degrees as the various species
or groups of mammals differ from one another." Now,
if it is reasonable to conclude that all mammalia originally
descended from some primitive type, are we not compelled

>- I

I lO

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

iT'

to suppose that man also must trace his origin back to
that type?

Granting that man has originated in the same way as
other living beings ; granting, in other words, that as an
animal he must be classed with other animals : the (juestion
arises whether his mental and moral faculties have also
been derived by gradual modification and develoj)nient
from the lower animals. Now, in his Descent of Man,
Darwin does not say in express terms that the spiritual
nature of man has been derived from the lower animals,
*' in the same manner and by the action of the same
general laws as his physical structure " ; but the whole
of his argument tends to that conclusion.

"The rudiments of most, if not all the mental and moral
faculties of man can be detected in some animals. They
exhibit curiosity, imitation, attention, wonder, and memory ;
they display kindness to their fellows, pride, contempt, and
shame." Some are held to possess a rudimentary language,
because they utter several different sounds, each of which
has a definite meaning to their fellows or to their young ;
others possess the rudiments of arithmetic, because they
seem to count ;.nd remember up to three, four, or even
five. They seexn to have some sense of beauty, and certain
animals are said to have imagination, because they appear
to be disturbed by dreams. Even an approach to religion
is said to be exhibited in the deep love and complete
submission of a dog to his master.

Again, if we compare the lowest races of man 'with
the higher animals, we find that the mental and moral
qualities of the former are very little higher than those
of the latter. In the lowest savages there is not a dis-
tinct moral sense, but merely certain social instincts

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCK. Ill

with
In oral
[hose

dis-
tricts

which develop through circumstances into a moral sense.
Those actions which are regarded as contrary to the
interests of the tribe excite its disapprobation and are
held to be minioral ; those actions which as a rule are
beneficial to the tribe meet with its api)roval, and are
considered moral. Naturally, the individual has a feeling
of satisfaction when he acts so as to gain general
approbation, and of discomfort when he does anything
contrary to the mind of his tribe. In these feelings orig-
inates his consciousness of right and wrong. Conscience
arises from the struggle between the desire to do what
will benefit oneself and injure others, and the desire to
obtain the general approbation of the tribe. The social
instincts are thus the foundation of morality.

Now, you will observe that in this argument two things
are implied : firstly, that there has been a continuous
development of intellectual and moral faculties, from the
lower animals up to savages, and from savages up to
civilized man ; and secondly, that this development may
be explained by the same law of natural selection that
has been employed to account for the natural descent
of man from lower forms of being. It will therefore be
well to point out clearly the distinction between these
two things. Let us ask, therefore, What is the precise
nature and value of the proof that man has descended
from the lower animals, granting that proof to be as
irresistible as scientific men usually suppose it to be?

I do not propose to inquire into the evidence
brought forward by Darwin and his followers in support
of the natural descent by inheritance of all living beings
from one or more primitive forms. Even if I were com-
petent to give an authoritative opinion on that question,

ill

ill '

. i

!. I

;!: I

•■

■>.*

1; J

m '

-'t V ■'' {

1 ^

■ ;

Itf i

I 12

COMTK, MILL, AND SPENCI

it would not be my place to do it. I shall therefore
assume, with the majority of scientific men, that as a
matter of fact the old doctrine of the immutability of
species is false, and that in the principle of natural
selection we have found the true explanation of the
phenomena of organized existence. In other words, we
must, in my opinion, be prepared to accept the extension
of natural law to living beings. On this view, natural
selection is in the organic world very much what gravita-
tion is in the sphere of the inorganic. What I wish you
to consider is, whether, accepting the theory of develop-
ment as the only tenable explanation of the characteristics
and changes of living beings, we have reached an ultimate
explanation, or whether we have only solved a subordinate
problem.

i--

DARWIN AND PALEY.

Now there can be no doubt that the principle of
natural selection, as conceived by biologists, is incon-
sistent with the conception that any organ or organism
has been specially constructed with the design of per-
forming a particular function. Paley, in his celebrated
argumeiit from design, compares the various organs of a
living being to the parts of a watch. Just as the watch
is put together by the watchmaker so as to fulfil the
purpose of showing the time, so the organs of a living
being have been constructed by the supreme Artificer in
order to secure its existence and well-being. The same
adaptation of means to ends is exhibited, he argues, in
such an organ as the eye, which has been constructed
with the express purpose of enabling the individual to see.
This argument therefore rests upon the idea that the

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. II 3

organs of living beings have been specially designed to
subserve a particular purpose. Now, this conception of
design is not consistent with the doctrine of natural
selection. It assumes that the peculiar adjustment of
organisms and organs to external conditions cannot be
explained without recourse being had to the hypothesis
of an artificer external to them, who specially adapted
them to their environment. It assumes, in other words,
that in the ordinary operation of natural law there is
nothing to account for the peculiar character of living
beings. For the whole force of the argument lies in
this, that there is nothing in the nature of living beings
themselves, or in the action of circumstances upon them,
to explain the wonderful adjustment of the one to the
other. It is because the operation of natural law does not
explain the adaptation of an organism to its environment
that recourse is had to the conception of an external
designer. Just as the parts of a watch would never
come together as they are found in the watch, unless
they were brought together and arranged by the w".;en-
maker : so the organs of a living being would never
come together spontaneously without the special inter-
position of a designing intelligence external to them.
But this is exactly what Darwin denies. He refuses
indeed to say how the primitive forms from which living

beings have descended came to be in existence — whether ,
. . . . . '

by " special creation '' or by evolution from non-living

things — but, in regard to the adaptation of all subsequent

beings to external conditions, he maintains that the

operation of the law of natural selection exi)lains the

facts quite irrespective of a ly hypothesis of special design.

A teleologist like Paley would say that an organism

I.* •

;l^i

114

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

exists because it' was made for the conditions in which
it is found ; the Darwinian, that " an organism exists
because, out of many of its kind, it is the only one
which has been able to persist in the conditions in which
it is found." ^ The ordinary teleologist would say that
cats have been made m order to catch mice; the Dar-
' winian, that cats exist because they catch mice well.

The effect of the Darwinian theory therefore is to
exclude from the realm of science all exnlanation by
final causes, and to bring the organic -v-" like the
inorganic, under the sway of inviolable law. Nor can
there be any doubt that in this procedure it is simply
following in the lines of the other sciences, which have
discarded the hypothesis of the special interposition of
supernatural agency, and have sought only to find out
the fixed laws according to which phenomena occur. -_,

Darwinism, then, seeks to show, firstly, that each living"
being is fitted for some external conditions, not because
it has been externally and artificially constructed fo'- Lhe
purpose of living under those conditions, but bee; , ■ i*
would not have existed at all had it not possvr.^y
naturally the organs essential to such existence. Secondiy,
it explains the existence of all the vr.rieties of livi g
beings, and more particularly the " wonderful development
of the highest, by means of the action and reaction
between the environment and the simplest organic forms." ;

I do not think that any fruitful results in philosophy
are to be obtained by attempting to reinstate the con-
ception of external design. Our problem rather is this :
granting that the Darwinian theory has made it impossible
for us any longer to hold to the idea of the external
^ Huxley's Lay Sermons, p. 302.

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. II5

and artificial adaptation of an organized being to a
particular end, must we not seek for a ne-v and higher
conception of the relation of the various parts of the
universe to one another, and more particularly of the
various organized beings to their environment? This is,
in fact, the special problem of philosophy as distinguished
from science. Science is content to start from the
assumed independent existence of individual objects, and
to treat them as if they were only externally related lO
one another. This assumption, however, philosophy can-
not allow to pass without criticism, but goes on to ask
whether there is not a principle of unity which explains
the differences of things by showing that they all belong
to one intelligible system.

In examining the view of Comte, that knowledge is
limited to particulars, I tried to show that such a doctrine
is inconsistent with the nature of knovvable existence.
All things that can be observed are related to one
another by the fact that they exist in space. We can
therefore say, that no sensible object can possibly be
known that does not fall within the one world of space.
The question therefore arises, whether we are not com-
pelled to hold that all living beings in like manner
belong to a single system of things, and whether,
therefore, we are not forced to return to a teleological
conception of the world if we are to bring the theory of
development into harmony with the rest of our knowledge.

I shall begin by pointing out some of the presup-
positions with which the theory starts ; and I shall then
inquire whether those presuppositions do not take us
beyond the theory, and compel us to regard the universe
from a teleological point of view.

«p

!■

■I !
I I

f (

■: H

ii6

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

In the first plaice, the theory assumes that the laws of
inorganic nature are inviolable. The environment, to
which living beings must conform on pain of extinction,
involves all the ordinary laws of dynamics, physics, and
chemistry. Now, these laws rest upon such principles
as the indestructibility of matter, the equality of action
and reaction, the affinity of elements for each other. The
first of these principles affirms that, whatever may be the
changes in the sensible properties of things, the quantity
of their matter is unchangeable. When a piece of wood
is burned, it changes in its sensible properties, but its
weight remains the same. So if one body impinges upon
another, both alter their position, but the total quantity
of energy is the same. Two chemical elements will
combine only if they have an affinity for each other, and
this affinity if not a mere accident but belongs to the
very constitution of the elements.

Secondly, the Darwinian theory assumes that in each
living being there is a tendency or impulse to maintain
itself, and to continue its species. This is implied in the
"struggle for existence," which is the main principle uf
the whole doctrine. Unless living beings possessed the
impulse towards self-maintenance, and the impulse to
continue their species, there would be no struggle for
existence. In the very nature of living beings, there is
therefore implied a purposive tendency. It is true that
the impulse can only be realized under appropriate
external conditions, but external conditions themselves
will not account for the facts unless we also presuppose
the tendency to self-maintenance and race-maintenance.

Thirdly, the theory also assumes that the variations
in the several parts of the living being are consistent

1 each

aintain

in the

iple uf

id the

se to

le for

ere is

that

priate

selves

ppose

ce.

tions

istent

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. fiy

with the impulse to self-maintenance and race-maintenance.
For however strong that impulse might be, it would be
powerless unless the being by inheritance possessed the
organs enabling it to maintain itself under the external
conditions in which it is placed.

These three assumptions, then, are clearly implied in
the doctrine of evolution. If the laws of inorganic
nature were not constant, there could be no continuous
development of living beings. If living beings had no
impulse to self-maintenance, there would be no struggle
to live under given external conditions. And, lastly, if
there were no law of inheritance by which offspring
resembled their parents and yet varied slightly from them,
there would be no de'''elopment of organisms exhibiting
an ever more perfect correlation of parts. Now, I think
it may be shown that these assumptions, when we ask
what is implied in them, compel us to hold that the
world is a system, or, in other words, that we cannot
explain existence apart from some form of teleology.

It is virtually assumed by Darwin that a denial of
teleology in the sense in which Paley affirmed it is the
same thing as a denial of teleology in any sense. This,
however, does not seem to me to follow. On the con-
trary, the more clearly we see that no species of living
being has been directly formed for a special set of cir-
cumstances, the more manifest it becomes that between
the inorganic and the organic world there is so close a
connection that the one cannot exist without the other.
No doubt, if we look at a particular set of circumstances
and a particular species of living being, there seems to be
no connection except a purely accidental one. Plants
that happen to be well armed with spines or hairs may

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

escape being devoured ; a much stronger plant without
this accidental advantage may perish. If the one species
was constructed with hairs to escape destruction, shall we
not have to say that in the construction of the other
species there was a failure in foresight? At first sight it
therefore seems as if there were no adaptation between
the environment and the organism except what is acci-
dental. If an organism happens to possess a peculiarity
that gives it an advantage in the struggle for existence it
survives, if not it dies; but the law of inheritance by
which the advantageous peculiarity arises seems to have
no necessary relation to external conditions, but to be
purely accidental. But, when we look more closely, we
shall find, I think, that the connection between the organ-
ism and the environment cannot be called accidental.

For (i) if there were no harmony whatever between an
organism and its environment, the organism could not
exist at all. Before a being can live, there must be
a c«. ftain adjustment of the external conditions to the
internal ; death, in fact, arises when that adjustment is
no longer possible. Even in the case of the beings that
do not survive, there is necessarily a certain degree of
harmony between them and the conditions in which they
are found. The struggle for existence is a struggle to
maintain the initial harmony. But, because in some
organisms the capacity of adaptation to given conditions
is made possible by a peculiar feature not found in others,
the harmony of organism and environment is maintained
and the being lives and grows. To suppose, therefore,
that there is no harmony between living beings and ex-
ternal conditions is to suppose that life is impossible; in
other words, it is to contradict the fact from which the

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. II9

be
the

nt is
that

ee of
they

the

development theory starts. The relation between the
inorganic and the organic world is therefore not an
accidental lelation, but one that is implied in the very
existence of the organic world.

Now, if this is true, we can no longer oppose the
organic to the i.4organic world as if they were two inde-
pendent spheres of existence, only externally and acci-
dentally connected ; we must, on the contrary, regard them
as belonging to one system of things. It is not a matter
of chance that some living beings are incapable of con-
tinuous adjustment to the external conditions, and others
succeed in effecting an adjustment : it is a matter of
necessity. Were the external conditions totally different
from what they are, living beings could not exist : that
they do exist is sufficient evidence of an essential
harmony between them and the conditions of their exist-
ence. What the development theory really proves is, not
that the relation of organized beings to their environment
is a purely accidental one, but that the adjustment is in
the case of many living beings imperfect, and ultimately
in all.

(2) We have seen that the theory implies in each living
being an impulse to maintain itself If this were absent
there would be no struggle for existence. Hence we
cannot regard the relation of organic beings to the en-
vironment as the mere action of the environment on the
organism, but we must add that the tendency to self-
maintenance and to ract-maintenance is an essential
factor in the case. That is to say, living beings are
unconsciously purposive in this sense, that their very
existence implies a tendency to continue their own exist-
ence and the existence of their species. It is true that

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this tendency is in many individuals never realized, on
account of an imperfect relation between the organism
and the environment; but it is not less true, that while
the individual is sacrificed, the tendency to self-main-
tenance is actually realized on the whole. Thus, while
the world is not fitted for the realization of the impulse to
self-maintenance in every individual, it is fitted for the
existence and perpetuation of life on the whole. We can
no longer hold that each living being, or even each
species, has been specially constructed with a view to its
existence under certain definite external conditions ; but
we can say, that between organic and inorganic things as
a whole there is a necessary harmony. This becomes
even clearer if we consider — • .

(3) That living beings have not only a tendency to self-
maintenance, but a tendency to organization. This tend-
ency to organization is explained by Darwin as due to the
fact that each organism reproduces itself with slight varia-
tions in its offspring, and that those living beings which
possess a variation harmonious with the external con-
ditions of existence survive, and, reproducing their type
with a new variation, give rise to a form of being having
a still more perfect capacity of adjustment to the environ-
• ment. Now, it is true that this mode of explanation is
inconsistent with the idea of an external construction of
a certain type of organism out of a preexistent material;
for, in the living being itself is found the variation which
accounts for its adaptation to the environment. But
this only shifts the problem, and forces us to ask what
is meant by this hereditary tendency to variation. If
there were no such tendency, there would be no possibility
of development, since that tendency is essential to the

PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE — BIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. 121

existence of certain forms, and to the gradual develop-
ment of higher forms. While, therefore, the relation of
organism and environment is incompatible with the per-
petuation of certain forms, it is compatible with others.
But what is still more important, it is the very incom-
patibility of lower forms with the conditions of existence
that explains the develojmicnt of higher forms. Jf the
simplest and lowest forms of life were better adapted to
the environment than the more complex and higher forms,
there could have been no evolution of the higher out of
the lower. It is just becauce some beings are less adajjted
to the environment than others that a jjerpetual develop-
ment of higher forms has taken place. The environment,
in other words, is opposed to the comimed existence
of lower forms of being and harmonious \.ith the con-
tinued existence of higher forms.

Thus the idea of purpose comes back in another and
higher form. It is now seen to be implied in the very
nature of existence, not to be something external and
arbitrary. The organic forms with the inorganic world
a systematic unity in which every part is related to every
other. ANq find, in fact, in the evolution of living beings,
the same unifying principle that is at work in the inorganic
world, only that in the former the tendency to unity is
more clearly manifested than in the latter. The parts
of a stone, e.g., seem to be only externally related to
one another. Break it up and there is in the stone no
tendency to a restoration of the unity that has been
destroyed. In the living being, on the contrary, there
is a perpetual conflict with external forces, resulting, as
we have seen, in the development of ever higher forms
of life. Hence it is that, in life, as Kant said, the idea

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Of purpose first x:learly presents itself. Apart from the
tendency to organization and unity, there is no Hfe ; and
this tendency, in its widest sweep, is exhibited in the
gradual ascent of life from its simplest to its most com-
plex forms. The higher a being is, the greater is its
power of adaptation, and the more perfect its unity

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CHAPTER VII.

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

We find, therefore, that, when it is interpreted from the
philosophical point of view, the theory of development
leads to the conclusion that organized existence exhibits
the continual evolution of living beings towards a more
and more perfect form of unity ; in other words, it implies
that the fo.m of existence is necessarily ruled by the idea
of unity, and is a realization of unity. And this is the
same as saying that the world is in no sense a product
of chance, but must be conceived from the point of view
of immanent teleology.

I am well aware that many objections may be raised
to this conclusion, and these we shall afterwards have
to consider. At present my aim merely is to indicate
in general the point of view from which, as I think, the
question must be regarded. Assuming, then, that the
world is in no sense given over to chance, or, in other
words, that it constitutes a systematic unity in which every
element is striving towards a definite end, we have
next to ask what is the ultimate nature of this unity ;
we have to ask, in other words, whether the unity of
the world implies or does not imply intelligence. It is

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCIiR.

one thing to say' that the world is a unity and exhibits
in its changes a continual tendency towards a more perfect
unity, and it is another thing to say that this unity and
tendency to perfection necessarily implies intelligence. It
may even be plausibly argued, that as the teleological
conception of existence implies absolute fixity in the rela-
tions of things, or, in other words, the reign of inviolable
law, there is no necessity for the hypothesis of intelligence
at all. This is the question which lies at the basis of
all philosophy, and we must give our best efforts towards
its solution. The only satisfactory answer will consist
in the whole system of philosophy, but some preliminary
idea of it may be given now.

We have seen that Darwin not only tr the physical

descent of man down from some primitive form of living
being, but he seems to find in the principle of natural
selection a sufficient explanation even of his intellectual
and moral qualities. The whole tenor of his thought in
the Descent of Man is that the great gulf supposed to be
fixed between man and the animals cannot be shown to
exist. If, therefore, we can explain all the characteristics
of the animals by the principle of natural selection, why
should we not also explain in the same way all the char-
acteristics of man? Here, then, two main propositions
are asserted or implied by Darwin : first, that man as
regards mental qualities differs from the animals only in
degree^ not in kind ; second, that the mental qualities
of both man and the animals may be accounted for by
the law of natural selection. Let us consider these in
order.

First. It is asserted or implied that the mental qualities
of man are generically identical with those of the animals.

RELATIONS OK IllOLOGY AND I'HILOSOl'HV.

'-5

Darwin brings man and the animals closer together, first,
by lifting up the animals, and, second, by lowering man.

(a) The higher animals, he contends, exhibit the same
h'/i(i of intelligence as man. 'I'hey display, e.j;., curiosity,
wonder, memory, imagination ; some possess a rudimentary
mathematics, language, aesthetics, morality, and religion.
We must, therefore, correct our preconception that the
animals are destitute of intelligence. The facts show that
they possess in an elementary form all that has hitherto
been supposed to be distinctive of man.

(d) On the other hand, we must recognize that man
in his lowest stage »f development is very little superior
in mental qualities to the most developed of the animals.
The savage has social instincts which bind him to his
fellows, but the same instincts are exhibited by the higher
animals. The difference between the highest animal and
the savage is no greater, if even so great, as that between
the savage and the civilized man. Now, the difference
between the ci^ ilized man and the savage is only one
of degree, and, by parity of reasoning, the difference
between the higher animals and the savage must also
be one of degree.

The general conclusion, then, would seem to be that
in the animals is found the same kind of intelligence as
in man, just as their organism differs from man's only in
its being less developed. There is no break in the con-
tinuity of development : the high intelligence of civilized ,
man nas come out of the low intelligence of the savage,
as the latter has been evolved from the still lower in-
telligence of the animals. Man used to be defined as
a "rational animal," and it was supposed that "rationality"
differentiated him from the lower animals. This definition

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we must now extend to other beingc besides man, and we
must say that "all animals are rational."

Now, it is not my intention to dispute the facts upon
which Darwin bases his view of the essential identity
in mental as in bodily powers of man and the animals.
There can, I think, be no doubt that the higher animals
exhibit qualities that must be regarded as implying an
elementary intelligence. Granting this, I propose to show
that we must carry back this principle further than
Darwin has done. If, In the animals nearest to man, we
find traces of a rudimentary intelligence, must we not
expect to find in less developed animals traces of an
intelligence still more rudimentary; nay, must we not
hold that even plants exhibit intelligence in a still more
rudimentary form? Nor does it seem possible to stop
here. Following out the same line of thought, must we
not go still further back, and look for inchoat*. intelligence
even in inorganic things ? This is the direction in which
many men of science have recently gone. It is a revival,
in a new form, of a doctrine that was advanced in his
day by Leibnitz. Perhaps, therefore, it may help to
clear the way, if we first consider the Leibnitzian theory
of the essential identity of all forms of existence.

THE MONADS OF LEIBNITZ.

Every real thing is held by Leibnitz to be an individual
substance, or, in other words, to have a unique existence
of its own, separating it from all other existences. From
this point of view, the universe is made up of an infinite
number of distinct individuals, which, like crystal spheres,
are exclusive of one another and mutually repellent. The
V universe is therefore a collection of separate individuals,

RELATION"; OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

127

not an organic unity, in which each individual is only
ideally separable. "There can be nothing real or sub-
stantial in the collection, unless the units be substantial."
Each is a little world of its own, developing by itself, "as
if there were nothing else in existence."

This, however, is only one side of the Leibnitzian
doctrine. Pushed to its logical extreme it would dissolve
the universe into fragments. Each "monad," as Leibnitz
calls the individual, is in its existence unrelated to every
other. There is no really continuous existence, but
only discrete existence. Leibnitz naturally had some
difficulty in satisfying himself that material things are
separate and distinct. For every material thing is in
space, and as such it seema to be infinitely divisible. How
then shall we reach an absolute individual, an ultimate
atom ? If the supposed ultimate atom occupies space,
it must be divisible, aad therefore it cannot be a real
individual. To obtain a real individual atom, it would
seem as if we required a space that was itself made up
of separate parts, and of such a space we can form no
conception whatever. Leibnitz gets over this difficulty
by boldly denying that space has a real existence, and
consequently by denying that material things are really
extended.

The ancient Atomists, he says, made the mistake of
supposing that there are real material atoms existing in
space ; and hence they were forced to hold the self-
contradictory doctrine that there are real material atoms
which have no parts. Real units, then, are not extended
at all ; they are individual " monads " having an inde-
pendent existence, but not an existence in space. The
idea of space is a "confused idea," />., an idea resting

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

upon the first or' apparent view of things. At the
stage of sensible perception it seems as if real things
were in space and were extended ; but, when we reflect
on the nature of reality, and bring our knowledge
to the clearness of thought, we see that real things
are not in space. The same thing is true of time : there
is no real time, nor are real existences in time. Yet
the external world is not a mere illusion : it has
its own definite laws, and, what is more, there is a
perfect correspondence between the real relations of
"monads" to one another, and the connection of phe-
nomena in time and space. The law of phenomena is
different from the law of real things. Phenomena are
connected by the law of efficient causes, monads by the
law of final causes. The monads are determined by
their own inner nature, not by the action upon them of
external causes, but there is a correspondence between
the connection of phenomena and the self-determination
of monads. The reason of this correspondence is that
the activities of the real monads are refracted in passing;'
through the medium of sense; only this refraction always
takes place in a fixed way. For example, if 1 will to
raise my arm, the volition proceeds entirely from me : I
am self-determined. But, on the other hand, the move-
ment of the arm seems to be sufficiently explained by the
cerebral movement, which itself is excited by sense-per-
ception. I am myself the real cause of the action, but
from the point of view of perception the cause is a
bodily movement.

But why, it may be asked, are monads compelled to
represent things in the " confused " form of perception ?
If perception is an inadequate view of things, can it be

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY,

129

said that the monads are determined purely from them-
selves? A monad that represented reality as it is would
always view things from the point of view of thought;
and hence for it there would be no space or time, no
extended or temporal world, no efficient causes. In
attempting to meet this difficulty, Leibnitz is forced to
modify his first unqualified assertion of the absolute self-
determination of the monads. All finite monads are
indeed determined from within, but each has a certain
limit in its own nature to its activity. It is because of
this limit that it does not represent the universe to itself
as it truly is, but always in a more or less confused
form. IL presents to itself a picture of the whole world,
but a picture blurred and indistinct. But all monads do
not represent the world with equal clearness. There
is a regular gradation. God, the " monad of monads,"
whose activity is a''>solutely unlimited by any passive
element, apprehends all things in the clearness of pure
thought. Finite spirits like men apprehend the world
partly in the light of thought, partly in the confusion
of sense. Animals have only sense perception, while
plants and inorganic things represent the world in a still
more confused way. Observe, however, that on Leibnitz'
view the distinction between man and the animal,
between the animal and the plant, and between the
plant and the mineral, is one of degree not of kind.
Wherever there is existence, there is perception. Every
monad is an individual, and there is no individual that
has not an ideal centre of perception, in which it re-
presents all other existence. It is a " living mirror
gifted with an internal activity, whereby it represents the
whole universe according to its particular point of view,

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

and in such a way that its ideal universe has all the
regularity of the real one."

In this doctrine of Leibnitz we have a suggestion of
the manner in which the Darwinian conception of the
distinction between the animals and man must be com-
pleted. As the animals differ from man only in the
degree of their mental qualities, so we must suppose the
plant and the mineral to differ in a similar way. This
view has been put forward, though with some hesitation,
by Tyndall, and Haeckel adopts it without any hesitation.
It is pointed out by Tyndall that in the tendency to
crystallization of the mineral world we have an anticipation
of the organized form of living beings. The whole tend-
ency therefore of the Darwinian conception is to deny
that there is any fundamental distinction between different
orders of existence. The mineral exhibits in an implicit
form the same characteristics as are presented in man
in an explicit form. We can therefore readily understand
why Tyndall says that in matter he discerns the "promise
and potency of all kinds and qualities of life." As Darwin
denies any generic distinction between man and the
animals, so Tyndall would deny any generic distinction
between man and the mineral. And the same line of
argument is applied by both. As Darwin seeks to show
that the higher animals come much nearer to man than
is commonly supposed, so Ty^^'^'^^l maintains that in the
wonderful symmetry of the crystal we have a close
approximation to organized existence. The inference
would therefore seem to be, that there is no break in
the continuity of existence, but all existence is of the
same fundamental nature.

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

131

If we examine this conception closely, I think we shall
find that it really involves two radically different views
of the world, which have not been clearly distinguished
from each other. The first view is, that there is nothing
in the nature of Intelligence as found in man that is not
contained in lower forms of existence ; in other words,
it is implied that intelligence must be reduced to the
same level as other modes of existence. The second
view is, that all forms of existence imply intelligence,
since even in the mineral we find implicitly what in
man we find explicitly. The first view levels down,
the second levels up. It is one thing to say that all the
characteristics of man as an intelligent being can be ex-
plained by the operation of the same laws as those which
account for the form and movements of inorganic things,
and another thing to say that the laws of inorganic nature
properly understood are really laws of intelligence. We
must therefore inquire which of these opposite views is
really held by men like Darwin and Tyndall, and which
is true.

Now, I think there can be no doubt that the tendency
of Darwin's theory of the nature of man is to abolish
the distinction between intelligence and non-intelligence.
As we have seen, he implies that the mental and moral
qualities of man may be explained on the principle of
natural selection. Let us see, therefore, what explanation
of man's nature must be given in accordance with the
theory of natural selection as rigidly applied.

The evolution of all forms of life has taken place in
this way, that the advantageous peculiarities received by
inheritance enable certain forms to survive. But these
peculiarities i^'mply come to the individual by natural

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inheritance. No living being can change its inherited
qualities. The external conditions are in like manner
beyond the control of the individual. Now, whether an
individual will survive or not depends upon its power
of adaptation to the environment, and this depends en-
tirely upon the natural adaptation of its inherited peculi-
arities to the circumstances in which it is placed ; hence
there seems to be in Darwin's theory no place for any
spontaneous activity on the part of the individual living
being. If therefore, we apply the doctrine of natural
selection to man, it seems to make any claim for his
freedom, either of intelligence or of action, quite unin-
telligible. Man, we are to suppose, inherited from his
animal progenitors such qualities as curiosity, wonder,
memory, imagination. But these are purely natural tend-
encies which the individual can neither make nor
unmake; they come to him by inheritance, like his bodily
powers, and their direction is determined by the external
conditions in which he is placed. Thus the curiosity of
primitive man we may suppose to have bee excited by
something he could not explain, but the feeling itself
was due to an inherited tendency, and was called out by
the external circumstances. If, therefore, we follow the
evolution of man from his primitive to his civilized
condition, we shall still find nothing but the reaction
of the individual on his environment, — a reaction deter-
mined simply by the peculiarities of his inherited
disposition.

(a) There is on this view no more room for any free
activity in knowledge on the part of man than on the
part of an unconscious thing. Hydrogen exhibits by its
natural constitution an affinity for oxygen, but it would

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

be regarded as a pure fiction to endow the hydrogen
with any capacity of freely selecting the oxygen as its
mate. For, it would be said, hydrogen cannot re/use to
unite with oxygen under certain conditions : the union
is absolutely determined by the natural characteristics of
both. In the same way it must be denied that in man
there is any freedom in knowledge ; he can know only
that which his inherited disposition fits him to know : to
suppose that he could have a different disposition, or
react difTerently under the conditions, is incompatible
with the principle of natural selection.

(If) Nor can there be any freedom of action. Primitive
man inherited certain tendencies from his q^imal ancestors.
Thus, like them, he has a selfish tendency and a social
tendency. Which of these shall be predominant will be
determined by the interaction between the organism and
the environment. The moral sense is developed by the
conditions under which man is placed. In virtue of his
love of approbation and his fear of punishment — both
inherited peculiarities — the savage comes to have a feeling
of pain when he follows his selfish desire for his own
pleasure. Right and wrong are therefore names for the
pleasure of approbation and the pain of disapprobation
respectively. But the individual man can no more de-
termine which of these shall predominate than he can
alter his bodily stature or endow himself with new senses.
VVe must suppose that in the majority of men the love
of social approbation is stronger than the love of individual
pleasure; because otherwise, the extension and develop-
ment of the social bond would be impossible. But this
only shows that the inherited disposition and the environ-
ment tend on the whole to the evolution of higher

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

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sociality : it does not show that in the individual there
is any free activity.

Thus the theory of natural selection, when it is employed
to account for the mental and moral qualities of man,
leads to the conclusion that there is no freedom either
of knowledge or of action. Now, when we clearly see
the results which follow from a rigid adherence to the
doctrine of natural selection, we cannot help asking whether
Darwin has not made a grave mistake in attempting to
explain intelligence and morality by a principle which
necessarily excludes all freedom either in knowing or in
willing. May it not be that natural selection is only a
limited or partial explanation, true within its own sphere,
but inadequate and untrue when extended to the explana-
tion of conscious beings?

In attempting to answer this question, I must begin
by reminding you that Darwin at once seeks to approxi-
mate the higher animals to man, and to bring man nearer
to the higher animals. This he does by saying that in
the higher animals are to be found the same characteristics
as in man, and that the savage possesses these character-
istics in a degree only a little superior to the higher
animals. Now, in this contention, it is implied that mental
and moral qualities are purely natural characteristics,
received by inheritance, and called out by the reaction
of the organism on the environment. Darwin, in other
words, assumes that the qualities of the animals are due
to the influence of natural selection, an J, having shown
that there is no essential difference between man and
the animals in respect of those qualities, he infers that
the intelligence of man can be explained in the same
way. That is to say, Darwin does not find in the fact

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY,

135

that the higher animals possess qiuiHties simihir to man's,
a reason for doubting whether natural selection is an
adequate explanation even of them ; but, assuming the
explanation to be adequate when applied to the animals,
he infers that it must also be adecjuate when applied
to man. I propose to approach the problem from the
other side, and to ask whether the principle of natural
selection is adequate to the explanation of the facts of
intelligence and morality as these exist in man. If we
see reason to deny its adequacy as regards man, we shall
have reason to doubt whether it is adequate even when
applied to the animals.

DOES NATURAL SELECTION EXPLAIN KNOWLEDGE ?

Let us first ask whether natural selection explains the
fact of knowledge as it exists in man.

Darwin tells us that man inherited from his non-human
ancestors sixh mental characteristics as curiosity, wonder,
and memory. What is curiosity? It implies an interest
in some object, and a concentration of attention upon
it for the purpose of discovering what are its properties.
It is further implied in curiosity that the subject believes
in the intelligibility of the object. Now interest, attention,
belief in the intelligibility of the object, all involve the
faculty of distinguishing one object from another by an
apprehension of the properties of each ; and this again
implies that the apprehending subject is capable of separat-
ing between himself and the immediate impression that
he has from moment to moment. For if, as each im-
pression arose, it vanished for ever, it would be impossible
for the subject to distinguish one impression from another,
and therefore impossible for him to identify an object

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by its peculiar properties. Primitive man was no doubt
engaged mainly in a fierce fight for existence, a fight to
preserve himself from the destructive influence of the
elements and from his natural foes, the lower animals.
It was therefore necessary for him to learn to some extent
the properties of the elements and the habits of the lower
animals. To do this he had to discriminate things by
their properties ; to learn the nature of fire, tempest, cold,
sunshine, and to find out how the animals might be over-
come or captured. But the victory over objects he could
achieve only if he had the faculty of grasping the different
properties of things. To this end all his energies were
directed, and if he made a serious mistake, the forfeit
was his life. He had therefore to free himself from the
first impressions of the nature of things, by attention,
comparison, and discrimination ; that is, he had to separate
between his impression of things and their actual nature.
Such a faculty of distinguishing between the apparent
and the real is the pre-requisite of all knowledge ; and
it implies that man was not the sport of the fleeting
impression of the moment, but was m some sense its
master. His curiosity took the form of an interest in
all those properties of things, a comprehension of which
was essential to his very existence. Primitive man had
no scientific interest in nature ; he did not study its
phenomena with a view to understanding it for itself. Yet
we can readily see in the undeveloped and limited curiosity
which he possessed the rudiments of the scientific curiosity
of civilized man. For, as I have said, he assumed that
what he sought to understand was capable of being under-
stood. That is to say, he assumed that in his own intelli-
gence could be found the key to the interpretation of

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

things. Knowledge, then, even as it existed for primitive
man implied (r) the consciousness of a distinction between
the apparent and the real, and (2) the capacity of appre-
hending the real in virtue of intelh'gence.

It is plain, then, that any attempt to reduce knowledge
to the mere flow of impressions in a subject that passively
receives them, makes even the simplest knowledge unin-
telligible. If consciousness could be described as a mere ,
series of occurrences in the subject, there could be no
knowledge. The successive positions taken up by a
movinp^ body may perhaps be so described, but the con-
sciousness of man refuses to be expressed in such terms.
The moving body is not aware of the successive' positions
it occupies : man not only has impressions, but he is
aware that he has them. To the conscious subject we
must therefore attribute much greater complexity than to
the unconscious thing. Consciousness always involves the
opposition of what seems and what is ; or, what is the
same thing, it implies that impressions as they occur are
only the sign or index of what does not occur. Con-
sciousness also involves the capacity on the part of the
subject of contrasting the stream of occurrences with the
permanent nature of the object. It presupposes, in other
words, that the objective wOrld is not a mere series of
occurrences, but a fixed system of things, and that the
subject is capable of finding out what that system is.
Knowledge always consists in grasping things from a uni-
versal point of view, i.e., in liberation from accidental
impressions and associations. This is the real force of '
Bacon's contention, that man must come to the study
of nature free from all preconceptions. For what this
implies is, that only in freeing oneself frcm the accidental

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

impressions of the moment, and putting oneself at the
point of view of existence as it actually is, can knowledge
be obtained.

THE CARTESIAN CONCEPTION OF MIND.

What has just been said may also be put in this way,
that no knowledge is derivable from mere impressions,
but only from impressions that have been brought to the
unity of conception. P'or it is by conception, i.e., by the
mental apprehension of the meaning of individual im-
pressions when these are viewed by reference to the
whole system of things, that we obtain knowledge. We
must be careful to observe, however, that we cannot
absolutely oppose the conceptions of our own minds to
the actual nature of things. Descartes, e.g., maintained
that there are certain "innate conceptions," which belong
to the mind as it is in itself, while, on the other hand, our
particular experiev. 'es come to us from without. But if
we suppose the mind to supply conceptions purely out of
itself, what guarantee can we have that these express the
real nature of existence? This whole mode of thought
rests upon the supposition, that knowledge is partly
obtained by the mind's contemplation of itself, and partly
by the mind's passive apprehension of what is without
itself. Now, this involves a double misapprehension. In
the first place, the mind has no nature when it is separated
from all objects actual or possible ; and, in the second

^) place, there is no apprehension by the mind of what is

V without it.

(i) Suppose the mind to be absolutely separated from
all objects, and it has no conceivable nature. If we try
to think of such a mind, we can only describe it by

REI,ATI()NS OF UI0I,0(;Y AND PHILOSOIM! V.

139

negations : we can s:iy, that it is not o.tended or mov-
able or ponderable : in short, that it has none of the
predicates by which we may describe the material world.
This was clearly enough perceived by Descartes ; and
therefore he went on to say, that mind has none of the
attributes of matter, but must be defined as a purely
thinking substance. It may be shown, however, that
mind in complete isolation from matter cannot be defined
even as a thinking substance. For about what is it to
think? It cannot be a mind which perceives^ because
perception is of a world of objects whose properties are
those of extension, motion, weight, etc., and, by hypothesis,
the mind in itself is a substance that has none of these
properties and is entirely removed from all contact with
them. And if it cannot perceive, neither can the mind
remember or imagine \ for remembrance and imagination
presuppose perception. I cannot remember what I have
never perceived, nor can I imagine anything that is not
a re-arrangement of what has been perceived.

In this difficulty Descartes falls back upon the view that
there are certain conceptions which tht mind has by its
very nature, — such conceptions as that ol God. But the
conception of God or the Infinite is not possible apart
from the conception of the Finite. If we think of God we
must think of Him as the Being who is the source of all
existence, and that is impossible if we have no conscious-
ness of any existence. Shall we then say, that although
the mind has no conception of any object — whether that
object is the world or God — it yet has a conception of
itself as a pure thinking activity? But a pure thinking
activity which thinks nothing is just as inconceivable as
a world beyond consciousness or the Infinite in absolute

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

separation from the Finite. For there is no possibility of
a thinking activity that thinks on nothing. I can think
on space or time or the world or God, but how can I
think without thinking on anything? Now, to this pure
thought, which is the thought of nothing, Descartes is
reduced, because he has removed from thought all that
can be an object for it. He has, in other words, reduced
the mind to the mere possibility or bare capacity of
thinking ; but if the mind is the mere capacity of thinking,
how can it think itself? A mere capacity cannot think
itself as a capacity : to think is the actual exercise of
thought, and in this case there can be no actual exercise
of thought, because the mind has been reduced to the
mere capacity of thinking, a capacity that can never be
realized in actual thinking. Plainly, therefore, on Des-
cartes' assumption of the absolute separation of the mind
from all reality, we are reduced to the idea of a mere
potentiality.

Nor are we even entitled to call this supposititious mind
the potentiality of thinking. If I say that a child is poten-
tially a man, I use language that is perfectly intelligible,
because I define the character of the potentiality : what I
am saying is, that the child has capacities which, when they
are realized take the form of the activities characteristic of
a feeling, perceiving, thinking being. But if I say that a
child is a pure potentiality, without defining the form that
this potentiality will take, I am using language that has
no precise signification. Of what is the child the poten-
tiality, it is naturally psked ? Do you mean that he is
potentially a plant, or an animal, or a man? Now,
Descartes cannot say that the mind is the potentiality of
anything, and therefore his language has no precise sig-

RELATIONS OF r.IOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

141

ten-
e :s
ow,
Y of

sig-

nification. Such a mind is not definable even as mind,
smce a pure potentiality, if it could be realized, might
exhibit the characteristics which Descartes himseh" ascribes
to matter.

(2) Descartes' other assumption, that there is an appr •
hension by the mind of what is external to it, is equally
inadmissible ; it is, in fact, but the other side of his
assumption that the mind is an independent substance.
The material world is conceived by Descartes as in all
respects the opposite of mind. The mind is a pure unity,
whereas extended substance is pure diversity, being "in-
finitely self-external or divided into partes extra partes ad
vijinitiivi." lieing thus separated from each other " by
the whole diameter of being," the difficulty arises how
the mind can know the external world at all. Descartes
is practically compelled to assume that we have such
knowledge. We do not, he admits, directly apprehend
the objective world, but we have experience of mental
states which we must suppose to represent it correctly.
In other words, matter exists beyond the mind, but its
action upon the mind takes the form of immediate im-
pressions, which compel us to infer its existence.

Now, it may be shown that this doctrine makes the
objective world unintelligible. If I know the material
world only through certain mental states of my own, I
cannot, on Descartes' premises, attiibute these to the
object. The impressions of colour, heat, weight, are for
me merely my own states. If matter is purely sell-
external and inert, as Descartes affirms, it is not the
subject of states of feeling, such as colour, heat, or weight.
Of these I must therefore strip matter. But when these
are taken away, matter is no longer definable. A matter

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

that has neither colour, nor heat, nor weight, is indis-
tinguishable from pure extension. This Descartes himself
saw, and hence he held the curious doctrine, that wher-
ever there is space there is matter. But space is no
more knowable on Cartesian principles than matter, since
it exists for us only in the form of our own mental
states. We must therefore deny even extension to matter.
What remains? Simply the bare idea of something that
cannot be further defined. All thai we can say of it is,
that it is that which is capable of acting on the mind.

Now, if we bring together the two sides of the Car-
tesian doctrine, we get this result : that Mind is the
pure capacity of thinking, and Matter the pure capacity
of acting. But we have seen that a mere capacity may
be the capacity of anythir^g. Hence there is no recogniz-
able distinction between mind and matter. The opposi-
tion of subject and object disappears, and leaves us with
the idea of pure potentiality, and pure potentiality is no
reality, being in fact indistinguishable from pure nothing.
Thus the Cartesian doctrine of the separation of mind
and matter leads o the denial of all knowledge.

I have made this criticism of the Cartesian theory of
knowledge in order to siiow that existence cannot be
divided up into two antithetical halves. If the objective
world is in its nature entirely foreign to the knowing
subject, knowledge is impossible. If man can know only
his ovv.i subjective states, he is necessarily shut out from
all apprehension of objective existence. Now, we have
already seen that it is a contradiction in terms to affirm
that we know reality to be unknowable. Let us then
start from the principle that the objective world is not

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY ANr* PHILOSOPHY.

[y °^

be
:tive
Kving
|only
from
(lave

irm
Ithen

not

essentially foreign to us, but is something that we can
know and understand. If that is true, we must hold
that the world is in itself essentially rational, /.<?., it forms
a connected system of things. Because of its rationality,
it can be comprehended by reason. Hence, in every act
of knowledge, man finds the world to be partially re-
ducible to an intelligible system, and the progress of
knowledge will just consist in the gradual extension of
the consciousness of systematic unity in the world. But
in knowledge man not only finds the world to be rational,
but he finds that he is himself rational. It is in virtue
of his o.vn intelligence that he is capable of finding the
world intelligible. And he cannot learn his own ration-
ality apart from the process by which he gains a know-
ledge of the objective world. Thus the development of
the consciousness of what his own nature essentially is,
is at the same time a development of his knowledge
of objective reality. In man there is a principle, the
principle of rationality, which gives him a mastery over
the world, just because in the world that rationality is
already implied. The whole process of knowledge may
ms be viewed either as the development of man's con-
st ousness of the world, or as the development of man's
consciousness of himself.

Now, if knowledge is of this character, it is plain that,
just in so far as we have knowledge we are freed from
any unintelligible force acting externally upon us. In
so far as primitive man learned the properties of the
objective world, he was free from their influence. Having
this knowledge he was not subject to nature, but he
subjected nature to himself. His environment was not
something that acted upon him externally, but something

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144

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

that he could comprehend and therefore master. The
only external force that acted upon him was the force
he had not yet learned to understand. And the develop-
ment of man has been a continuous process of mastering
the world more and more perfectly. When we learn the
meaning of any fact — say, the fact of electricity — it ceases
to be something foreign to us; it does not master us, but
we master it. The only limit to man's subjection of the
world to himself is his ignorance. But even this limit is
never absolute, firstly, because, even when some special
fact is not yet put in its proper place in the whole in-
telligible system of things, we yet are conscious that it
can be known ; and, secondly, because our ignorance is
never absolute, but always rests upon partial knowledge.
We may now see, I think, that the principle of natural
selection cannot explain the knowledge of man. That
principle assumes that man is incapable of rising above
his immediate circumstances. Knowledge is supposed
to be the product of the action of the environment
upon certain inherited tendencies. But these inherited
tendencies we have seen to be but another name for the
capacity of grasping the nature of the environment; and
this capacity cannot be explained as the mere effect of
the environment; on the contrary, it implies a compre-
hension of the nature of the environment, and the power
Oi' adapting it to himself. We must therefore say, that
man's knowledge begins in the partial subjection of
external circumstances to his ideal of himself, and that
the development of knowledge consists in an ever more
complete realization of himself by means of an ever
greater mastery of the law of the world. In so far as
he knows man is free. We might say, in fact, that the

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

history of man's knowledge is just the history of his sub-
stitution of the higher law of reason for the lower law of
natural selection.

DOES NATURAL SELECTION EXPLAIN MORALITY?

It may be shown by similar reasoning that Darwin's
attempt to explain morality by means of natural selection
is equally unsuccessful. If we accept his view there is
no possible freedom of action, and no distinction between
morality and nature. (i) There is no freedom^ because
the actions of man are determined by the natural im-
pulse to pleasure, and that impulse again is due to the
action of the environment upon the individual's inherited
disposition. (2) Nor is there any moral as distinguished
from natural activity; for morality is simply a nam.e for
the actions that give more pleasure than pain.

Now, I have tried to show that knowledge implies
freedom, because it lifts man above the flux of immediate
impressions and so liberates him from the tyranny of
the sensible. Similarly, it may be shown that in his
action, as properly understood, man is free because he
is not under the dominion of immediate impulses.

Darwin tells us that primitive man inherited from his
animal progenitors two opposite tendencies — the tendency
to seek his own good and the tendency to seek the
good of others ; and which of these shall be predominant
will depend upon the environment. Look, first, at the
supposed selfish tendency or impulse. This tendency
in primitive man, we must suppose, took the form of
a struggle for his own existence and for the satisfaction
of his natural wants. These wants were mainly food and

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

sheltrer. Man by his nature as a living being had for
these a strong desire, and to get them he was ready to
sacrifice all other beings. In particular, he had to
struggle with the forces of nature and the lower animals,
and individual men had to struggle with one another.
^i:^ Observe, however, that the superiority of man over the
lower animals, and of one man over another, arises mainly
from the fact that he had a better knowledge of the
environment, and by means of this knowledge he could
turn it to his own use. He made circumstances the
means of satisfying his natural wants. But this adapta-
tion of means to ends presupposes in man an idea of
the end which he desired to obtain. He desired to
secure the satisfaction of his natural desire for food and
shelter. In other words, he not only possessed the im-
pulse to maintain his life, but he grasped so far the
meaning of the impulse. Thus primitive man had a
conception of himself as capable of being satisfied. This,
indeed, was the necessary condition of a selfish struggle
for maintenance at the expense of others. There can
be no selfishness where there is no consciousness of self.
We thus see, that, just as the knowledge of man implies
liberation from the crowd of impressions that are per-
petually coming and going, so desire implies liberation
from the immediate impulses that arise from time to
time.

If man were merely the passive recipient of impulses
that arise on occasion of external stimuli, he could
have no consciousness of himself as a possible subject
of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. If primitive man, as
Darwin says, had a strong tendency to seek his own
good, he must have had the consciousness of his own

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

147

Lilses
ould
)ject
, as
own
own

I
I

good as distinguished from the good of others. He
could not seek for the satisfaction of himself^ if he had
no idea of himself: he could not seek to satisfy himself
at the expense of others, unless he contrasted himself
with other selves. What Darwin speaks of as a primitive
selfish impulse was not a mere impulse : it was not a
mere feeling of the absence of i)leasure, but the conscious-
ness of self as capable of being satisfied and the effort
to obtain that satisfaction at whatever cost to others
in the way of their dissatisfaction. Obviously, therefore,
we cannot explain the desire for self-preservation as due
merely to the excitation of an inherited impulse. The
natura. appetite for food cannot be called a selfish tend-
ency; it becomes selfish only when the individual is
conscious of the object of appetite, and when setting
that object before his consciousness he seeks to realize
it irrespective of the claims of others. It is by learning
the )neanitig of his immediate wants that man learns
to satisfy them ; he comes to apprehend their law,
and to seek in external nature for the means of their
satisfaction. Now, as we have seen in the case of
knowledge, to grasp the law of things is to gain a
mastery over them, and the only limit to this mastery
lies in ignorance of their law. So primitive man, appre-
hending the object of his appetites and learning the
means by which they could be satisfied, was enabled to
satisfy his wants, /.<?., to satisfy himself. To speak of
such purposive activity as the action of external circum-
stances upon an inherited disposition is meaningless :
the fact is that man, grasping the law of his environment,
and grasping the law of his own nature, turns the environ-
ment into the means of realizing his ideal self. He is

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148

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCKR.

not subject to his impulses, but he subjects his impulses
to himself.

We may see the same thing if we look at what l^arwin
calls the social impulses. There is a tendency in man
to seek the good of others as well as of himself. If so,
he must be capable not only of abstracting from his
own immediate impulses, but of putting himself at the
point of view of others. Not only does he conceive of
himself as a possible subject of satisfaction, but he con-
ceives of others in the same way. Thus he rises to the
point of view of a community of selves, each of which
has a claim to self-satisfaction. What he now contrasts
is his own possible self with the possible self of others.
And he is capable of foregoing a certain form of self-
satisf?ction in order that others may obtain a more com-
plete self-satisfaction. The savage may seek the good of
his tribe even at the risk of losing his life. What does
this mean? It means that he has risen above the ideal
of his own individual self, and grasped the idea of a
aommon good. Darwin would explain this higher con-
sciousness by saying that the individual feels pain when
he acts contrary to the common opinion of his tribe.
But, in the first place, this does not account for the
common opinion. If the tribe condemn action that has
for its end the good of the individual as opposed to the
good of the community, it is because there has arisen
before their consciousness the ideal of a self that can
find genuine satisfaction only in seeking the good of all.
It is therefore implied that selfishness is not the way to
obtain the satisfaction of the individual. It is implied,
in othex words, that man is by his very nature social,

RELATIONS OF BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.

'49

and forms part of an organism in which the good of
each is bound up with the good of all. And, in the
second place, the feeling of dissatisfaction experienced
by the individual when he acts contrary to the common
opinion rests upon the very same consciousness of a sell
higher than his merely individual self It is because he
has the same consciousness of a social self as is embodied
in common opinion that the individual man is dissatisfied
with himself when he has sought for the satisfaction of
his own separate self at the expense of others. Thus what
Darwin calls the " social impulse " really involves the idea
of a community of self-conscious beings, all of whom are
selves and can find their own satisfaction only in seeking
the good of all. To speak of the environment acting
on the individual is to leave out of account all that makes
sociality intelligible. For the environment here can only
mean the constraining power of that higher consciousness
of his true self which is revealed to man in virtue of
his reason. Learning that his true nature can be realized
only by self-identification with the common weal, the
individual man is not externally acted upon by a foreign
influence. In submitting himself to the law of reason he
is submitting himself to his true self, and such submission
is true freedom.

CHAPTER VIII.

;f"

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

SPENCER ANl) fllE SCIENTIFIC EVOLUTIONISTS.

We have seen that neither man's knowledge nor his
moral consciousness can be explained on the principle
of natural selection. To know is to be beyond a mere
state of passivity : it is to grasp the meaning of existence
in virtue of a principle implied in the very nature of the
knowing subject ; to will is to realize an ideal presented
to himself by the subject, an ideal which he has just
because he is not limited to his immediate impulses but
can put himself at a universal point of view. The progress
of knowledge consists in an ever fuller comprehension of
the meaning of the world ; the progress in morality consists
in an ever fuller realization of what in his ideal nature
man truly is. And these two sides of man's nature — his
intelHgence and his will — his consciousness of the world
and his consciousness of himself — do not develop inde-
pendently of each other ; for as man learns to comprehend
the meaning of the world he also learns to comprehend
himself. Now, there is great danger of losing sight of
this truth. When we once see that vmiod cannot be

PHILOSOPHV OF MIND.

»5'

exi)lained on ihc supposition lli.il the world acts ex
ternnlly upon it, we are tem[)ted to say that mind is
indcjiendcnt of the world and develops apart from it.
Starting; from this side of the subject, we seem to find
that it can know nothing but its own states. Thus we
get into a new difficulty. W'c have seen that there is
an apparent conflict between the idea of the finite and
the idea of the infinite. We have also seen that there
is an apparent conflict between the idea of the world
and the idea of self. We have now to consider the
apparent conflict between the idea of self and the idea
of the world. To some extent this problem has already
been dealt with in what was said of the dualism of
Descartes. But it will be profitable to consider it in
the form in which it has been presented in our own day.
I shall therefore state and examine the doctrine of Mr.
Herbert Spencer on this point, a doctrine which has
secured a number of adherents.

There is one datum of consciousness, Mr. Spencer
tells us, that must be assumed by every philosophy, viz.,
the absolute distinction of subject and object. The
world of mind and the world of matter are mutually
exclusive ; or, as Mr. Spencer puts it, subject and
object are "antithetically opposed divisions of tlie entire
assemblage of things." We can analyze our idea of the
subject and find out the elements implied in it, and
similarly we can reduce our idea of the object to its
simplest terms ; but there is no possibility of reducing
these two ideas further : we cannot identify the subject
with the object, or the object with the subject. The
distinction of subject and object is "the cons* iousness
of a difference transcending all other differences." ^ This

^ Psychology^ § 62.

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

consciousness must be accepted, because its opposite is
not only unbelievable but unthinkable. If I say, "The
subject is the object," I h ve framed a proposition that
contradicts itself; for the two terms, "subject" and
"object," cannot by any effort be brought before con-
sciousness in that relation which the proposition asserts
between them ; in other words, to identify subject and
object contradicts the very idea of subject and of
object, because the idea of the one is absolutely distinct
from the idea of the other. The attempt to think sub-
ject as object, or object as subject, is as futile as the
attempt to think of a square as round, or to think of a
straight line as bent. Now, when a proposition cannot
by any possibility be thought, its opposite must be true,
i.e., we must hold the truth of the proposition, " The
subject is not identical with the object."

Now, there is no doubt that Mr. Spencer, in affirming
that subject and object, mind and matter, are absolutely
distinct from each other, is affirming what the plain man
would accept as palpably true. I perceive that tree
before me, but /am not the tree : I am a perceiving,
conscious, thinking being, whereas the tree has no per-
ception, no consciousness, no thought. The tree, it will
be said, has properties that distinguish it toto coelo from
me, the subject that perceives it ; and therefore the sub-
ject is quite distinct in nature from the object. Mr.
Spencer can therefore apparently find support for his
opposition of subject and object in the ordinary con-
sciousness of men.

But it is very doubtful if the man of common sense
would be willing to follow Mr. Spencer when he goes on
to reduce subject and object to their lowest terms.

I'lllLOSOl'HY OK MIND.

•53

What is the nature of the object and of the subject ? The
moment Mr. Spencer proceeds to answer this (jucstion,
it becomes obvious that his conceptions of object and
subject are very different from those ordinarily held.

Mr. Spencer, then, starts from the opposition of sub-
ject and object, and then he goes on to ask how the
subject comes to have a knowledge, or an apparent
knowledge, of the object. When we speak of the ob-
jective world we are thinku|| of sensible things in si)ace
and time; or, in Mr. SpenCers words, of "relations of
sequence and relations of coe.xistence." How do we get
a knowledge of these relations? Mr. Si)encer's answer
is, that we are conscious of a relation of sequence in
every change of consciousness. I may have a series of
impressions of sound, and the consciousness of this scries
gives me the apprehension of the relation of seciuence.
But I obtain the same apprehension in the consciousness
of any series of impressions whatever. Thus, my per-
ception of the colour of this desk is given in a succession
of impressions of colour; and so also is my apprehension
of its hardness and smoothness, its resistance and weight.
Primarily, therefore, all our perceptions take the form of
a succession of impressions. States of consciousness are
serial, not coexistent. Originally, therefore, we have a
consciousn'^ss only of the relation of sequence, not of
the relation of coiycistence. How, then, do we advance
from the consciousness of sequence to the consciousness
of coexistence? How, out of a succession of impressions,
do we obtain the consciousness of what is not successive?
Mr. Spencer's answer is, that there are certain sequences
of impression that do not occur in a fixed order, but
can be taken in any order. The series of impressions

154

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

W'i

called sounds come in a certain order, but the series of
impressions called colours, or tastes, may appear in a
different order. Thus, I can apprehend the colour of
this desk either by running my eye along the surface
from left to right or from right to left. Thus we come
to distinguish between sequences proper, and sequences
which are only successive in our apprehension. The
former is the consciousness of the relation of sequence,
the latter the consciousness of the relation of coexistence.
Now, we have many experiences of these two kinds of
relation, and hence we form an abstract conception of
sequence and an abstract conception of coexistence. The
abstract of all sequences is time. The abstract of all
coexistence is space.

You will observe that Mr. Spencer here assumes that
the individual has a direct consciousness only of his own
impressions. For him the properties of the object exist
only as a series of states in his own mind, and it is
out of this series chat he constructs the consciousness
of coexistence. There is, Mr. Spencer would say, a Jor-
respondence between the states of the subject ahd the
properties of the object, but not an identity. This
correspondence he explains more fuily in treating of the
relation between mental states or " feelings " and the
nervous changes that accompany, but are distinct from,
these feelmgs. The parallelism is set forth v/ith great
minuteness. Thus, {a) nervous action occupies appreci-
able time, and so also does feeling ; {b) each nervous
action leaves a partial incapacity for a like nervous
action, so each feeling leaves a partial incapacity for a
like feeling ; {c) other things being equal, the intensities
of feelings vary as the intensities of the correlative nervous

9mrwm

■

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND,

155

actions; (d) the difference between direct and indirect
nervous disturbances corresponds to the difference between
the vivid feehngs we call real and the faint feelings we
call ideal. UAUA^^t-^f 5,,,,iAL.vv- \ ^^i^, .,iu'/.«i- { !,v^jjv.^x^ \

But the parallelism is even closer. We are apt to
suppose that the individual sensations and emotions we
experience are a'-solutely simple. But they are not really
so. A musica) and, for example, is supposed to be a
simple feeling. if equal blows or taps are made one
after another at a rate not exceeding some sixteen per
second, the effect of each is perceived as a separate
noise; but when the rapidity with which the blows
follow one another exceeds this, the noises are no longer
identified in separate states of consciousness, and there
arises a continuous state of consrioui,ness called a tone.
Thus an apparently simple feeling is really composed of
various feelings. Now we must suppose, in the same
way, that all kinds of feelings are really complex, though
apparently simple. Nay, must we not suppose that a//
feelings are made up of elements that in the last analysis
are absolutely identical in their nature? To this prim-
ordial element of consciousness a nervous shock of no
appreciable duration may be supposed to correspond.

You will see from this how far Mr. Spencer has
travelled from the point of view of common sense. The
mind he conceives as made up of ultimate units of feel-
ing, absolutely identical in their nature, just as all nerve
action is reducible to simple indistinguishable nervous
shocks. The subject, in other word , is in its ultimate
nature not the subject that we ordinarily suppose it to
be, but a collection of primitive ato.i's of feeling, just
as the object is a collection of primitive units of force.

156

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

Thus the whole complex variety of existence disappears,
and what is left is a subject composed of indistinguish-
able units of feeling, and an object composed of indis-
tinguishable units of force.

Mr. Spencer thinks that he has thus proved the in-
dependence of subject and object, while he has at the
same time established their correspondence. We can
reduce the subject to units of feeling, and the object to
units of force; but we cannot reduce units of feeling to
units of force: this is the "difference transcending all
other differences," the distinction "never to be tran-
scended while consciousnes lasts." There is one diffi-
culty, however, in maintaining this absolute dualism of
subject and object to which Mr. Spencer himself refers.
If the subject is ab-.clutely separated from the object,
how does it ever apprehend the nature of the object?
I As a conscious subject I am aware only of my own
I feelings ; how then do I know that the object is com-
posed of units of force? For me force presents itself
simply as a /ee/ing of resistance, and a feeling is separated
from a unit of force by the whole diameter of being.
No relation of consciousness, as Mr. Spencer admits,
" can resemble, or be in any way akin " to the actual
relations of things. Hence we must say, that " beyond
consciousness" there are "conditions of objective mani-
festation which ar'> symbolized by relations as we conceive
them." These conditions we cannot know ; yet we are
compelled to hold that the distinction of units of feeling
and units of motion is a distinction relative to our con-
sciousness : it is " one and the same Ultimate Reality,
which is manifested to us subjectively and objectively."
But while the nature of that which is manifested under

■I

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

157

either form proves to be inscrutable, the order of its
manifestations throughout all mental phenomena proves
to be the same as the order of itr. manifestations through-
out all material phenomena. Mr. Spencer holds, in sholrt,
that we do not know reality in its absolute nature, but
we find that it presents itself to us in two parallel forms,
which correspond exactly to each other. The develop-
ment of the one goes on pari passu with the develop-
ment of the other. For example, the nervous system is
in the lower animals indefinite and incoherent, but as
higher forms emerge there is a gradual advance in integra-
tion, complexity, and definiteness. So mind in the lower
animals is simple, vague, and incoherent, but when we pass
to man, we find that there is a remarkable differentiation
and complexity. We must hold, then, on the one hand,
that there never is a feeling without a corresponding nerve-
movement, or a nerve-n.ovement without a correspond-
ing feeling; but, on the other hand, we must maintain
that each is but a manifestation of a single reality which
to us appears in these two forms. In other words, if we
could contemplate reality as it truly is, we should find
that in it the distinction of subject and object is abolished;
but the character of our intelligence makes it impossible'
for us to get beyond the absolute dualism of subject and
object, because that dualism is the fundamental condition
of consciousness itself.

Mr. Spencer's conclusion then is, that we cannot know
, the ultimate nature of mind any more than w€ can know
^ the ultimate nature of matter. Granted that a feeling in
consciousness and a molecular motion are the subjective
and objective faces of the same thing; yet "we are incap-
able of uniting the two, so as to conceive that reality of

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158

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

which they are the opposite faces." Consider how we
are forced to present each to our consciousness. What
for us is matter ? It is a complex of states of conscious-
ness, which have objective counterparts that to us arc
unknown. What is mind for us? It is a synthesis of
many feeUngs, and of the many changes among them.
We infer that all our feelings are probably formed of
ultimate units of feeling or mental shocks, but we cannot
think of such shocks except as undergone by an actual
substance. Now *' we can form no notion of a substance
of mind that has no attributes, and all such attributes
are abstracted from our experiencp- T material phenomena.
How can we think of the char.^ . , of consciousness except
as caused, and how can we think of any cause except as
some form of motion ? "

"See then," says Mr, Spencer, "our predicament. We
can think of matter only in terms of mind. We can
think of mind only in terms of matter. When we have
pushed our explorations of the first to the uttermost limit,
we are referred to the second for a final answer, and
when we have got the final answer of the second, we
are referred back to the first for an interpretation of it.
We find the value of x in terms of y ; then we find the
value of y in terms of x ; and so on we may continue
for ever without coming nearer to a solution. The anti-
thesis of subject and object, never to be transcended while
consciousness lasts, renders impossible all knowledge of
that Ultimate Reality in which subject and object are
united." The true CvMiolusion is, that 'it .0 ne and
the same Ultimate Keality which is irunifesteU ;o us
subjectively and objectively."^

^ PsjrAoHoj^y, §§ 272, 273.

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

'59

Mr. Spencer, then, holds that there is no way of re-
ducing mind to matter, or matter to mind. To the same
effect Dr. Tyndall tells us that "the passage from the
physics of the brain to the corresponding facts of con-
sciousness is unthinkable. Granted that a definite thought
^ and a definite molecular action in the brain occur simul-
taneously, we do not possess the intellectual organ
which would enable us to pass by a process of reasoning
from the one to the other. They appear together, but
we do not know why." And Professor Huxley says, "I
know nothing whatever, and never hope to know 'any-
thing, of the steps by which the passage from molecular
movement to states of consciousness is effected."

No*v, if we accept this absolute dualism of subject and
object, mind and matter, we must be prepared to say
that we can know nothing of the ultimate nature of reality :
our consciousness of self is in irreconcilable antagonism
to our consciousness of the world. And this involves
no less than a surrender of the special problem of philo-
sophy, the problem to find a unity which shall compre
hend and explain all differences. Before committing
ourselves to this hopeless view of the problem of knovv-
ledge, we must ask whether the fault may not lie rather
in a false theory than in the limited nature of our intelli-
gence.

The following propositions are maintained by Mr.
Spencer :

ist. We are conscious of an absolute distinction between
subject and object, mind and matter.

2nd. The object is conceivable only as a complex of
• feelings or mental states; the subject only as a
complex of movements.

i6o

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

3rd. The ultimate constituents of the subject as known
are simple feelings, the ultimate constituents of
the object as known are simple movements.
4th. There is an exact correspondence, but no connec-
tion, between the feelings of the subject and
the movements of the object.
5th. In their real nature subject and object are iden-
tical, though we are unable to comprehend that
identity.
"AP whiHi propositions," to apply the famous words
of Carlyle, " 1 must modestly but peremptorily and irre-
vocably deny." The ground on which I base that denial
may be best understood by an examination of the first
of these propositions, on which all the others depend.

BV'.^'l^

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1 1

EXAMINATION OF MR. SPENCERS OPPOSITION OF SUBJECT

AND OBJECT.

The fundamental proposition which Mr. Spencer seeks
to establish is, that subject and object are for us absolutely
exclusive of each other, because their separation is bound
up with the very nature of consciousness. By no eftbrt
can I think of subject as object, or object as subject.
The elimination of this distinction would be at the same
time the destruction of consciousness.

Now, it may be shown that Mr. Spencer has here con-
fused two quite distinct pro^Hjsitions : firstly, that we
are conscious of the subject as separate from the object,
and, secondly, that we are consr-ious of the subject as
distinguishable from the object. But, so far from these
two propositions being identical, they are contradictory
the one of the other. The first is false, the second is
true; and it is because Mr. Spencer seems to be affirming

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

i6i

the second, when in reality his theory compels him to
deny it, that he is apt to get credit for making out his
case. I shall therefore begin by pointing out the dis-
tinction between these opposite propositions.

(a) If I say that I am conscious of the subject as
separate from the object, 1 am claiming that I can conceive
the subject by itself, without in any way introducing the
conception of the object. Now, we saw in considering
the dualism of Descartes that this is impossible. Remove
from the conception of the subject all relation to an object,
and what remains is not the pure subject, but a pure blank.
The very meaning of subject is that which is relative to
an object. If the subject is not conscious of an object,
it canr. )t be conscious at all, and in the absence of all
consciousness the subject has no j)roperties by which it
may be thought.

Perha^vs it may be answered that the object of which
the subject is conscious is simply its own state, and that
in being conscious of this state it has an object before it,
but not the external object. In this case, we shall have
to say, that we can think ot the subject as conscious of
its own states — as conscious of an internal object without
thmking of it .is conscious of anything beyond its own
states. I.e., any external object. This in fact is what Mr.
Spencer does say: he tells us that for the subject the
object is always simply its own feelings. W c must now
suppose the subject with its own states to stand on one
side, and the external object with its properties to stand
on the other side ; and the contention is, that we can
think of the subject as conscious of an internal objexrt,
without thinking of an external object at all.

Now, a subject conscious only of its own states would

162

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

fir

manifestly never become conscious of any exterjial object.
For, if it should ever break through the charmed circle
of its own inner life, and get even a glimpse of the object
asserted to lie beyond, it would no longer be confined to
the internal object, but would have passed over to the
external object. Remember, now, that the subject which
is so confined to a purely internal life is the human subject.
Mr. Spencer must therefore suppose that in his con-
sciousness he is absolutely confined to his own internal
states, or, in other words, can have no idea of any object
other than those states — no idea, that is, of an external
object. But if so, the primary datum of consciousness
cannot be the absolute distinction of subject from object,
by which is meant the absolute distinction of the internal
life of the subject from an external reality lying beyond.
The primary datum of consciousness must be the con-
sciousness simply of self and the states of self. The
subject can neither perceive nor imagine anything but
his own states, and therefore the supposed opposition of
internal subject and external object is for him impossible.
The external object has vanished.

{b) We have seen then that the consciousness of a
separate and independent subject, having no relation to
any externai object, kads to the denial of all objectivity,
/>., of all r^i^ other thiin tlm «tutes of the subject.
I^t us now see whether the same difficulty besets the
proposition, that subjetd: and objert «/t> distinguishable
but not separable.

I can distinguish a centre from rt i^ircumference, the one
end of a stick from the other, an inside from an outside,
the convex and concave sides of a sphere ; but can I
separate either from the other ? Manifestly not : it is

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

163

impossible to think of a centre without relating it to a
circle, of one end apart from the other, an inside without
an outside, convex without concave. The <iuestion is
whether subject and objec t are not of this nature : dis-
tinguishable but not separable. We have already seen
the difficulties into which we are driven if we suppose
the subject to be separate from the object, and to be
aware only of its own states. These difficulties suggest
that subject and object are not really separable; but,
on the other hand, there seem to be as grave difficulties
in the wa> of accepting the doctrine that they are only
ideally, not really separable ; and of these we must take
account.

That subject and object are absolutely diverse in their
nature, and therefore exist in complete independence of
each other, seems to be at first sight a simple statement
of an undoubted fact. The dualism of subject and object
is apparently indubitable, whether we look at the nature
of the one or of the Qther. Look first at the objerl,

(a) If il \s said that the object is of the same nature
as the subject, it is naturally objected that the object has
a nature of its own independently of any knowledge of it
by the subject, and independently even of the existence
of the subject.

(i) The existence and nature of the objective world,
it is said, is not dependent Ujjon the knowledge of its
nature by any human being. The fire goes out whether
1 am asleep or awake ; visible things are continually
undergoing changes that have no dependence upon the
apprehension of them by rnan ; gravitation acts whether
I know it to act or ijot. What knowledge reveals to me
is what already exists, not what comes into being only

-WW

164

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

I '

when I apprehend it. Were it otherwise, it may be said,
things would be continually coming into existence and
going out of existence. Nothing, in fact, would exist
except at the moment when it was present to somebody's
consciousness. And this leads to manifold absurdities.
To suppose that the world in which we dwell, and the
infinite host of heaven, are continually created and
destroyed as they are or are not objects of human con-
sciousness is the greatest of all absurdities. It is the
dream of men who are so intoxicated with ideas, that
they have lost all hold of facts. The theory even implies
that there are as many objects as their subjects. For
the object of each conscious subject will be distinct.
Plainly, therefore, the existence and nature of the object
is not dependent ui)on the knowledge of the subject.

(2) Agair, the existence of the objective world is in-
dependent of the existence of the sul)ject, because it
existed prior to the existence of the subject. We know
that, long before conscious beings were on the earth, there
were other forms of existence. There was a time when
our whole solar system was as yet unformed. It was after
millions of years that the primitive nebulous matter shaped
itself into distinct worlds, and millions of years elapsed
before man appeared on the scene. How then can it be
denied that the object is independent of the subject?
Can any one seriously maintain, that the object cannot
exist without the subject, when the object as a matter
of fact did exist before there was any subject?

(d) The independence of the suuject seems to be equally
manifest. We say that the ubject cannot be of the same
nature as the object, because its properties are distinct
from those of the object. By the object we mean a

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

'65

form of existence which is neither conscious nor self-
conscious; by the subject we mean a form of existence
which is both. A stone is not conscious of other objects,
nor is it conscious of its own properties. It is not aware
that it is one of an infinite number of thini^s, partly
similar, partly different ; nor does it perceive itself to be
hard, figured, coloured, or to have weight, fhe subject,
on the other hand, is conscious of many other forms of
existence besides itself, and of its own peculiar character
as a knowing and willing being. How, then, can it be
said that the subject is of the same essential nature as
the object?

);•■

THE IDEALISTIC VIEW OF THE WORLD.

These, then, are some of the objections that may be
made to the idealistic viex' of the universe, which maintains
that subject and object are of the sn.me essential nature,
and can only be logically distinguished, not really separated.
I shall take them up in their order.

(a) It is objected that the object is independent of
the subject, because it exists and has a nature of its
own whether it is known by the subject or not.

What is the "subject" here spoken of, which is declared
to have no power of affecting the object? Manifestly,
the individual human subject— this man or that— the
subject that may eitlier know or not know the object.

Now, the conception of existence which underlies this
objection is that individualistic or dualistic conception
which we have seen Mr. Spencer to hold. It sets on
the one side a number of individual things in space and
time, and, on the other side, it sets a number of individual
things each endowed with the faculty of knowledge, and

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it maintains that the former are real apart from the latter.
The changes of things in space and time go on irrespective
of the changes which go on in the knowing subjects that
stand apart from them. Now, there is no doubt that
we do look at object and subject from this point of
view, and for certain purposes it is sufficient. If I wish
to observe the properties of g(,ld, I may take a par-
ticular piece of gold, and, viewing it as if it were a
separate and distinct thing, I may note its properties.
Thus the chemist finds that gold has this peculiar property,
that it is soluble in aqua regia. On the other hand, I
may make the knowing subject an object of observation,
and I may observe that the subject in knowing is con-
tinually passing from one mental state to another, and
that these mental states never occur except when certain
changes take place in the sensitive organism. Here,
again. I am treating the subject as if he were a separate
individual, whose whole natuie can be determined simply
by observation of the changes through which he passes.
It is from this point of view that the external object
seems to have a nature of its own, apart from the know-
ing subject, which also has a nature of its own. If,
therefore, any one should say that the external object
is not mdependent of the subject, the answer seems
obvious, that by its very nature as revealed in observa-
tion, it manifestly is iiidependent, since it possesses
different properties and goes through changes that are
in no way dependent upor the properties and the changes
of the knowing subject. And the answer is undoubtedly
convincmg \vhen it is directed against any one who admits
the fundamental assumption, that there are individual
things, external and internal. If the objective world can

:^iLi^.:;^-!^'.-'w^iJl-.il-^!li.

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

167

be properly described as made up of a number of in-
dividual things, and if we can similarly speak of a number
of individual subjects, it is absurd to say that the former
are of the same nature as the latter. Just as an acid
differs in its properties from an alkali, so all external
objects differ from all knowing subjects in having pro-
perties not found in the latter.

But the question arises whether either the object or
the subject can be correctly described as individual
things having properties peculiar to themselves. Is not
this conception of existence false, when viewed from the
highest point of view, however useful it may be from the
point of view of mere observation ?

The objective world, from the individualistic point of
view, is made up of a number of individual things in
space and time, and each of these is supposed to possess
properties peculiar to itself Now, we have already seen
that, so far as the existence of objects in space and time
is concerned, no object has a property peculiar to itself
The position of anything in space or time is determined
by the position of other things. In other words, the
existence of one thing is possible on'y because it is
relative to the existence of all other things. There is
only one object or world, and what are distinguished as
individual objects are merely particular aspects, from
which the one object or world may be viewed. And
the same thing holds good if we look at the other pro-
perties of the objective world. Weight does not belong
as a S'jparate property to this or that thing; it is a pro-
perty which is constituted by the fact that all the things
which we distinguish by their position tend to move
towards one another at a certain rate. Similarly, what

1 68

K'li:

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

we call the chemical properties of sensible things are
relations, belonging to things not as individual, but as
parts of a single universe. Hydrogen and oxygen are
relations behveen things, not properties attaching to things
in their isolation and independence.

Speaking of the objective world in the ordinary sense
of external reality, i.e., reality in space and time, we find
that it is not made up of sep<?.rate things, but is a single
indivisible unity of which all the supposed separate things
are but phases or aspects. Now, it is true that when
v/e have reached the conclusion that there is only one
object or world, not a number of individual objects, we
have still left opposed to it a number of individual sub-
jects, each having a specific existence and nature of its
own ; i.e.y we have still left an apparently absolute opposi-
tion between subject and object. But, if we have found
that there are no absolutely individual objects, is it not
reasonable to suppose that there are no absolutely in-
dividual subjects?

So far we have spoken of the objective world as if it
comprehended only inorganic existence. But this is mani-
festly an arbitrary limitation. For organized beings are
not less real than Inorganic things, and therefore we must
enlarge our conception of the object so as to include
those forms of existence that we distinguish as living.
Is organized existence, then, of such a character that it
can be described as purely individual ? Can we say that
there is any plant, or any animal, that lives a life of its
own, independently of all relation to other modes of
existence?

Now, it is at once manifest that we cannot find among
living beings any separate and independent individual,

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

169

any more than among non-living things. In the first
place, a Hving being— whether plant or animal — is on
one side of its nature plainly a i)art of the objective
world. It has a bodily structure, which displays the
same characteristics as other bodies. Thus it is in
space and time, it is subject to the laws of dynamics,
and it passes through chemical changes. What has been
said of individual things as inorganic therefore applies
equally to organic things so far as their bodily structure
is concerned. That is to say, no living being is an
independent individual, but is merely a distinguishable
aspect of the one great systematic whole, the object or
world. Apart from this whole, it could have no exist-
ence. We must therefore widen our conception of the
object, and include within it all Jiving beings, so far as
these are viewed as having a bodily structure.

But can we stop here? Can we say that in their
bodily structure living beings belong to the objective
world, while as to their characteristics as living, they are
independent individuals? Now, there is no doubt that
living beings display characteristics not found in non-
living beings. They all, as we have seen, exhibit a
tendency to maintain themselves and to continue their
species. But this tendency can be realized only in so
far as they conform to the conditions of their environ-
ment. The possibility of maintaining themselves is there-
fore possible only in so far as that possibility is implied
in the nature of the external world. The living being
has a peculiar form of existence, but like other forms it
is bound up with the nature of existence as a whole. If
it could separate itself from the world, it would cease to
be, because the very nature of its existence is, that it

\^d

170

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

can realize itself only as part of the world. Now, if we
find that living beings cannot be separated from other
forms of existence, is it not obvious that we must revise
our conception of the objective world, and include within
it, not merely inorganic existence, and organic existence
as to its bodily structure, but organic existence viewed
as organic? In other words, by the "object" we must
now designate all modes of existence, whether inorganic
or organic. The object is therefore not only a systematic
unity of parts, but it is in the strict sense an organic
unity, i.e., a unity which implies life. But this means
that e.ich individual has a life of its own only in so far
as it exhibits within itself the life that is implied in the
world as a whole.

The life of the individu;;! is thus one phase of the
uni\ersal life that pulsates through all existence. Change
in the smallest degree the laws of any form of existence,
and life becomes impossible. Nor can we give any
preference to inorganic as distinguished from organic
existence ; for organic existence is not less real than
inorganic. The only way in which it may plausibly be
shown that the objective world is not an organic unity
is by attempting to reduce life to the mere play of
mechanical forces. But the futility of this attempted
reduction has already been shown. The differentiation
and development of living beings can be explained only
on the supposition that by their very nature they have
an impulse to self-maintenance and a tendency to organiz-
ation. And this impulse and this tendency they could
not possess were its possibility not bound up with the
very nature of the world. The world or object is there-
fore something more than a system of mechanical forces :

"iU

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

171

it is a unity containing within itself the principle of
life.

From what has been said, it follows that the object
must now be conceived to include all modes of existence,
organic as well as inorganic. If, therefore, it is still
maintained that the object is independent of the sub-
ject, this can only mean, that, while all other modes
of existence are related to one another in one single
system, there is one form of existence which is outside
of this system, and belongs to a separate and independent
sphere. This mode of existence is mind or consciousness.

Now, it must be observed that we do not find mind
existing independently of the objective world. Just as
there can be no form of life apart from the whole system
of external nature, so there can be no form of mind
apart from the organism. We find in animals a peculiar
faculty, the faculty oi feeling, which is not possessed by
any other form of being. And we find in man a still
higher faculty, the faculty of consciousness. But con-
sciousness is not something that exists irrespective of
animal sensation. Just as by means of sensation the
animal feels within itself a thrill which expresses the
nature of what lies beyond its own organism, so in con-
sciousness man comes to understand and to interpret the
sensations and impulses which, as an animal, he possesses.
He not only feels but thinks.

Now, if the life of consciousness as it exists in man
presupposes the life of sensation and impulse, it is plain
that any attempt to isolate the conscious subject from
the sensitive subject must result in emptying conscious-
ness of all content. For in his sensitive life man expresses
the life which pervades and gives meaning to all objective

p..

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172

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

existence. To suppose that he can apprehend the nature
of existence irrespective of sensation, is to suppose that
he can apprehend existence: without apprehending it. If
in the sensitive Hfe the objective world as a whole is
implied, to turn away from sensation is to turn away from
the objective world. There is therefore no conscious sub-
ject that can be separated from the sensitive subject.
And this means that no conscious subject is a separate
individual. It is true that by no possibility can con-
sciousno«"'S be identified with sensation. To suppose such
an identification is to overlook what is characteristic of
consciousness. But while consciousness cannot be identified
with sensation, any more than sensation can be identified
with chemical action, it is none the less true that con-
sciousness is possible only on presupposition of sensation.
The individual subject can have no knowledge of objective
existence apart from the changing sensations and impulses
which are characteristic of his animal life. And the life
of feeling, as we have seen, is made possible by the
relations which subsist between the feeling subject and
all other modes of existence. To apprehend the mean-
ing of feeling is therefore to apprehend the meaning of
existence as a whole, i.e., to grasp those various aspects
under which the one object may be viewed. Unless the
conscious subject is capable of such apprehension, he is
incapable of knowing reality as it is. But if his conscious
life were something entirely apart from his sensitive life,
he could know no objective reality. And without such
knowledge he could not apprehend himself. Thus to be
conscious of himself is to be conscious that he is related
to all other modes of existence, and that apart from
such relation he could not exist. But if so, he knows

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173

himself as at once a being who manifests in himself the
life of the whole, and a being who is conscious of the
life of the whole. From the former point of view, he
is a form of the objective world ; in other words, the
consciousne-.i> which presents itself in man is a conscious-
ness that belongs to the very nature of existence. Foi
consciousness is not, as we have seen, .something that
can be separated fron) other modes of reality, nor is it
something that can be reduced to other modes of reality.
None the less, it is possible only because the nature of
existence as a whole makes it possible. If consciousness
were incompatible with the nature of the universe, it could
not be : since it is, it must be regarded as a mode, and
the highest mode in which existence presents itself.

We must therefore revise our view of the nature of
objective existence, and say that it includes not only all
inorganic and organic things, but that it includes as well all
conscious beings. In other words, the consciousness of man
is a form and the highest form in which existence appears.
The individual man can have no consciousness apart from
the one unity which comprehends all existence. But if
existence manifests itself as conscious, we must find in
the conception of it as conscious its true meaning. The
object when properly understood is therefore identical
with the subject. If, in other words, the subject as dis-
tinguished from the object is that which not only is, but
knows itself to be, the object as embracing in its reality
the subjert must now be defined as that which not only
is a systematic unity, but knows itself to be a systematic
unity. Dut--this is the same as saying that the objective
world properly understood is self-conscious intelligence,
or, in ordinary language, is Go^.

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In this short outline of the proof of intellectual idealism,
I have tried to show how, beginning with the first imperfect
definition of the object as that which is in space and
time, we are forced gradually to widen our definition
until we find it embrace all existence. If this proof is at
all sound, it follows that there can be no real separation
between object and subject. The supposed opposition
of subject and object turns out to be simply a distinction
in our point of view. When we are looking at the
manifestations of intelligence; we speak of the object
or world ; when we are thinking of the intelligence which
so manifests itself, we speak of the subject ; but as the
manifestations are those of intelligence, and intelligence
is what it manifests, the di5;tinction is no real separation.
When, therefore, Mr. Spencer tells us that "the distinction
of subject and object" is one "never to be transcended
while consciousness lasts," we answer that, so far from
this being true, the transcendence of the distinction is
necessarily implied in the very nature of consciousness.
It is in the apprehension of the object that man apprehends
himself; in other words, man learns that all existence
is rational, and that he himself is rational, because in his
intelligence there is contained the same principle as is
imphed in all existence.

We can now deal very easily with the objection that
I have supposed to be raised against the idealist view
of existence. It is said that the object must be inde-
pendent of the subject because it exists whether the subject
knows it or not. Certainly, I answer: the individual
subject in coming to the knowledge of the object does
not bring the object into existence. No sane man makes
any such assertion. But this does not show that the

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I'HILOSOl'HV OF MINI).

»75

individual subject could have knowledge, were the object
gencrically different Irom the subject; on the contrary, it
shows that it is by coming to a consciousness of what
the object is he has knowledge at all. And this means,
as we have seen, that the object properly understood
includes the subject, or is intelligence. 'lo grasp the
nature of the world is thus to api)rehend existence as
intelligence, and from the point of view of its intelligible
nature : it is to see that existence is not only i)urposive
but rational.

{b) The second objection to the identity of subject and
object was, that the objective world existed before the
subject existed. U there was existence before conscious
beings came to be, how can it be denied that the objective
world is independent of the subject?

This objection is usually urged by scientific evolutionists,
who maintain that inorganic things preceded organic, and
that living beings without consciousness preceded conscious
beings.

Now (i) the first thing to observe here is, that this
objection rests upon the same individualistic assumption
as the former objection. It is taken for granted that to
deny the dependence of the inorganic world upon this
or that individual subject is to prove its absolute independ-
ence. But we have already seen that there is no purely
individual subject, no conscious being who is conscious
in virtue of something belonging to his own individual
existence ; and hence to say that the inorganic world does
not depend for its existence upon man, regarded as an
individual, by no means proves that the inorganic world
can exist by itself. This latter proposition can only be
established if it is shown that in the whole realm of

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existence there is notiiing tliat cannot be included in the
idea and definition of matter ; in other words, that without
going beyond the conception of existence as extended,
moving, and exhibiting physical and chemical pro()erties,
we can explain not only organized but even conscious
existence. Now, it has already be n pointed out, that
it is impossible to account even for life, and much less
for consciousness, without widening our definition of the
object so as to include the new characteristics peculiar
to life and consciousness; and hence that: the supposition
of the separate existence of the inorganic world is an
untenable hypothesis.

But (2) the objection we are now considering introduces
a new difficulty, drawn from the succession in time of
the various orders of existence. The inorganic first existed,
it is said, and out of it proceeded, by the operation of
ordinary mechanical laws, the forms of existence that we
call organic ; and similarly, the organic existed prior to
conscious existence, and gave rise to it ; hence, ultimately,
all modes of exi;>tence have proceeded from matter. This
is the line of thought by which Tyndall, for example,
tries to show that matter contains in itself " the promise
and potency of all kinds of life."

Now (a) you will observe that, if this argument is pressed
to its consequences, the conclusion must be that conscious-
ness is simply a mode of matter. The prior existence of
matter, it is held, shows that matter was the cause of
life and consciousness. Living beings, who did not yet
exist, could not be the cause of their own existence, and
hence we must attribute their exist'^nce to the only cause
that existed, i.e., to matter. If this argument is sound,
we must hold that consciousness contains in itself nothing

I'Un.OSUPHV OF MIND.

«77

that is not due to matter; in other words, we must hold
that mind and matter are identical in their nature. IJut
if so, we can no longer maintain that the conscious subject
is independent of the object ; we must, on the contrary,
maintain that the only existence is the object, and that
the supposed indei)endence of subject and object, mind
and matter, is a conception which a scientilic view of
the world shows to be false. On Tyndall's own show-
ing, therefore, subject and object are irreducible only in
the sense that they are supposed to be irreducible by
those who have not reached the scientific point of view.
It is true that lie still maintains that we are unable to
conceive of the identification of subject and object; but
this can only consistently mean that we are unable to
get rid of a deeply rooted preconception. We cannot
maintain, both that mind is a jjroduct of matter, and that
mind is independent of matter : the reasoning by which we
establish the former proposition, precludes the possibility
of the latter.

Thus we find that the very argument by which it is
sought to show that the object is independent of the
subject leads to the conclusion that there is no such
independence. The object is indeed independent of the
subject, but only in the sense that there is no subject.
We have not established the separation of mind from
matter, but abolished mind altogether. I shall try to show
that instead of thus reducing mind to matter, we must
hold that matter is a form of mind.

Inorganic existence, it is said, existed prior to life and
consciousness, and therefore life and consciousness are
the product of inorganic existence. The assumption here
is, that consciousness is related to matter as effect to

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I; ' :

cause. Before we can admit the validity of this assump-
tion, we must be certain that the relation between con-
sciousness and matter can be conceived as a relation of
effect and cause. Now, it is easy to show that the
conception of causality here made use of is, at any rate,
not the conception that is employed in scientific inquiries.
When a scientific man asks what is the cause of the
motion of a material body, his aim is to find out the
particular conditions which account for this particular
event, and the answer that he gives consists in stating
those particular conditions. He points out the circum-
stances that have to take place before the particular event
in questio'^ c?,ri happen. In all cases the circumstances
are some form of motion, because in external things
change c^lways takes the form of motion. But when the
particular mode of motion assigned as the cause of a
particular change has been discovered, nothing has been
determined in regard to the nature of existence as a
whole ; all thai has been done is to point out the special
relation between tvvo events. The idea of cause and
effect, in other words, has a perfectly intelligible meaning
when it is employed in explanation of particular events,
but it does not follow that it has an intelligible meaning
when it is employed to explain existence as a whole.
When we pass from the one point of view to the other,
we must ask whether we have not clianged our conception.

Now, if it is said that matter is the cause of life and

consciousness, it is p'ain that by matter cannot here be
meant any particular foim of material existence. There
never is in an effect something essentially different from
what is found in the cause. A material body can be
called a cause only in this sense, that its motion is the

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PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

condition of a motion in another body. The reason for
distinguishing a material body from a living or a con-
scious being is, that while the changes in the former are
all mode of motion, the changes in the latter are not
modes of motion, but modes of life and consciousness.
Now, if a material body, or any number of material
bodies, is called the cause of life and consciousness, it is
assumed that life and consciousness can be explained
simply as modes of motion. If, however, the latter are
modes of motion, there is no production ot life and
consciousness by matter, because tl ;re is no life or
consciousness to be produced. The contradiction, there-
fore, to w^ '''\ the conception of matter as the cause of
life and consciousness leads is this : If life and con-
sciousness are distinct from matter, they cannot be its
effects; and, if they are effects of matter, there is no
distinction between them and matter. The ordinary con-
ception of cause and effect thus breaks down when we
try to explain by it the relation between matter on the
one hand, and life and consciousness on the other. ](
we hold that m.-^tter has a real existence independently
of life and consciousness, we cannot at the same time
hold that it is the cause of these.

Now the lesson to be learned from this is, that the
conception of cause and effect as it is employed in
scientific investigation is not adequate as a conception
of the relation between existence as a whole and its
various modes. We may, if we please, still use the term
"cause" to express the relation, but we must give to it
a new meaning. Let us see what that meaning is.

Prior to the existence of living beings, there existed
inorganic things. Did these inorganic things exist a.s

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separate individuals, or were they only distinguishable
aspects of the one systematic unity? The latter, as
we h.n'e seen, is the true conception. We have there-
fore to conceive of existence prior to the appearance
of life, as one single organic whole. But this organic
whole had manifested itself only as that which passed
through mechanical, physical, and chemical changes.
Now, theise changes were not related to the whole as
effect to cause; they were simply the distinguishable
aspects in which the one universe presented itself. These
aspects can be viewed as related to one another in the
way of cause and effect, but the universe as a whole is
not a cause of which all these aspects are effects ; or,
at least, if we call it a cause, we mean simply that it
is a principle of unity manifesting itself in all change.
So conceived, cause must now be regarded as self-cause.
That is to say, there is nothing outside of the one unity
which explains or accounts for it, since beyond it there
is nothing : the only cause to which "e can assign it
is itself. All forms of existence are therefore explained
by this unity, but the unity itself is not explained by
anything else.

Now, take another step. At a certain period life
makes its appearance. Whence did this life proceed ?
It proceeded, the scientific evolutionist tells us, from in-
organic natur "Were not man's origin implicated,"
says Tyndall "we should accept without a murmur
the derivation of animal life from what we call inorganic
nature." This language suggests that life is the pro-
duct or effect of that which is without life, i.e., that all
the particular living beings which first appeared on the
earth were originated by particular inorganic things. The

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

l8l

radical imperfection of this view has already been pointed
out. JVo individual thing originates anything ; for every
individual is what it is only by reference to the whole
system of the universe. What is implied in the origination
of life is not that inorganic nature produced life, but
that a new form of existence presented itself at a certain
period of time in the history of the earth. But this
life, although it has for the first time presented itself
is not something that has come into being by a power
belonging to inorganic things. And no one would be so
absurd as to say that it originated from itself. Its
origination can be explained only on the supposition
that it was implicit in the nature of existence as a whole.
Outside of the unity that comprehends all possible
existence there is nothing; and therefore life, when
it appears, merely manifests in an explicit form what was
already wrapped up in the one single existence that is
manifested in all modes of existence. But, if this one
all-inclusive unity is now seen to involve within itself
organic as well as inorganic existence, its nature cannot
be comprehended by looking at either apart from the
other. It is neither inorganic nor organic, but both.
Further, organic existence is of this nature that, while it
contains all that is implied in inorganic nature, it also
manifests characteristics that are peculiar to itself.

The true nature of existence must therefore be defined
as organic rather than inorganic; and it is therefore
more correct to say, that organic existence has produced
inorganic, than that inorganic has produced organic. But
both forms of expression are inadequate. For, as no
mode of existence originates any other, what we must
say is, that in organic existence we have a fuller and

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

truer expression of the nature of existence as a whole
than we have in inorganic existence. Having made this
discovery, we can see that in inorganic existence, prior
to the rise of hfe, there was already implied all that
subsequently presented itself in organic existence. Thus
what is posterior in time is prior in nature : the first is
last and the last first.

I think you will now see that there is nothing in the
fact that life has appeared subsequent to non-living things
to show that the former is dependent upon the latter.
Since no form of existence can present itself that lies
outside the one unity of existence, we are compelled to
relate both to that unity, and to find in life, rather than
in matter, the true nature of reality. And, if this is so,
there can be no difficulty in seeing that it is meaningless
to speak of matter as the cause of conscious existence.
To argue that consciousness is due to matter is to fall
into the old mistake of taking the order of time as identical
with the order of nature, and of attributing to individual
things a power of origination that belongs only to the
single principle manifested in all things.

Consciousness appeared later than life. Granted ; but
the conociousness which thus appeared could not arise
either from the particular forms of existence prior to it,
or from itself: its explanation must be found in this,
that existence as a whole contained within itself, prior
to its manifestation as consciousness, all that so mani-
fested itcelf. There can be no absolute origination in
the case of existence as a whole, since outside of that
whole there is no reality and no possibility. What is
shown by the appearance in the world of conscious beings
is not a new existence, but a higher manifestation of

PHILOSOPHY OK MINU.

183

the one existence that ahvays was and is and shall be.
We must therefore say, that inorganic existence, as well
as organic existence, when it is properly understood, is a
phase, though not the highest phase, of the single self-
conscious intelligence in whom and through whom and
by whom are all things. For, since nothing is apart from
the unalterable nature of the one Being that comprehends
all reality, to understand completely the nature of the
simplest form of existence — say, a stone — is to apprehend
it as one of the phases in which the absolute intelligence
is manifested. It is this that makes all pursuit of know-
ledge sacred. In learning the properties of a simple
blade of grass we are partially apprehending the nature
of God.

SCIENTIFIC EVOLUTIONISM AND PHILOSOPHICAL IDEALISM.

These considerations have, I hope, made it plain in
what sense idealism maintains that there is no absolute
separation of subject and object, mind and matter; that,
on the contrary, matter properly understood, is a manifesta-
tion of mind. All existence is a manifestation of one
supreme all-comprehensive self-consciousness. We may
now go on to consider the objection to the identity of
subject and object drawn from the character of the subject.
It is said that mind must be absolutely independent of
matter, because mind is conscious of itself, while matter
is not. The idea of the subject thus seems to be exclusive
of the idea of the object; or, in Mr. Spencer's language,
the distinction is one never to be transcended while con-
sciousness lasts.

This argument manifestly follows a different line of
thought from that which we have just considered. So

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184

COMTE, MILL, AND SPKNCER.

far from maintaining that consciousness must be regarded
as a product of matter, it asserts that by no possibihty
can consciousness be reduced to matter. Matter has no
consciousness of itself, whereas every subject is a subject
just because of self-consciousness. It is therefore inferred
that the conscious subject is independent of the object.

Now, it is peculiar that we find this argument for the
independence and diverse nature of the subject put for-
ward by those who also maintain that life and consciousness
are products of inorganic nature. Spencer, Tyndall, Huxley,
and others, all maintain that by the one line of argument
we are forced to view mind as a mode of matter, and
by the other line of argument we are forced to assert
that mind cannot be a mode of matter. Their solution
of the difficulty is to fall back upon a Power which is
neither mind nor matter, but the nature of this Power,
they maintain, is absolutely inscrutable to the intellect
of man. The self-contradictory character of this solution
we have already seen, and hence we must inquire whether
we are really forced to maintain that the fact of self-
consciousness is inconsistent with the identity of subject
and object.

When we find the same writer holding that mind is
a mode of matter, and that mind is independent of matter,
we may be sure that the *'fonG et origo" of the two
discrepant views is to be found in some false assumption
common to both. The assumption here is, that each
conscious subject, like each material object, is a separate
individual whose nature is not in any way relative to the
nature of other individuals. In other words, existence
is supposed to be made up of a number of mdividuals,
standing opposed to one another as separate and distinct.

I'HILOSdPHV OF .MIND.

Se;

The difference between these individuals is, that some
are conscious and some are unconscious ; but all alike
are what they are in virtue of their own independent
existence. The individuality of conscious beings seems
to be especially manifest. When I am conscious of
myself, I am conscious that I am not to be identified with
any other form of existence. I possess, as it has been
said, a unique existence and an unsharable conscious-
ness, and to deny r.y individuality is to deny that I am
conscious at all. My sensations, my emotions, my thoughts
and volitions are mine, and not those of anybody else.
I inhabit a world of consciousness that is absolutely
impenetrable, and in virtue of this fact 1 am a self-con-
scious subject. My real self is "one and indivisible,"
different selves are "absolutely and for ever exclusive."

Now, in one point of view, this assertion of individuality
deserves the strongest commendation. In maintaining
that all forms of existence are individual, it brings into
prominence an aspect of reality that is lost sight of when
all concrete forms of being are resolved into an inscrutable
and unintelligible Power. And in particular, it emphasizes
the distinction between beings that are self-conscious, and
beings that are not self-conscious, implying that in the
strict sense of the term the only true individual is the
self-conscious subject, which, in all the changes through
which it passes, is aware of itself as identical.

But, while it is an important truth, that individuality
can properly be affirmed only of a being that is self-
conscious, it by no means follows that to be self-conscious
is to be aware of oneself as a separate individual, having
no relation to any other existence. It may easily be
shown that the consciousness of individuality is on this

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COMTR, MILL, AND SPENCER.

'Is

supposition impossible. If wc suppose that in beinj? con-
scious of himself, the subject is conscious of nothing else,
it is manifest that such a being would have no consciousness
even of himself. For all reality would for him be limited
to determinations of himself, and therefore he would never
contrast with these determinations the determinations of
other forms of existence. To be conscious of myself
implies that I am conscious of myself as possessing a
character which distinguishes me from other modes of
being. My individuality is for me the consciousness of
what I feel, know, and will. But if I have no consciousness
of what is felt, known, and willed by others, I must be in-
capable of distinguishing between myself and other selves.
It is therefore only in relation and contrast to other selves
that I become conscious of what I as an individual am.
Assume, therefore, that I am absolutely limited to the
consciousness of my own feelings and thoughts and voli-
tions, and obviously I should be unaware that others have
different feelings, thoughts, and volitions, and therefore
unaware of my own peculiar individuality. The conscious-
ness of self is therefore relative to the consciousness of
other selves.

It may be said, however, that while I am no doubt
conscious of other selves as having feelings, thoughts,
and volitions, yet I am capable of distinguishing these
from the feelings, thoughts, and volitions which are
peculiarly my own, and that the consciousness of what is
mine constitutes my peculiar individuality. And this is
true ; what I feel, think, and will belongs to me in a
sense that nothing else does ; it is mine because it
implies a peculiar self-activity on my part. It is the dis-
tinguishing characteristic of self-conscious beings that they

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

1«J

are self-determined. But self-determination is not the
same thing as the determination of an exclusive and
separate self that has no relation to anything else. This
may be shown by a consideration of the two main forms
in which self-determination is exhibited, viz., knowledge
and action.

(i) Ktwwkd^e. — To know is to have the consciousness
of what really exists. But if we suppose that in our
knowledge we arc conscious only of our own states, we
shall have no consciousness of any reality. Knowledge
therefore implies that we can separate between what
seems and what is. If in any case we apprehend what
is, we do so in virtue of our own self-activity ; but what
we apprehend is not an arbitrary product of our activity,
but what belongs to the actual nature of reality. To
know is thus to exercise conscious activity in the appre-
hension of that which has an existence and nature not
determined by the activity. In so far as the activity of
self-consciousness is exercised in setting aside what is
accidental and illusory, we have knowledge. As far as
we have knowledge we have transcended our mere indi-
viduality and identified ourselves with the universal.
Thus we have realized by our seii-actij.\ty that which is
objective. True self-activity consiiits in ic^sntification with
the object; and true individuality consists in the con-
sciousness that our true self is to be found in such
identification. Now, if our knowledge were absolutely
complete, we should be absolutely identified with the
object. Such absolute identification would not be the
destruction of our self-activity, but its perfect realization.
We therefore see that absolute individuality would mean
the absolute transcendence of the opposition of subject

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i i

and object. In man, however, tliis perfect individuality
is never attained, but remains for Iiim an ideal which, by
his self-activity, he is perpetually seeking to realize. If
he had no self-activity, he would never get beyond the
first opposition of subject and object ; if he had complete
self-activity, he would absolutely transcend the opposition.
In knowledge he is therefore continually abolishing the
distinction between subject and object, but it is a dis
tinction which for him is abolished only in idea. Yet in
a sense the opposition is already abolished. For, if he
had no consciousness of the ultimate unity of subject and
object, he would have no consciousness that in his actual
knowledge he falls short of his ideal. It is for this
reason that a man is aware of himself as having a
peculiar individuality which distinguishes him from other
men and from (iod. But this consciousness of his own
individuality would be impossible were he not conscious
of being beyond it in idea. It is by reference to the
standard of complete knowledge as realized in God that
a man is conscious of the incompleteness of his own
knowledge : it is by reference to the same infinite
standard that he pronounces the knowledge of others to
be more or less complete than his own. But in all cases
the consciousness of one's knowledge, and the conscious-
ness of the limited extent of one's knowledge, involves
the consciousness, actual or ideal, of the unity of self and
not-self. So far is it from being true, that to be con-
scious of self is to be conscious of an exclusive self, that
the consciousness of self is impossible except as the
consciousness of a self tliat is identical with not-self.

(2) Action. — The same thing may be seen in the case
of action. To act morally is to determine oneself in

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PHILOSOPHY Ol' MINI).

l8(;

ase
in

accordance with the true nature of existence. If I seek
my good in what presents itself as good only to me as
a separate individual, I shall not realize my true indi-
viduality. For, unless I seek my good in what is good
absolutely, I shall abandon myself to caprice or to self-
will. It is only by willing what is good, absolutely or
universally, that I can realize what my true nature fits
me to realize. In other words, my self-activity must be
determined by the idea of a universal moral law, or it is
not a realization of my individuality, because it is con-
trary to the true nature of the self. Every moral law is
a statement of one of the ways in which the subject may
realize what in his ideal nature he is. The consciousness
of a moral law is therefore the consciousness of one of
the modes in which the subject by his self-activity may
identify himself with the object. For the ideal self is
capable of being realized only as a self existing in a
world that in its ultimate naiure is consistent with such
realization. If the universe were so constituted that it
was inconsistent with the realization of what, in his idea,
man is, there would be an absolute antagonism between
the self-conscious subject and the object. But such an
antagonism is disproved by the fact that in the con-
sciousness of the ideal self we already have the promise
of the identity of the subject and the object. All moral
progress rests upon this idea — upon the idea of an
absolute good, which realizes the self because the world
exhibits in it a divine purpose. Morality, in other words,
is possible at all only if the world is the expression of
the divine mind. It is therefore in contrast to the peiv^'ct
unity of subject and object as conceived to be realized
by God, that we become conscious of our own moral

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COMTK, MUX, ANIJ SPENCER.

limitations. In the case of man there always is an
opposition between the actual self and the ideal, because
man's life is never completely moralized ; but even the
consciousness of his moral imperfection would be im-
possible were he not conscious of an ideal moral per-
fection, and conscious of it as the true nature of the
world. Thus, in the |)ractical as in the theoretical
consciousness of man, there is implied identification of
subject and object.

From what has been said you will see that in asserting
the identity of subject and object we do not maintain
that there is no distinction between beings that are self-
conscious and beings that are not self-conscious. What
we maintain is, that, as every phase of the world must
ultimately be viewed as a manifestation of one self-
conscious intelligence, so the true life of man consists in
coming to the consciousness of this intelligence and in

* identifying himself with it. True individuality is self-
activity in identifying oneself with the object ; and just

j in so far as a man fails in this he fails in knowledge and
in morality.

MR. spencer's psychology.

I have dealt thus fully with Mr. Spencer's first pro-
position, because it lies at the basis of his whole system.
It will not be necessary to consider the other four pro-
positions which he maintains, but a few words may be
devoted to his second proposition, that the object is for us
a complex of feelings, and the subject a complex of move-
ments. Let us take each of these assertions by itself.

(a) The object is conceivable only as a complex of
feelings. My perception of any object is not an appre-

I'MILOSOI'MV nV MINI).

191

iro-
be
us

)ve-

hcnsion of the ol)jcrt in itself, but only of the imi)ressions
which it produces in me. These come in .m order of
succession, and therefore the perception of coexistent
objects is in reality only the consciousness of a reversible
order in my impressions as distinguished fr )m an irre-
versible order.

Now, Mr. Spencer here fails to distinL,aiish between a
mere series of feelings and a conceived order of objective
reality. He assumes that the occurrence of feelings is the
same as the consciousness of their occurrence. Hut it is
easy to show that if the object were reducible to the
mere occurrence of feelings, there would be no con-
sciousness of their occurrence, and therefore no conscious-
ness of an orderly system of things. To be conscious of
feelings as related in time is to be beyond mere feelings.
This becomes at once evident if we suppose our con-
sciousness reduced simply to the occurrence of fee'uigs.
Take, tw., the occurrence of a number of feelings of
sound. (1) If there is in the consciousness of such
feelings nothing but the feelings themselves, each feeling
of sound will exist only so long as it is felt. lUit the
consciousness of a series of feelings cannot he derived
from a number of distinct feelings. To have the con-
sciousness of a series there must be the consciousness of
the one as distinguishable from the other. To simplify
the matter, let us suppose that in their content all the
feelings are the same. But manifestly we cannot be
conscious of feelings as different, unless we are conscious
of them as not absolutely identical. In the present case
the difference is purely one of tim ; if, therefore, we
distinguish the one from the other, we must do so on
the ground that one precedes and the other follows.

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Nov, this distinction of before and after is a distinction
of relatio7i^ and therefore it involves the consciousness of
a relation — the relation of time — between one feeling and
another. This ca])acity of relating one leeling to another
cannot be attributed to the feelings themselves, but
invoba^s the capacity of grasping time as a unity of dis-
tinguishable moments. That is to say, in the conscious-
ness of a series of feelings thought is involved. ' It is
for this reason that I become conscious of all feelings as
related to one another in the way of time. And time, as
the universal form in which all feelings are related, is
not a variable element in my experience ; it is a fixed
or unf'ferable relation. Here, then, we have one of the
simplest forms in which the consciousness of objectivity
presents itself. In being conscious of all feelings as
related in the way of time, I have apprehended a universal
and necessary relation ; and a universal and necessary
relation is what we mean by objectivity.

You will thus see that it is quite untrue to say that
the object is for us a complex of feelings. No number of
feelings could ever give us the consciousness of time, and
therefore the consciousness of feelings as following in a
fixed order in time. The object is not a collection of
feelings, but the consciousness of a systematic unity which
determines feelings to a fixed order. To be conscious
of an object at all, we must have the conception of time
as an absolute unity. Hence the conscious subject in
the apprehension of his various feelings as successive has
already got beyond a series of subjective states, and has
grasped these under the objective form of time.

{b) The subject, Mr. Spencer says, is conceivable only
as a complex of movements. If the mind experiences a

It'

PHILOSOPHY OF MIND.

'93

)nly
js a

feeling, this feeling can only be conceived after the manner
of a movement in the bodily organism. Thus we are forced
to represent the relation of our feelings to one another in
terms of the action of one material particle on another.
Mr. Spencer indeed denies that this is an adequate view
of the nature of mind, but he says it is the only view that
makes the fact intelligible to us. Changes of feeling are
really different in kind from material movements, but yet
we must symbolize the changes of feeling as movements.
Now, the difficulty Mr. Spencer has in apprehending
the nature of mind is not due to any limitation of our
knowledge, but to a false view of the nature of mind.
Any attempt to comprehend the nature of consciousness
by conceiving of it as made up of separate units of feeling
is certain to lead us to suppose that wq cannot comprehend
mind as it truly is. and have theiefore to represent it
as it is not. For consciou.sness is not an assemblage
of separate feelings. To suppose it is, leads, as we
have seen, to the denial of all consciousness. The dis-
tinguishing characterisdc of consciousness is, that in all
its changing phases it remains identical with itself; what
it distinguishes from itself is always a particular aspect of
reality, but all aspects of reality are in relation to the
one indivisible self. To speak, therefore, of feelings in
terms of nerve-movements is virtually to abolish the dis-
tinction between a feeling and a nerve-movement. Now,
a feeling as it exists for consciousness is always a particu-
lar phase of reality as related by thought to otl'.cr phases
of reality. Apart from consciousness, the feeling has no
existence as a known object; as a known object, it implies
the universalizing activity of the one identical subject. But,
if prior to the consciousness of the feeling there is no

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

knoA^n feeling, to speak of a nerve-movement as if it could
explain feeling is to assume that a peculiar form of reality
can be explained without any reference to that without
which it could not exist at all. Consciousness cannot be
expressed in terms of motion, because, without supposing
consciousness iO be distinct from motion, there could be
no consciousness at all. .

In the last two chapters the general character of the
moral consciousness of man has been incidentally charac-
terized, but it is necessary to consider more carefully the
problems which arise in connection with that conscious-
ness. The discussion of these problems constitutes Muval
as distinguished from Mental Philosophy.

CHAPTER IX.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

IDEA OF DUTY.

In our ordinary moral consciousness we distinguish be-
tween vvhat is and what oug/a to be, just as in our ordinary
theoretical consciousness we distinguish between what
seems and what is. We are continually passing upon our-
selves or others such judgments as "This ought to be
done," - That ought not to be done." In making such
judgments we assume that there is right and wrong con-
duct, and that action, whether right or wrong, is to be
attributed to an agent. In other words, we find in our
ordinary consciousness two correlative ideas,— the idea of
Duty or moral obligation, and the idea of Freedom or self-
activity. These two ideas lie at the basis of all our moral
conceptions, and with them Ethics, as the science of
conduct, has mainly to deal We shall deal first with the
idea of duty.

In the first place, the idea of duty implies an opposition '
between an ideal ox intelligible world and the actual world.
This ideal world is conceived as that form of existence
which a man is to reali;:e, as distinguished from the form

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

of existence that he has realized. In idea man is a mem-
ber of the intelligible world, and if he were complete man,
he would no longer find any discrepancy between what
he ought to be and what he is. But primarily the in-
telligible world is not an achievement but a prophecy, not
something that man is but something he ought to be.
And this is true whether we look at the individual man
or at the race. The individual man has an idea of him-
self as realizing what he ought to realize, but it presents
itself to him as an ideal, because he has not realized it.
It is in contrast to this ideal of himself that he becomes
conscious of the imperfection of his actual self. If he
had no idea of himself as a being that ought to live the
ideal life, he would not be aware that 'in all things he
offends and comes short of the glory of God." The same
thing is true of the race. The moral progress of humanity
is made possible by an ideal of humanity as it ought to
be but is not. There always is m all the strivings of
man an ideal man which is set up as the true man, and
this ideal is conceived as the real that ought to be, though
not the real that is. We can therefore understand why
Plato maintained that the ideal is the real. The ideal is
the real, not because it is the actual, but because it is
what ought to be actual. Man recognizes that his true
self is the ideal or moral self, not the self that at any
time actually is.

Hence, secondly, the idea of duty implies an opposition
between a law of reason and a law of natural inclination.
The law of reason is recognized as that which expresses
the true end or destiny of man, the man as he ought to
be ; the law of inclination as that which expresses what
man, in so far as he fails to realize the ideal end, actually

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

«97

is. There is in man an opposition between his desire
for the realization of the ideal self, and his desire for the
gratification of the lower self, an opposition between the
life of spirit and the life of nature.

Now, it is of supreme importance to apprehend the true
relation of the ideal and the actual self, the life of spirit
.md the life of nature ; for upon this apprehension mainly
depends the character of our ethical theory.

The first view of the relation of the natural and the
spiritual self which we are inclined to take is that they
are absolutt opposite^. I find within me, it may be said,
certain natural impulses, and these incite me to live a
life that is in all respects opposed to the life of reason.
It is only by rising entirely above my impulses and acting
purely from the law of reason that I can be moral.

Now, this view manifestly implies that it is possible, on
the one hand, to act purely from natural impulse, and, on
the other hand, to act purely from reason. But before
we can accept such an absolute opposition of Desire and
Reason, we must be sure that the opposition exists. Is
it then true that man ever iocs, or ever can, act from
mere impulse as distinguished from reason ?

What has led to the view that man may act purely
from immediate impulse ? It seems to be established by
the actual facts of human life. Each of us seems to be
an individual object among other objects, possessing by
nature certain immediate desires which are brought into
play by the stimulation of exfrjrnal things. Thus the
immediate appetites of hunger and thirst seem to belong
to our animal nature, and tj present themselves in our
consciousness whether we will or no. These appetites
take the form of the feeling of a want, and this ."v-eling

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CO.MTF, MILL, AND SPENCEK.

leads to the impulse to satisfy the want. We find that
they can be satisfied by cer* in acts — the acts of eating
and drinking, and, impelled by our natural craving, we
perform the acts required. Here, it is said, is an impulse
with which nature has endowed us, giving rise to an
action. It is not reason that supplies the motive to the
action, but an impulse of nature. Our reason may show us
the means by which the natural want may be satisfied —
it may tell us that hunger can be satisfied only by food,
and thirst by drink — but it cannot supply the impulse to
act, the motive or active power that produces the action.
Nor is it different, it may be said, in the case of the
desires that we are accustomed to call higher. Thus man
has a benevolent impulse, an impulse to do actions that
bring pleasure to others. But, like the appetites of hunger
and thirst, that impulse springs up in him because he is
by nature endowed with a susceptibility which makes
him shrink from pain, and causes him to act so as to
prevent others from feeling it. To this the Darwinian
would add, that the benevolent impulse has come to man
by inheritance from his animal progenitors, and is there-
fore as purely natural as the appetite of hunger or of
thirst Let the benevolent impulse be in a man stronger
than the selfish impulse, and he will inevitably perform
benevolent acts.

Now, plausible as this view of natural desire is, I think it
may be shown to rest upon an imperfect apprehension of
the nature of desire as it exists in man. It is supposed
that man knows himself simply as an individual object,
possessing like other individual objects certain properties
which are revealed /// his consciousness, but which are in
no way determined as to their nature Ify his consciousness.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

199

Just as a material thing possesses the tendency to gravitate
towards other material things, so man possesses by nature
such tendencies to action as hunger, thirst, and benevolence.
Accordingly, it is supposed that his consciousness of him-
self is simply the consciousness that he exists, and is de-
termined now by one impulse, now by another. The
immediate impulse is in no way affected by man's con-
sciousness of it, for his consciousness only tells him that he
is and must be affected by the impulse :

" O who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus," '

Thus the consciousness of self seems to be merely the
apprehension of a sensitive content, that leaves the content
unchanged. From this point of view, the only difference
between a merely sensitive and a conscious subject is that
the former possesses a certain impulse without being aware
of possessing it, while the latter not only has the impulse
but knows that he has it. The presence of consciousness,
however, seems to leave the impulse just what it was before.
If a magnet were to become conscious of its tendency to
turn towards the pole, it would be in an analogous con-
dition to a self-conscious being that has become aware of
itself as having natural impulses.

Now this account of the consciousness of self leaves out
all that is characteristic of it. We are to suppose that the
subject can be conscious of being in a particular state of
desire, without being conscious of anything else ; in other
words, that the self-conscious subject is aware of himself only
in the individual states which in succession occur to him.
We must further suppose that the subject can be conscious

"^ Richard II. i. 3. *■ ^

200

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

of himself as particular without being conscious of himself
as universal. But neither of these assumptions can be ad-
mitted to be true, (a) If my consciousness of myself as in
a particular state of desire — say, desire for food — were the
consciousness only of th's desire, 1 should not be able to
think of myself as capable of many desires. Tied down to
each desire as it arose, I should be continually varying in
my desires as from time to time they arose in me, but J
should not be aware of this variable character of myself.
To be aware of hunger as a desire to which I am subject,
1 must therefore be able to compare it with the other
desires of which I am susceptible. But this means that I
am conscious of myself as a being in whom a conflict of
desires may take place. For instance, the desire for food
may come into conflict with the desire for knowledge. The
consciousness of desire thus implies that the subject appears
to himself as an object capable of experiencing various
desires which may or may not be harmonious with one
another, {b) This consciousness leads to another form of
consciousness. I cannot be conscious of myself as capable
of having a variety of desires, without conceiving of myself
as not identical with any one of them, or even with the
whole of them taken together. Thus arises the conscious-
ness of self as a subject that is opposed to the self as an
object with its varying desires. The very consciousness
of self as an object lifts the self above its mere objectivity.
Hence arises the opposition between myself as a being
striving after complete satisfaction and myself as a being
experiencing from time to time the satisfaction of particular
desires, but never completely satisfied.

Self-consciousness thus involves a primary opposition
between an ideal self and an actual self. But this oppo-

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

aei

sition is not absolute. When I Iiave become aware that
I have many desires, all of which seek for satisfaction, my
action is not determined by any desire as such. I set
before my consciousness the idea of myself as seeking
satisfaction in different desires, and 1 select among them
that which seems to have *he strongest claim to satisfaction
under given conditions. It is not the desire that deter-
mines my choice, but / who compare the various desires
with one another. Having made my choice 1 rt'/// to
follow th'" line of action calculated, or apparently calculated,
to secure the end in view. Thus the self-conscious subject
is not the passive subject of this or that desire, but he
determines himself to follow the object to which a particular
desire points.

But there is more than this. If I seek for satisfaction
in willing the object of a particular desire, I am seeking
for satisfaction in that which cannot possibly yield it.
For my consciousness of myself is the consciousness of
a self that strives after infinite satisfaction. I desire
satisfaction not for this side of my nature or for that —
not for the present moment only but for all time — and
no particular satisfaction can possibly yield complete
satisfaction. " Man's unhappiness," says Carlyle,^ " comes
of his Greatness ; it is because there is an Infinite in
him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury
under the Finite. Will the whole Finance Ministers and
Upholsterers and Confectioners of modern Europe under-
take in joint-stock company, to make one Shoeblack
happy? They cannot accomplish it, above an hour or
two ', for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other than
his Stomach ; and would require, if you consider it, for

' Sartor Resarttia, p. 131.

202

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

his permanent satisfaction and saturation, simj)!)' this
allotment, no more, and no less: (Jod's infinite Universe
altogether to himself, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill
every wish as fast as it rose." Thus arises a division in
consciousness between the particular and the universal
self. On the one hand, I can realize myself only in
willing some particular object ; on the other hand, in
willing a particular object I have not gained the satisfac-
tion at which I aimed. Here then is the origin of the

1 war of flesh and spirit, the actual and the ideal self.
Our self-conscious life seems to be in irreconcilable
antagonism with itself Observe, however, that the antag-
onism is now seen to be, not between natural desire
impelling us to actions that lie outside of our own will,
anr'. reason as setting up an ideal beyond all desire; but
it is between that form of self determination which seeks
to realize the self in willing a particular object, and that
form of self-determination which seeks to realize the self
completely. It is a conflict of the subject with himself,
not a conflict between external force and will.

Yet the conflict seems to remain. Is there no way of
reconciling it? There is one method which has com-

> mended itself to many moralists, the method of Asceticism.
The only way, it is held, in which man can attain the
end of his being is by refusing to be influenced in the
smallest degree by his desires, i.e., by the satisfactions
which seem to be held out to him by willing one side of '
his nature. For the true nature of man is reason, and
reason demands the complete liberation of man from all 7
the passions that enslave him. Thus it was held by the
ancient Stoics, as it has been held in modern times
by Kant, that morality consists in acting purely from

MORAL I'llII-OSOPHV.

20-

the law of reason, as distinguished from the hiw of
desire.

This law of reason seemed to the Stoics to be in
complete antagonism to the law of desire. Hence they
maintained that we can only live the true life of man by
being absolutely indifferent to the solicitations of desire ;
we must "dwell with ourselves," ' and treat all the imagined
satisfactions of the |)articular desires as inconsistent with
"our being's end and aim." The passions are "unnatural,"
for man's real nature is not i)assion but reason. " Follow
nature" therefore means, "follow reason." The man who
is moved by the desire for wealth is a slave ; he becomes
free by learning to despise wealth. To be ambitious is
to yield to a desire which never can bring satisfaction, but
which, on thj contrary, must lead to all sorts of dissatis-
faction and even to despair ; the wise man holds himself
aloof from all the ambitions of ordinary men. The end
of life is to reach the state of self-harmony, or complete
indifference (ura/ia^ta) to the claims of the particular self.
Passion as foreign to the true self must be destroyed ; we
must as rational beings devote ourselves to the task of
expelling this unwelcome guest. Hence morality consists
in the negation of passion. The asceticism of the Stoics
thus results from their conception of the particulr./ desires
as essentially irrational. Accordingly, the morality they
teach is purely negative in its character. They tell us,
indeed, that we are to live the life of reason ; but when
we ask wherein the life of reason consists, the answer we
get is, that it consists in the annihilation in ourselves of
the power over us of all the desires.

What is the value of this conception of morality?
^ Tecum habita ct noris, qnavi sit tihi ctirta supellcx. — Persius.

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(n) Its main value lies in this, that man in his ideal
or perfect nature is something more and higher than the
particular forms in which he seeks to realize himself.
If I try to realize myself completely in devoting myself
to the pursuit of wealth, or honour, or knovv^ledge, I am
treating myself as if my whole nature were capable of
being expressed in each of these desires. Nay, if 1 try
to find satisfaction in the realization of all my particular
desires, I equally assume that I can be identified with
these, and that if I can only obtain wealth and honour
and knowledge I shall have reached complete self-
saticfaction. In neither of these ways can the satisfaction
that is sought be attained. Suppose that I succeed in
satisfying my desire for wealth, I become conscious that
I have left unsatisfied my natural desire for honour and
knowledge; if I were to obtain the satisfaction of the
desire for honour or knowledge, I should leave unsatisfied
the desire for wealth. The truth, however, is, that no
desire ever can be completely satisfied. The man who
seeks to obtain wealth as the means of self-satisfaction
never reaches a poi.it wh':^e he can say: Now I have
obtained all the wealth that I can possibly desire. For
the desire has no limit in itself, and therefore no limited
object can satisfy it.

To suppose, therefore, that any one who makes the
satisfaction of all his desires his object can ever attain
the satisfaction he seeks, is to suppose that the desire for
the infinite can be fed by the finite. The Stoics were
therefore right in maintaining that the true end of life
cannot be realized by making the objects of particular
desires the object aimed at. He who takes the particular
as the end will learn by the stern logic of experience

MORA!- PHILOSOPHY.

205

that he has been seeking to allay his hunger for the
infinite i)y feeding himself on the husks of the finite. It
was therefore natural for the Stoics to say : ( live up the
effort to find satisfaction in the finite, and learn to be
indifferent to the allurements of the passions : if you
learn the lesson of indifference to the .ascinations of
desire, you will no longer he the slave of the passions,
but the free man of reason.

But {b) the difficulty immediately presents itself, that if
man must in no case bo influenced by the desire for
some special form of self-satisfaction, all motive to action
seems to be taken away. Reason sets before me the
idea of myself as completely satisfied, and this complete
satisfaction is not to be found by seeking to secure any
definite object. I am not to be actuated by the love of
wealth, or honour, or knowledge. In the absence of such
motives, how am I to act? Every action must take the
form of a volition to realize some particular object.
There is no perfectly general action : all action is par-
ticular. If I exclude all particular forms of action,
nothing remains but the general capacity of acting, and
so long as there is nothing but the capacity, there is no
realization of the self. Thus the idea of the perfect self
remains a mere idea : something that ought to be realized,
but which never is realized. Man's actual self and his
ideal self remain for ever apart. His duty is to realize
the ideal self, but the idea of duty remains a mere idea,
because there is no particular line of action that can be
followed which does not re-introduce the conception of
a particular object to b'^ attained, and so destroy the
determination by the abstract idea.

How, then, are we to get beyond the abstract idea of

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It [ 1

duty to the consciousness of particular duties ? Obviously,
only if the idea of self as infinite or perfect is not in
irreconcilable antagonism to the idea of self as finite
or particular. We niust be prepared to show, in other
words, that the law of reason is not the abstract opposite
of the law of desire, but is in some sense the same
law.

Now, observe that the reconciliation of desire and
reason cannot be made by saying that the " natural law "
of desire must be extended to the " spiritual world." So
long as the natural desires are conceived as desires for a
particular form of self-satisfaction, so long they must be
opposed to the idea of complete self-satisfaction. But
the desires are in reality not merely desires for particular
satisfactions. To the individual they may seem so,
because he has not become aware of what their true
m.eaning is. The man who seeks his satisfaction in the
attainment of wealth may have no clear consciousness
that the real motive of his action is not the attainment
of wealth, but the attainment of self-satisfaction by means
of the attainment of wealth. This is implied in the very
nature of desire. Why does a man seek wealth ? If he
supposed that in attaining it he would only bring to
himself dissatisfaction, would he not, instead of seeking
it, shun it by all means in his power? .He desires wealth
because he conceives of it as the means of securing many
forms of satisfaction — food, shelter, comfort, luxuries,
social consideration. The real motive which is operative
in the search for wealth is the desire for permanent self-
satisfaction. Why, then, is self-satisfaction not found in
this way ? It is not found because the man has identified
his ultimate good with that which is not his ultimate

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

207

good. He has sought for the satisfaction of his ideal
self in a self that falls short of the ideal. The opposition
which is felt in the contrast of desire and attainment is
just the inan coming to the consciousness of the dis-
crt?pancy between the ideal as it has actually presented
itself to him in his search for wealth, and a higher ideal
that was not explicitly before his consciousness. He
supposed that he was actuated smip)y by the desire for
satisfaction by means of wealth, when in reality he was
blindly seeking for the complete satisfaction of his nature.
When he becomes aware of the disharmony between the
self-satisfaction he has been seeking and the self-satisfaction
that is still unrealized, he comes to the consciousness that
there is a higher than his actual self : that the self he
has been seeking to realize is not his true self. Thus
he awakens to the consciousness of what he ought to be
as distinguished from what he /V, and he opposes the law
of duty to the law of inclination.

Now, it is at this point that there is danger of mis-
interpreting the meaning of this higher consciousness. In
the first consciousness of a higher life, a man is apt to
say to himself : " I have been all wrong in seeking my
good in such objects as wealth, or honour, or knowledge ;
henceforth I will give up the search for satisfaction in
these, and live only for my higher self." This is a move-
ment of the human spirit of which we are continually
seeing examples, though it is seldom that we see it in its
purity. A man who has passed the greater part of his
life in the acquisition of wealth comes to the conscious-
ness of a higher law, and, looking back upon his past life,
he condemns it as unspiritual. "The pursuit of wealth," he
says to himself, " is unworthy of man, and is antagonistic

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n'f.

i '

with my true nature. Henceforth I will lead a higher
life." But, as a rule, he does not interpret this thought
into action, and surrender the wealth he has acquired ;
at the most, he contents himself with giving away a part
of it, reserving the largest part for himself. Sometimes
we find examples of a much bolder practical idealism.
Thus, in the middle ages, we find men like St. Francis, who
carry out to its logical issue the principle of renunciation.
"All the desires," they say, "are essentially unspiritual,
and must be crucified." Hence they devote themselves to
a life of poverty, celibacy, and obedience, renouncing for
ever all those objects of satisfaction to which men
ordinarily devote themselves. In such men we have in
its purest form the realization of the negative conception
of duty.

Can we accept this ideal of life as the highest ? Is

' renunciation the last word of morality? If we consider
more particularly the relations of desire and reason, duty
and inclination, we shall be forced, I think, to hold that
the path of renunciation is not the path that leads to the
highest spiritual life.

In all his desires, as we have seen, man is unconsciously
striving after complete self-realization or self-satisfaction.
So long as he seeks for ceif-satisfaction in a particular
object, he is laying up for himself inevitable disappoint-
ment. But it does not follow that he is therefore to
seek for self-satisfaction in separating himself from all
particular interests. To act on this principle is to assume
that these interests are necessarily antagonistic to the
higher niterests of man ; it is, in other words, to assume

' that desire and reason are mutually antagonistic. Now,
if we examine carefully any of the special desires, we

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

209

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shall find that they are not the opposite of reason, but
simply reason in the form of unreason.

Desire in its most immediate form appears as appetite,
the desire for the satisfaction of the wants of our animal
nature. It must, however, be observed that the appetites
are not simply animal impulses. If they were merely
animal impulses, they would not enter into our conscious
life. When I become conscious of an appetite, I become
conscious of myself as a being who is capable of seeking
for the satisfaction of myself so far as this particular desire
"is concerned. AVhat I have before my consciorsness is
the idea of myself as capable of receiving satisfaction
by means of a certain act, the act of eating or drinking.
Such desires may take the direct form of a desire for
food or drink, or they may take the more complicated
form of a desire for the satisfaction of my immediate
appetite, together with a repetition of the pleasure that
I have experienced in that satisfaction. It is this last
form of desire that gives rise to the artificial stimulation
of appetite and the various means by which the gratifica-
tion may be increased. Having once felt the satisfaction
attendant upon the gratification of such wants, I am
capable of imagining myself as enjoying it even when
the animal appetite is not actually felt.

Now, moralists of the ascetic type have no hesitation
in rejecting the second form of appetite. Plato, for example,
will have no Sicilian cookery in his ideal state: h'3 guardians
must live on plain food and discard all dainties of the
palate. But mos'i ascetic moralists go still further. Not
only must there be no artificial stimulation of the
appetites, but even the gratification of the natural de-
sires must be negated as far as possible. The wise man

210

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

1 1

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1 1
1^

of the Stoics was indifferent to the satisfaction of his
appetites.

Asceticism, however, is not perfectly consistent with
itself. Its principle is that the natural desires should
be negated because they are inconsistent with the ideal
self of reason. Now, the only way in which a living
being can completely get rid of the particular desires
which we call the appetites, is by ceasing to live. So
long as by eating a man continues to exist, he must be
subject to the desire for food, and therefore reason can
never absolutely subdue appetite to itself. The negative'
method of asceticism therefore leads to a i)ractical con-
tradiction. The struggle between reason and desire is an
ever-renewed fight in which desire must always triumph,
because it is bound up with the very existence of the
rational subject. Only by one absolute act of self-renuncia-
tion, the renunciation of life itself, could the ascetic put
an end to the conflict. Now, this self-contradiction in
the ascetic conception of morality suggests the question,
whether there is any necessary antagonism between appetite
and reason.

It will be found, on reflection, that the assumed
opposition is not really between appetite and reason, but
between a self that treats appetite .s an absolute end
and a self that treats it only as a means. Plato had a
glimpse of this when he held that his guardians should
eat only the plainest food ; for he did so mainly because
he believed that luxurious living is hostile to the high
thinking and self-abnegation required in a leader of the
people. That is to say, Plato virtually condemns as
irrational, not appetite as such, but appetite which assumes
an importance inconsistent with the complete develop-

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

21 I

ment of the man. x\ow, when we look at the matter
from this point of view, we see that the opposition
supposed by the ascetic to obtain between appetite and
reason, really obtains between a higher and lower con-
ception of the self. If a man is prepared to sacrifice
higher interests to the gratification of his appetites, he
acts irrationally, because he substitutes a particular end
for a universal. But the immorality of his action does
not arise from the fact that he has willed the particular
end, but because he has willed it as if it were universal.
To realize himself at all, he must will the object indicated
by his natural desires ; but the difference between willing
the object for itself and willing it for a higher end is
spiritually an infinite difference. In the one case he
practically affirms that this particular end— this limited
self— is universal; in the other case, that this particular
end is particular. Or, as we may also put it, in the
former case he particularizes the universal; in the latter
case, he universalizes the particular. Now, in this uni-
versalizing of the particular morality consists. The path
to the higher spiritual life cannot be found by negating
desire, but by transforming it. Duty does not consist in
. the destruction of natural inclination, but in subordinating
It to the realization of the complete nature of the self.
The negative method does not enable the individual to
triumph over his appetites, but raises appetite to a bad
preeminence. St. Anthony, fasting until he is haunted
by spectres of the imagination, gives to appetite an
importance that it would not otherwise possess. When,
on the other hand, it is recognized that the appetites are
means of realizing higher ends, it is seen that their satis-
faction is not merely permissible but a duty. It is a

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212

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

duty to maintain life, and to maintain it in its highest
perfection, because the maintenance of Hfe is essential to
the development of the higher self. It is quite true that
even the sacrifice of life may be a duty. But it is never
a duty unless its maintenance comes into conflict with a
higher duty, as when a man betrays his country to save
his own life. The same principle which in the one case
makes it a duty to maintain life, in the othet makes it
a duty to sacrifice life : the principle that only in the
realization of the ideal self can man realize his real
self.

We see, then, that duty may be defined as the realiz-
ation of the universal through the particular ; or, in other
words, the identification of the actual self with the ideal
self by a particular determination of it. All false theories
neglect one of these aspects. Hedonism neglects the
universal or the ideal self. Asceticism neglects the par-
ticular or the actual self. The former says that duty is
simply determinat-on by the particular, i.e., by immediate
desire; the latter affirms that duty is direct identification
with the universal. The one does not explain the con-
ception of duty at all, since a self that is determined by
particular desires has no conception of duty ; the other
allows for the conception of duty, but does not explain
how it can be realized. The truth therefore is, that duty
is at once the willing of the universal or law, and the
willing of the particular. My duty is to realize my ideal
self, but my ideal self is the actual self as willing a par-
ticular object which I identify with the law. Thus the
law [^cts 1 definite content, without ceasing to be a
law. - - -

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

Kant's view of dutv.

These somewhat abstract statements will be better
understood if we consider the ethical theory of Kant.
For in Kant we find the two sides of morality— the
particular and the universal -clearly brought out, although
they are not perfectly reconciled.

What is meant by duty? asks Kant. To do one's duty
is to act independently of any natural inclination for or
against the course pursued. We do not say that a man of
abundant vital energy acts from a sense of duty when he
does from inclination those things that tend to maintain
his own life. It is a duty to maintain one's life, but it
is not done as a duty when it is maintained because the
agent has a natural pleasure in maintaining it. Self-pre-
servation is made a duty only if I maintain my life
because I ought to do it, not because I desire to do it.

Kant maintains, then, that duty implies two things :
(i) an absolute law or standard ©faction; (2) self-deter-
mination by this absolute law. In other words, the law
and the law alone must be the motive of action. An
action is moral quite independently of whether the
object aimed at is secured or not. The man who pro-
longs his life because he loves it, attains the same object
ao the man who prolongs his life because it is his duty
to do so. On the other hand, there are many men who
are actuated by a strong sense of their duty to their
fellows, whose benevolent efforts alwiys prove unsuccess-
ful, through some lack of those gifts that lead to success.
But our estimate of the moral character of such men
is not lowered because they are unsuccessful in the
accomplishment of the object aimed at; we say that they

'ff

214

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

did their duty\ and are therefore morally on as high a
level as if they had succeeded. It is the motive that
makes a man good, not the object sought.

There are, then, two absolutely discrepant kinds of
motive. In the first place, the motive may be the
natural desire for a certain object which appears to me
as pie' sant. The object, c.^.^ may be the maintenance
of my own life, and the motive may be the natural
tendency to seek that object. I desire the object, and,
desiring it, I do the acts that tend to secure it. In the
second place, the luotive may be, not desire for the
object, but reverence for the law. Here it is not the
object to be attained that constitutes the motive, but
m,y consciousness that I ought to seek to attain it. I
have no reverence for the maintenance of life ; what
I reverence is the law that commands me to maintain
my life. When I become conscious that there is an
absolute law which has no respect for my inclination
either to maintain my life or to get rid of it, I am
I impressed by the majesty of the law, and I may act
out of pure reverence for it. Then my action is moral.
My only motive is reverence for the law itself. To do
one's duty, then, is to recognize the absolute obligation
of the law over every rational being, and to will the
law purely because I reverence it.

In further enforcing this view, Kant goes on to contend
that all action which is done from desire for a certain
object is contrary to duty. (i) If our motive is the
desire for a certain object — say, the maintenance of life —
it is evident that this object must present itself to us
as pleasant. The idea of the continuance of one's life
affects our susceptibility to pleasure, and because it

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

215

appears as pleasant we desire it. Obviously, therefore,
fhe desire is not something that we can make or
unmake. If man were so constituted by nature as to
be excited to pain on the presentation of the 'dea of
the continuance of his life, he would desire death instead
of life. In point of fact there are cases in which a
man is so miserable, that the idea of life appears as
painful, and he desires death. Desire is thus determined
by the action of the object on the natural susceptibility
to pleasure and pain. Having once experienced that a
certain object produces pleasure, the individual may
formulate for himself a rule of action based uj)on that
experience. Thus he may say: "Seek to maintain life,
because it brings pleasure." But this is obviously not
an absolute law. If by further experience a man finds 'lat
life is not pleasant, he may formulate a new rule of
action: "Seek the destruction of life, because it is
painful." No absolute law can be based upon desire,
because desire is not a fixed principle, but is dependent
upon the fluctuations of feeling as determined by chang-
ing experience.

(2) There are many desires corresponding to the
different objects that may be experienced as pleasant.
Hence there are many rules of action. But they all
agree in this, that they are based upon the desire for
pleasure. Nor does it make any difference what the
source of the desire may be, whether in the senses or
in the intellect. All desires are of the same kind,
because all depend upon the susceptibility of the subject
for pleasure in the idea of an object. The desire may
be a desire for knowledge, but the motive in this case
as in others is the pleasure attendant upon the attain-

2t6

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

ment of the object. Now, if this is true, it follows that
a life which is ruled by desire is a life that rests upon
mere rules of experience. Such a life presents itself to
the individual seeking it as happiness ; for by happiness
is meant a life of continuous j)leasure.

(3) Man from his very nature as a finite rational being
must desire happiness. For he is necessarily susceptible
to the desire for pleasure, and his reason shows him that
all his desires are aiming at pleasure. As finite, he must
seek for happiness not in himself but in objects without
himself. He cannot at first tell, however, 7i'/i(j/ objects
his desires aim at ; these he must learn from experience,
i.e., from a knowledge of their effect upon his peculiar
susceptibility. Plainly, therefore, no universal principle of
action can be based upon the desire for happiness. We
cannot say ; Wealth should be sought as a means to happi-
ness, because a man may not be susceptible to the desire
for wealth. The idea of happiness is merely a name that
we apply to all forms of desire for pleasure ; it cannot
tell us how we are to act in any given case. "Seek
happiness" is no guide to conduct. For, when we ask,
what then zs happiness, no answer can be given except
that happiness is what each man from time to time
desires ; and, as different men have different desires, and
feven the same man at different times, happiness cannot
be reduced to law. To this Kant adds, that even if all
men "were susceptible to the same desires, no universal
law could be basec* upon desire, but only a general
principle of human action. A law that rests upon the
susceptibility to pleasure peculiar to man as a finite being
cannot be an absolute law binding upon all rational beings.

If, then, there are universal laws of action — laws bind-

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

^17

ing upon every rational being— they must rest upon the
mere idea of duty, not upon desire. An action can be
moral only if I am in no way influenced by my desire
for an object as i)leasurable, but do it purely and solely
because it is rational. And it can be rational only if it
can be conceived as an act that every rational being is
called upon to perform. The test of a moral law is
therefore this : Can I view the proposed rule of action
as applicable to all, and not simply to myself with my
peculiar susceptibilities for certain pleasures? Is the prin-
ciple, in other words, when it is viewed as a rule for all,
consistent with itself? If it is, it must be a universal law,
si'^ce it holds good quite apart from the varying desires
of the individual subject ; if it is not, it cannot be a
universal law, but, at the most, only a rule of expediency.
Kant expresses this idea by saying, that a moral act is
one in which we det rmine ourselves purely by the form
of a law, not by its waUer. Take, for example, the
principle, "Respect the property of others." If this
means : Respect the property of others, because in this
way you will get more pleasure, it is not a law, because
some men get more pleasure from dishonesty. But if it
means : Respect the property of others, because theft
cannot be made a universal principle, and is therefore
contrary to reason, we get a universal law.

The form in which Kant has stated his doctrine
open to grave objections.

(i) He maintains that in acting morally we must be
absolutely uninfluenced by desire, because all desire is
excited by the idea of pleasure, or, whnt i i'. •'ame
thing, by the idea of an object as fitted to brina [)'' .isure.

2l8

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

t '

But, if we exclude all objects of desire, how are we to
act at all? 1 ar^ no/ to act from the desire for wealth,
or honour, or knowledge; what then am I to do? If
there is no definite object to be sought, am I not re-
duced to the condition of acting without having the idea
of any positive direction iliat my action is to take? Kant
answers that 1 can examine different courses of action,
and finding out which can be practised by every one,
and which cannot be practised by every one, I can set
up the former as a law binding upon me because it is
the only kind of principle that is consistent with itself.
But if I had no desire for any object in particular, how
could I get out of the idea of law in general any gui
for action, any specific duty? Suppose that I have ».«.
desire for life, how is it possible to arrive at the prin-
ciple that the maintenance of life is a principle th.-'t is
consistent with itself? Unless I had the desire for life,
the question would never arise, whether it is right or
wrong to preserve life. Kant, therefore, must fall back
upon desire to get the particular principles from which
we are to act. All that he shows is, that, 7ii/ie/i particular
objects of desire are presented before the mind, we can
determine which are right by asking whether we can
suppose them to be sought by all without contradiction,
while others are wrong because we cannot suppose them
to be sought by all without contradiction. But if this is
so, liow can it be said that we act purely from the idea
of law ? Do we not rather act from the idea of a certain
object which is conceived as a law for all? "Act from
the idea of law " supplies no principle of action in any
given case, unless we fall back upon some object sup-
plied by desire.

MORAL I'MM.OSOI'HY.

219

(2) Tt may be objected that, even if we suppose different
courses of action to be suggested by our desires, we cannot
tell how we shouhl act in any given case. Kant thinks
that certain courses of action can be shown to be wrong
because they are incompatible with the very idea of law.
Universal stealing, he says, is self-contradictory, because
if everyone stole there would be nothing to steal. lUit
the contradiction does not arise from the mere universal-
izing of the act, but from attempting to universalize what
is self-contradictory fie/orc it is universalized. Theft is a
contradiction because it recognizes the right of i)roperty,
but acts contrary to the rccogn ion. Every act of theft
is a contradiction of the right of property. The contra-
diction does not arise, as Kant supposes, only when theft
is universalized, but from the very idea of theft. If there
were only one act of theft it would be self-contradictory,
that is, the idea of theft presupposes the right of private
property. Unless, therefore, we start from the principle,
that the right of private property must be recognized as
a principle of action, we get no contradiction by supposing
theft to be universalized. Suppose, e.^i^., a community
which, resting upon a purely socialistic foundation, does
not recognize any right of property ; would theft in that
case be self-contradictory? It would only be self-contra-
dictory in the sense of being impossible ; for where there
is no property there can be no theft. Plainly, therefore,
we can find a contradiction in the idea of theft only if
we assume the absoluteness of private property. But the
mere universa/izifig of an act gives no criterion of action.
" Let everyone use what does not belong to him " is the
universalized principle of a communistic form of society;
" Let no one use what does not belong to him " is the

220

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

1 TpT

universalized principle in a non-communistic form of
society. Manifestly, therefore, we can get no criterion
of morality by simply universalizing a suggested rule of
action. If a rule cannot be shown to be right in itself,
it vill not be proved right by merely supposing it to be
universally acted upon.

(3) Another objection to Kant's doctrine that has been
made is, that it assumes particular rules of action to be
absolute, i.e., to admit of no exception. Now, this leads
to all the difficulties of casuistry, if there are a number
of rules, each of which admits of no exception, we involve
ourselves in self-contradiction. If the command, "Thou
shalt not steal," is to be taken as absolute, circumstances
may arise in which it comes into collision with the com-
mand, " Thou shalt not kill." If in a famine those who
have food in store stand upon their right of property, the
majority of the people may starve, i.e., in maintaining the
right of property, the higher right of life is sacrificed. Now
Kant's formal principle, that a rule of action is to be judged
as moral by its capability of being universalized, implies
that no exception can be allowed to its application ; for, if
it is once admitted that the rule is not in all cases such
that its violation is a contradiction, the whole principle of
determining a moral law by universalizing it goes to the
ground.

The objections just made must be held as valid against
the letter of Kant's ethical theory. But it may be shown
that there is in his doctrine a deeper truth which does not
find expression in the formal principle of self-consistency.

Kant points out that it is one thing to be subject to
law, and another thing to act from the consciousness of law.
Unless there is a consciousness of law there can be no wi/i.

£'*

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

221

The " mere animal " is subject entirely to the law of its
desires, and therefore it has no will. Now, we can con-
ceive of a being who in all cases acts in accordance with
the laws of reason, /.<?., a being whose will is always good^
because never deflected from the path of morality by the
influence of desire. Man, however, is not a being of that
kind. He is capable of being moved to action by natural
desire, and therefore there is in his nature a conflict be-
tween the law of desire and the law of reason. Hence
it is that he presents before himself the law of reason, not
as a law that belongs to his very nature, but as a law that
he may or may not obey, but which he onght to obey. It
is because he may not act from reason, but from desire,
that the moral law presents itself to man in the form of
an imperative.

What, then, is the nature of this imperative? It com-
mands categorically or absolutely, i.e., it says that an act
must be done because its opposite contradicts the very
idea of law. Hence it may be thus expressed : " Act in
such a way that, in willing to act, you can will that the
maxim of your act should become a universal law." " Act
as if by your will the maxim of your act were about to
be made into u universal law of nature."

Now, we may distinguish between (i) duties of perfect
obligation and (2) duties of imperfect obligation.

(i) Suppose that a man is tempted to borrow mone}',
under promise to repay, knowing quite well that he
cannot fulfil his premise. He asks himself whether the
maxim, " Promise what you know you cannot perform,"
could become a law for all, and he sees at once that
if everyone promised without intending to fulfil his promise,
nothing would be promised, since no one would believe

•^^m

222

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

I'mJn!^ ;

j! .' ' .

another. The universalizing of a false promise thus con-
tradicts the very idea of a promise.

(2) As an instance of a duty of imperfect obligation,
take the case of a man who refuses to help others who
are in need. If the maxim, " Give no help to others,"
is to be regarded as if it were a law of nature, a man
must deprive himself of all hope of assistance even when
he needs the sympathy of others, and this is a contra-
diction. Here we wish a maxim to hold only for ourselves,
and not for others ; we affirm that there is a law, only
it is not a law for us : and this is an irrational position.
Every law is universally applicable.

This formula is open to the objections already made.
It affords no real criterion of action, and it assumes the
principles which it pretends to derive. But Kant has a
second formula which comes much nearer the truth.
The formula is this : *' Always treat humanity, both in
your own person, and in the person of others, as an end
and never merely as a means."

Here Kant has introduced the new idea of man as an
end to himself. In the first formula Kant held that we
must exclude all motives that imply any relation to an
object or end, because such motives are simply forms of
natural desire for individual satisfaction ; in the new
formula, he admits that we can have a certain end or
object in view, only it is not a particular end, but the
conception of the self as an end to itself. Each individual
is now conceived as a pe.rso?i, i.e., as a being having a
will, and therefore as distinct from a thing.

But the conception of the individual as an end to
himself does not of itself explain how there can be any
particular duties. The self is conceived of as a self that

■^

■■

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

223

is opposed to all the particular desires of the self, and
therefore it remains abstract. I am to realize myself, but
I am to do so independently of all desire; but, inde-
pendently of all desire, there is no particular way in which
my self can be realized.

Kant, however, has a third formula which comes still
nearer the truth: "Act in conformity with the idea that
the will of every rational being is a will that lays down
universal laws." , .,.

Here we have the conception of a social community
of beings, each of which is at once end and means ; we
have, in other words, the idea of humanity as a self-
conscious organism. The formula includes the two ideas
of (a) universal law and {^>) the consciousness of that
law as identical with the consciousness of oneself as an
end which belongs to one as a rational being. Hence
we get the idea that, in obeyin^ the universal law, man
IS obeying a law that his own reason prescribes. This
is the principle of the autonomy of the will, the principle
that in submitting to universal law man is submitting to
his real self.

But while Kant holds that we must conceive ourselves
as in idea belonging to the social organism, he will not
admit that this is more than an idea/. For man never
gets beyond the influence of his particular desires, and
therefore he can never realize the ideal.

We have now before us the ultimate form in which
Kant conceives of morality, and we must ask how far his
opposition of the ideal and the real can be maintained.

What prevents Kant from holding that the conception
of men as members of a social organism is a statement
of the actual nature of man? Manifestly, his doctrine

224

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

that men as the subjects of desire contain in their nature
an element which prevents them from ever realizing the
ideal which reason sets before them. Is it true, then,
that desire is of such a nature that it is incompatible
with the rational ideal?

Kant's view is, that all the desires are desires for pleasure,
and that happiness is simply the idea of the subject as
having none of his desires for pleasure unsatisfied. Can
we admit that every desire is a desire for pleasure?

(a) A desire for pleasure is not the same thing as a
feeling of pleasure. If I desire the pleasure of music, I
am not yet in the condition of experiencing the pleasure.
Before I experience it I must therefore set before my
consciousness the idea of the pleasure to be experienced
from the music. There are here obviously three things
involved : Firstly^ what is desired is a particular pleasure,
the pleasure of music. The desire takes its special character
and its power of attraction from the special character of
the pleasure conceived. In other words, there is a certain
object or end which I set before my consciousness as
desirable. Secondly^ not only must there be a certain
object conceived as desirable, but it is an object con-
ceived as desirable for me. Not every one regards music,
or, at least, certain kinds of music, as fitted to bring pleasure,
but only one who conceives of music as bound up with
his own satisfaction. In the desire for pleasure there is
therefore implied the distinction of the self desiring from
the object desired. Unless the subject distinguished the
object desired from himself, there could be no desire for
the object, there would merely be an occurrence of a
state of pleasure, without any consciousness either of an
object as such or a subject as such. Thirdly^ the pleasure

i m

MORAL FHILOSOPHY.

225

which is desired must be distinguished both from the object
and from the subject. If the desire is for pleasure, it
must be possible to separate in thought between the object
which is to bring the pleasure, and the subject who is
to be pleased.

Now, it must be observed that all the three elements
mentioned are essential to what is called the desire for
pleasure. But, if so, obviously it is an imperfect statement
of what is involved in desire to say simply that it is a
desire for pleasure. If the desire were purely for pleasure,
it might arise without any consciousness either of an object
in which pleasure is placed, or of a subject to be pleased.
But the former is impossible, because pleasure is necessarily
not pleasure in general, but a particular kind of pleasure.
I desire the pleasure of music, or knowledge, or power,
but I never desire pleasure as such. A desire for pleasure
in general would lead to nothing, because it would give no
direction to my activity. The desire for pleasure there-
fore involves the desire for a certain object conceived as
pleasurable. Take away the object and you destroy the
desire. Equally impossible is the desire for i)leasure apart
from the idea of the self as the subject to be pleased.
For there can be no conception of an object as pleasure-
giving, unless the object is conceived as pleasant to the
subject desiring it. If the object were not conceived
as fitted to bring pleasure to vie^ it would have no effect
upon my activity. I may think of music as an object in
which another takes pleasure, but music is not in that
case desired by me. What is called the desire for pleasure
is therefore in reality the conception of myself as a being
whose nature it is to obtain pleasure in a certain object.
I must identify myself 'u thought with the object before

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I can desire it. There is therefore no possibility of
realizing myself without realizing the object; and no
possibility of feeling myself realized except in the realiza-
tion of the object. In other words, what is called the
" desire for pleasure " is really the conception on the part
of the subject of one of the ways in which by attaining
an object, he at the same time has the feeling of a harmony
of his individual self with itself and with the world. As
Aristotle points out, pleasure is just the feeling of satisfac-
tion which accompanies the active realization of the self
in relation to external circumstances.

If this is a correct analysis of desir^e, we cannot admit

v;hat Kant maintains, that desire for an ooject is desire

for pleasure. It is not desire for pleasure simply as

pleasure, but desire for an object conceived of as good

because conceived of as a means of realizing the self.

In realizing myself in the experience of a certain object

I no doubt experience pleasure, but what I am in search

of is not the experience of pleasure but the good of

which the experienced pleasure is a sign or index. Now,

Kant assumes that the realization of the self can take

l)lace only if the self sets before itself an end which it

wills irrespective of all desire for an object. But (i)

there is no end that can be realized apart from desire

for an object. Unless some object is desired, the self

must remain unrealized, because a self in general is not

capable of being realized, and a self that is to be realized

must be conceived as realizing itself in some particular

way, I.e., as desiring an object. (2) There is no reason

to exclude all desire for objects, when we see that desire

is just the idea of the self as realizing itself in objects.

Such realization must be conceived as pleasurable, be-

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

227

cause pleasure is simply the feeling of satisfaction in the
realization of oneself. Every realization of the self is its
realization in a certain way, i.e., it consists in self-identifi-
cation with an object conceived as desirable, and therefore
as pleasurable. There is therefore no reason to oppose
the law of reason to the law of desire, as if the former
absolutely excluded the latter. What reason prescribes
is the realization of the self, and, as such realization is
impossible apart from the desire for realization in objects,
the distinction must lie, not in the presence of an object
in the one case, and in its absence in the other, but in
the character of the object which is desired.

The question of morality therefore takes this form :
VVHiat is the distinguishing characteristic of the object that
we ought to desire? There are objects that we desire
which are not those which we ought to desire : can we
state the distinction between what ought and what ought
not to be desired?

Now, Kant has himself pointed out, that to be moral
is to act as if we belonged to a " kingdom of ends " ; in
other words, each individual must conceive of himself as
a member in a social organism. In this conception of
the individual as a member of a community the distinctive
mark of moral action must be sought. It may, in fact,
be shown historically that out of this consciousness of the
unity of himself with others the consciousness of morality
has sprung ; and that the development of the moral con-
sciousness has arisen from the ever clearer consciousness
of the unity of each with all.

At first this consciousness is very imperfectly developed.
In purely savage life it takes the form of submission from
terror to a superior force. But even in this imi)erfect

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form, there is implied the recognition of a law superior
to the caprice of individuals. For, in submitting to one
who is superior to himself in courage and contempt of
life, the savage recognizes that there is something higher
than his merely individual sel'. Thus there arises some
sort of social order. The higher self is still supposed to
be embodied in the chief who, by despising the natural
desire for life, shows that he has an idea of himself that
goes beyond the first immediate promptings of desire.
In submitting to his chief the savage thus submits to a
higher ideal of himself; for in the chief he finds ex-
hibited characteristics that he recognizes as superior to
his own. No doubt the form which the moral conscious-
ness here takes is inadequate to the idea. The savage
recognizes a higher self, but he does not identify himself
with it, but conceives of it as something foreign to himself,
something which is for him unattainable. And, on the
other hand, the chief, while he has a higher ideal of
himself and prefers this to the lower self of immediate
desire, yet does not recognize that he is acting from a
law of reason. The consequence is that, while he acts
as a moralizing agent by forcing upon others the con-
sciousness of a higher self, he is not himself aware that it
is as the embodiment of the higher self that he possesses
power and authority. Rather, he views himself as pos-
sessing influence over others by his natural superiority.
Hence he has no proper sense of the limits of his authority.
What he desires is a law for his followers, not because he
desires a higher good, but simply because he desires it.
His action is therefore largely capricious : what he desires
seems to him good, not because it is good, but because
he desires it. He does not distinguish between what

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

229

seems good to him, and wliat is good because it tends
to realize a common good. Yet, if the idea of a common
good were not unconsciously at work in him, he would
have no authority over others. It is because they recog-
nize that he is guided by a higher law that they recognize
his authority even when he is capricious and irrational.

Now, the consciousness of a social good which is at
the same time the true good of the individual, a con-
sciousness which is implied even in savage life, is the
moving principle in the whole evolution of morality.
What holds human beings together in society is this idea
of a good higher than merely individual good. Every
fonn of social organization rests upon this tacit recogni-
tion of a higher good that is realized in the union of
oneself with others. Suppose this entirely absent, and
the moral consciousness would be impossible. For the
moral consciousness always involves the recognition of
a higher than individual good, and, because this higher
good is partially realized in social laws and institutions,
the individual feels himself constrained by his reason to
submit to it. It is by reflection upon this good as
realized in outward laws and institutions that the in-
dividual becomes conscious of moral lav/. At first, law
seems to be externally imposed, but the individual in
reflecting upon it recognizes that the real force of the
law lies in the fact that it is an expression of his higher
self. It is true that in awakening to the consciousnes"^ of
moral law as deriving its authority from reason, the indi-
vidual at first asserts that custom and external law have
no authority over him : that the sole authority he can
rationally obey is the law of his own reason. But this
is only one side of the truth : the other side is, that in

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COMTE, MILL, AND Sl'ENCEK.

custom and law there already is realized the law of reason.
No doubt society at any time is only a partial realization
of the law of reason, and therefore no form of society is
final ; but it is none the less true that only in so far as
morality realizes itself in society can it be realized at all.

Now, Kant will not admit that morality is actually
realized in the community. He criticizes the community
by reference to the ideal of a completely rationalized
humanity, and he contends that as this must always be
an ideal, the individual is forced to seek for the realiza-
tion of himself not in any actual form of the community,
but in an intelligible world which exists for him only as
an unrealizable ideal. Man is in idea the member of a
community, but it is a community that never has been
and never will be realized.

In one sense this conception of an ideal community
shows that Kant is in the grasp of the larger consciousness
of human life which has come to men through Christianity.
The Greek could find in the actual community of which
he was a member a realization of his whole self, because
for him the community was no wider than his own little
State, or, at the most, than the community of States
composing Greece. But with the removal of this artificial
restriction through Christianity man became conscious ihat
there was a larger self than the State, viz., the community
of all men in the life of humanity as a whole. It seems
therefore as if no form of the community can possibly
be adequate to the ideal community. For humanity has
a life wider and more enduring than the narrow and
evanescent life of a particular people or nation ; and in
this all-embracing life the individual can alone find the
reahzation of himself. And as humanity never is com-

MORAT, PHILOSOPHY.

a3i

pletely realized, it seems true to say, that morality points
to an ideal that can never be realized.

Now, there can be no doubt that, in setting up the idea
of humanity as the only adequate form of morality, Kant
has partially seized a most important truth. If we take
any existing form of the State and compare it with the
ideal of humanity, we are compelled to say that it is not
completely rational. There are possibilities in humanity
that cannot even be clearly imagined, not to say actually
realized. It is therefore important to take note of the
inadequacy of any existing form of the community to the
ideal community.

But it must be observed that to be conscious of the
inconqjleteness of existing communities to the perfect
community is not to say that morality cannot be realized.
Just as knowledge is never complete while yet it is know-
ledge, so morality is never perfect while yet it is morality.
And just as the idea of completed knowledge is possible
only because we already possess knowledge, so the idea
of perfect morality is possible only because man is already
moral. Had man not already realized in principle the
moral ideal he would not be able to contrast the ideal
with the actual. Hence we find that the ideal of morality
grows and expands with the evolution of the community.
The Greek could imagine that i.i the form of his civic
State he had reached finality, and in this he was wrong;
but it is none the less true that but for the moralizing
influence of the civic community the conception of a higher
form of society would have been impossible. In society
man learned to comprehend himself. He learned that in
devotion to the common good, and in no other way, could
he realize himself. Thus he was able to set the social

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ideal against the mere individuality of passion, and in
identifying himself with his State he became a moral being.
With the Stoics came a perception of the inadequacy of
the (ircek State to satisfy the ideal man, and therefore the
Stoics turned against the existing State, and held that man
must be a citizen of the world. In himself he seemed to
find a higher ideal than was realized in the community of
which he was a member. But this only shows that the
community as it existed was not completely rational : it
does not show that man can realize himself in isolation.
Accordingly, the community must assume a higher form.
Morality must no longer be identified with the customs
and laws of the narrow civic community, but it must rest
upon the wider basis of humanity. This is the principle
which is tacitly recognized in all modern forms of the
community, however inadequately it may be realized. It
is still true that only in identifying himself with a social
good can the individual realize limself. And the reason
is that in the community the idea of humanity as an organic
unity is in process of realization. That the community
has not reached its final form only shows that the moral
life is the gradual realization of the ideal life. It is not
true, therefore, that the ideal of humanity is a viere ideal :
it is an ideal that is continually in process of realization.
Hence the individual man can find himself, can become
moral, only by contributing his share to its realization.
He must learn that, to set aside his individual inclinations
and make himself an organ of the community is to be
moral, and the only way to be moral He may criticize,
and seek to improve the community, but his criticism must
rest upon a recognition of the principle that the individual
has no right to oppose himself to the community on the

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MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

233

ground of inclination, but only on the ground that the
community as it actually is in some ways contradicts the
principle of the community, the principle that it is the
medium in which the complete realization of man is to
be found. No criticism can be of any value I'aat denies
the jjrinciple of a social good, and seeks to substitute the
mere individualism of caprice.

We may now see wherein the real opposition of what
ought to be with what is consists. It docs not consist,
as Kant assumes, in a contradiction between desire and
reason, as if reason were exclusive of desire. Morality
may be said to consist in having rational desires. The
individual who desires the good of all is not actuated by
a mere desire for pleasure : for the good of all is the true
principle of human action. In seeking his good in the
universal, a man turns against the desire for the good of
himself as an isolated being, but he does not negate ail
desire. His desires now take the form of a desire for
what is rational ; they are spiritualized, not destroyed.
Thus he gets positive content for his desires, while yet
the content is not mere individual pleasure. In f<eeking
a universal good, man is seeking for that which muK. be
pleasurable, because pleasure is just the feeling of harmony
resulting from the willing of what reason determines as
good ; but if he seeks for pleasure, instead of good, the
pleasure will not be obtained, because he is then attempting
to realize himself as a separate individual, i.e., to realize
himself as that which he is not. What is called a life of
pleasure always turns out to be a life of pain. And this
is really a proof of the higher nature of man, because pain
and dissatisfaction with self must result from the dis-
harmony between the rational ideal and the irrational

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actual. Morality is not a search for pleasure, but morality
is the only true pleasure. Thus we can see how the three
elements involved in desire are reconciled. The moral
object of desire is the good, i.e.^ the good of man, not of
individual men ; the moral subject of desire is the subject
who identifies himself with this moral good ; and moral
feeling is the consciousness of harmony enjoyed by the
subject who so identifies himself with a universal good.

We have seen what is implied in the idea of duty. By
duty is properly meant identification with a universal
good that is capable of being realized in a community of
self-conscious beings. Now, identification with an ideal
good is possible only if the conscious subject is capable
of such identification. And hence we have now to ask
whether the individual man has such a capacity ; in other
words, whether he is capable of freedom or self-deter-
mination.

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CHAPTER X.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY (Continued).

IDEA OF FREEDOM.

The problem of human freedom springs from the same
root as the problem of duty. In our ordinary judgments
we say of ourselves or others, " That ought to be done,"
" That ought not to be done," and we assume in making
such judgments that the individual may or may not acl
in a certain way according as he determines himself, or,
ii'i other words, ivills, to act. But this first assumption of
freedom seems to be thrown into doubt when we begin
to consider the springs or motives of human conduct.
For it may be argued that no action of man can take
place without some motive, something that excites his
activity. And what is a motive, it may be asked, but a
particular desire excited by the idea of a certain object?
But the desire is determined by the natural susceptibility
of the individual, and this again is determined quite inde-
pendently of the individual. One man is more susceptible
to pleasure in the contemplation of a certain object than
another. Some are more drawn by pleasures of sense,
others by intellectual pleasures, still others by benevolent

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pleasures ; but these differences have a purely natural
basis. Nor does it alter the case if we adopt the point
of view of the theory of development, and say that the
susceptibility of the individual is the result of inheritance.
And not only is each kind of pleasure apparently due to
natural suscejitibility, but the quatitity of pleasure is also
fixed. Of two men who take pleasure in music, one
experiences a greater degree of pleasure than the other.
It is in fact the degree of pleasure that determines the
strength of a motive. If a pleasure of sense is imagined
by one man as more intense than a pleasure of intellect,
his action will be determined by the pleasure of sense ;
if a pleasure of intellect is imagined as more intense than
a pleasure of sense his action will be determined by the
pleasure of intellect. But in the one case as in the other
the pleasure whose intensive quantity is greater will
determine the act. How then can it be said that there
is any freedom of will ? There is no possibility of making
a pleasure seem greater or less, and therefore no possibility
of acting otherwise than we do act. Freedom of will is a
dream.

To this it has sometimes been answered that freedom
of will is a fundamental fact of consciousness. In acting
we are conscious that we act freely. It is further maintained
that we are even able to act in opposition to the strongest
motive. However pleasant an object may seem to be,
we can refuse to be determined by it. This may be
shown by the fact tha*- there are cases in which two objects
seem equally pleasant, and yet we act. Now, if the
quantity of pleasure alone determined the will, in such
cases we could not act at all. We should be like the
ass of Buridanus which was placed between two bundles

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

237

of hay so exactly alike that it starved because there was
nothing in either to turn the balance of its desires. But
man is of a different texture : in such a case he would
decide for one or the other, i.e., he would act without any
motive. It is therefore possible to act purely from choice,
without being influenced by motives. And this agrees with
the fundamental fact of consciousness, the consciousness
of our own freedom. We always act freely or from choice.
When there are different motives before our minds, we
choose that which we prefer. Freedom is the power of
choice, the power to act independently of motives.

These two opposite theories show that the problem of
freedom is bound up with the question of motives. One
school affirms £^that the strongest motive determines the
act, the other maintains that action is determined freely
without motives. 1 think we shall find, however, that
neither of these views is true, though both contain an
element of tru 1. The frst theory is right in maintaining
that we act from moti\ s, wrong in denying that we act
freely ; the second theory is right in maintaining that we
act freely, wri ig in denying that we act independently of
motives. In t ^ler words, motives are essential to freedom,
freedom essenti.J to motives. To see this we must inquire
into the nature of a " motive."

Both of these theories assume that a motive is a natural
susceptibility to pleasure in the idea of an object, and
that the degree of such susceptibility is determined inde-
pendently of the subject. The first view infers from this
assumed fact that action is the resultant of a conflict of
desires, m which the strongest always prevails ; the second
view, granting that this would be so if all action were
determined by motives, maintains that the subject has

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in himself a power of choice which is independent of
motives.

We have seen above that in man desire is not a mere
susceptibility to pleasure, but the conception of self as
capable of satisfaction in a certain object. To be conscious
of self is to be beyond all merely external excitation.
Nothing can act on the self without the activity of the
self. We may see this indirectly by considering what .
would take place if the desire were merely a natural
susceptibility. The self we are to suppose is not self-
active, but is the passive recipient of certain impulses. We
must suppose, then, that a certain impulse arises from the
action of an external stimulus upon the individual. Thus,
e.g., when the body requires nourishment, a craving arises
of which the subject becomes conscious. But the craving
is not due to any activity of the subject. The cause or
stimulus is the condition of the body which excites the
craving. All that the subject can do is to take note of
the craving excited in him by the stimulus. The craving
thus becomes a "motive" for the subject, />., it acts upon
the subject and tends to move him in a certain direction ;
in other words, to go through the series of movements
by which food is supplied to the body for nourishment.
To this it may be objected, that the craving for food
does not lead to that series of movements until a volition
has taken place, and this volition, it may be said, is an
activity of the subject. The subject has to will the move-
ments before they can take place. But how, it may be
asked, does he come to will the movements? Would
any subject will the act of eating if he were not impelled
to do so by the natural craving? It is true that the
movement must take place before the craving can be

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

239

satisfied, but there would be no movement were there no
craving. It is therefore the craving which acts upon or
excites the subject to act in a particular way. But, it
may again be objected, the craving does not of itself lead
to the action ; on the contrary, the subject, feeling the full
force of the craving, may yet refuse to give way to it.
Now, if the subject can prevent the craving from issuing
in action, he must have an activity of his own. A man,
e.g., may prefer to starve rather than give way to the crav-
ing of hunger, if he can only satisfy his hunger by theft.
"J"st so," it is answered, "but he does not refrain from
eating in such a case without any motive ; he does so
because he is acted upon by a stronger motive." The
motive, in this case, is the desire for a greater pleasure to
hmiself or others. Either he has a stronger desire for
the good opinion of others, or of a Supreme Being ; or
he has a stronger desire for the well-being of others, i.e.,
for the greater amount of pleasure which will come to
others from his abstinence than from his self-indulgence.
Thus there is no free activity of the subject, but only an
activity determined by the stronger of the two motives.
In fact, when there is no competition of motives, there
IS no possibility of diverse activity. If a man is acted
upon by the craving of hunger alone, he will inevitably
do the acts by which the craving may be allayed. It is
only when different impulses arise in him that a struggle
takes place; and the struggle is not between an impulse
on the one hand, and a free activity on the other, but
between competing impulses. Which way the man shall
act will depend upon the impulse which in him is strongest.
If the craving for food is stronger than the desire for
approbation or for the general good, he will satisfy his

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craving at all hazards ; if the reverse, he will not satisfy it ;
but in both cases the strongest motive must prevail. There
is no free activity in either case, i.e., no activity that is
independent of the motives acting upon the man. Volition,
then, is simply the series of movements which issue from
the strongest motive.

The weak point in this explanation is, that it does not
explain how the transition is made from desire to action.
On the one hand stands desire ; on the other hand, the
series of movements by which desire is expressed ; out
how the junction is effected between desire and movement
is not explained. This will be obvious if we take the
instance already referred to.

There arises in a man the desire for food. This means
that the conscious subject experiences a feeling of want,
and has the idea of the series of movements by which he
may satisfy his want — the series of movements, i.e., im-
plied in eating. But a feeling of want, so long as it re-
mains a feeling, cannot issue in the series of movements
required. I may be ever so hungry, but until a volition
precedes the movements no action takes place.

It may be sa'd that the whole question is whether the
desire is strong enough ; if it is overpoweringly strong,
it will inevitably issue in action. To this it must be
answered that a desire as such can never issue in action,
however strong it is. All that increase in the intensity of
a desire can mean is, that the intensity of the feeling of
want grows, and perhaps grows until it becomes the most
terrible pain, as in the case of starvation from shipwreck
or some other cause. In contrast to this intense pain,
there appears before the imagination the most vivid image
of the process of eating. But even then the series of

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MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

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movements implied in eating does not take place. Hence
between every desire and every series of movements there is
interposed a tolition ; and without volition there is no
action.

We may now see the mistake into which determinists
fall who say that the strongest ?notive det(.'rmines the act.
By the strongest motive they must mean the most intense
desire. That they do mean this is plain from the whole
character of the theory. Every desire, it is said, is a
desire for pleasure, and a motive is that desire for
pleasure which is so strong as to overpower all com-
peting desires. A "motive," in other words, is the
strongest desire. Ent we have seen that a desire as such
never issues in action^ no matter how strong it may be.
And there can be no meaning in calling that a " motive "
which does not issue in action, the very meaning of
"motive" being that which gives rise to motion. Hence
no desire, however strong, can be a motive. We must
find the motive in something else than desire, or action
would never take place at all. What, then, is a " motive "?

In the instance already given we are to suppose the
subject to experience the feeling of want which we call
hunger, and to have an idea of the act of eating as a
means of satisfying the want. Now, the feeling of want
as experienced is the consciousness on the part of the
subject that his actual condition at the moment is not
the condition in which he would like to be. Thus the
subject contrasts his actual condition with a condition
that as yet exists only as an idea. His desire consists
in the feeling of dissatisfaction arising from the opposition
between his ideal and his actual condition. But still
there is no action. If man were only capable of con-

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trasting in thought his actual and his ideal self, he
would never act at all. What more is required ? It is
required that, having the idea of himself as satisfied, so
far as this particular desire for satisfaction is concerned,
he should also have the idea of a certain action or series
of movements as the means of such satisfaction. But
even yet there is no action. I may believe that by the
act of eating I should satisfy my desire for food, and
yet I may not eat. Before I eat I must determine or
will to eat, and it is this self-determination or volition
that constitutes the motive. Determining to obtain the
satisfaction of myself so far as the desire in question
is concerned I will the means, and the action follows.
Now the satisfaction of myself in this particular way
becomes my motive. It is therefore not the desire for
satisfaction that constitutes my motive, but the willing of
the satisfaction.

If we now look back to the theory that the strongest
motive lead^ to action, we shall see that it is meaning-
less. There was a certain plausibility in saying that the
strongest motive prevails, so long as it was supposed
that action could proceed from desire. For, if action
is the result of a conflict between different desires, the
only plausible explanation is, that the desire which has
the greatest intensity prevails. It can be known to have
the greatest intensity because it prevails, just as of two
opposing forces of nature that is strongest which gives
rise to the motion of a body. But if desire of itself
never issues in action no desire can be a motive, and
therefore the strongest desire cannot be a motive. On
the other hand, if the motive is the v^olition, not the
desire, there can be no meaning in saying that the

MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 2A-

Strongest motive prevails. Every volition prevails. No
volition as such is stronger or weaker than another.
But, when we have seen that there is no stronger or
weaker volition, it is obvious that there is no such dis-
tinction as that between a stronger and weaker motive,
smce the motive is the volition. Kvery motive is the
act of a subject who, believing that he will find satis-
faction in a certain action, determines to do it, and
therefore wills it. The motive is thus just the self-
determination of the subject. And if so, /o have a
motive is to be free. If there is no motive apart from
self-determination or will, freedom is inseparable from
motives. The supposition that an act is not due to
the subject arises from the assumption, which we have
seen to be false, that an act is the result of the pre-
ponderance of a certain desire. VA'hen we see that a
desire, however strong, would never of itself issue in
action, we also see that the subject cannot be deter-
mined to act from any preponderance of desire, but acts
only as he determines himself to act.

From this analysis of action we also learn that there
can be no -liberty of indifference," Le., no capacity of
acting m opposition to motives. For, if a motive is just
one of the modes in which the subject determines him-
self, to act contrary to a motive would be to determine
himself to act in opposition to his own will, which is
absurd. Moreover, if a man could act without any
motive, he would be acting from pure caprice, i.e., in
opposition to the mode of action of a rational being.

We have seen, then, that a motive is never a desire,
and hence that to have a motive and to be free are
the same thing. The doctrine that denies freedom

■r

COMTK, ^HI-L, AND SPENCFR.

because man acts from motives, and the doctrine that
affirms freedom because man can act without motives,
are equally f^ilse ; the truth being that man is free
because he acts from motives. We have now to consider
the view of freedom advanced by Kant, which differs
from both of those theories.

Freedom, according to Kant, is not incompatible with
motives, but it is incompatible with all the motives that
arise from the natural desires. I am free if I will the
moral law, i.e., make duty my sole motive ; I am not
free if my act springs from a desire r some object which
excites my sensibility.

The idea of freedom, it is held by Kant, is in the
first instance a negative idea, arising as it does from its
contrast to the necessity of nature. What do we mean
by nature ? We mean a system of things in which each
is dependent upon something else. Nowhere in nature
can we find any object that has a nature of its own.
If we take any object in space, we find that all its
properties consist in relations to something else. If a
change occurs in any body, we find that the change
would not have occurred unless the body had been acted
upon by some other body. The permanence of a body
therefore consists in the permanence of its relations to
other bodies. Nothing exists as an independent sub-
stance. In fact, a substance not related to anything else
would not belong to the system of things that we call
nature.

Now, the moral consciousness of man seems to de-
mand that we should be absolutely independent of
circumstances, or, in other words, that we should be
determined purely by ourselves. For the moral law

;

MORAL I'HILOSdPHY.

245

de-

I be

law

commands absolutely, refusing to abate its claims in view
of circumstances. It says : " No matter what your
natural tendencies may be you ought to determine your-
self by the inner law of your own being."

But the difficulty arises that we seem to be, on the one
hand, objects like other objects, and therefore to belong
to the system of nature; while, on the other hand, we
seem to be subjects, and therefore independent of the
system of nature. How can we be both? How can we
be at once under the dominion of natural law, and free
from natural law?

To this Kant answers, that in his moral consciousness
man has the idea of himself as under a law of reason, and
that in willing this law he is free. When I make the moral
law my motive I determine myself by the idea of myself
as I really am, and in such determination I am not acted
upon by anything external. To make the moral law my
motive is to be free, because there is no external com-
pulsion in willing what reason shows to be my true self.
So far, therefore, as you will observe, Kant recognizes
that to be free is to act from a motive. But i.: limiting
freedom to willing the moral law, he manifestly gets into
this difficulty, that when a man acts from desire he is not
free. Apj^arently, therefore, we are free to will good
actions, but not to will bad actions. And this would
seem to imply that we are not responsible for doing
wrong, since, when we do wrong, the act is not ours, but
flows from the necessity of our nature.

The difficulty here referred to is inherent in the ethical
doctrine of Kant. It arises from the absolute opposition
of desire and reason. What we have to see is that such
an opposition is inadmissible.

246

COMTE, MII.I-, AND Sl'KNCER.

i-H

A desire, as we have seen, is never in itself a motive : it
becomes a motive only when the subject identifies his
own good with the object corresponding to tlie desire.
Thus if, having the desire for wealth, I determine to
seek my good in the pursuit of wealth, and will the acts
necessary to secure it, I make wealth the "motive" of
my action. There is, therefore, no proper meaning in
saying that when a man acts from desire he is not free.
For he never acts from desire as such, but only fi )m the
idea of himself as capable of being satisfied by the object
of a desire.

Now, Kant holds that we are conscious of freedom only
in contrast to our determination by natural desire. This
would be a correct account of the matter if a natural
desire as it exists in our consciousness were simply a fact
or occurrence in consciousness, a mere state of feeling
excited in us irrespectively of our self-consciousness. But
if desire were merely a feeling that presented itself to us
— were it simply an event like any other event — we should
not be conscious of it as a desire. If I perceive a stone
fall, I am conscious of an event, of a certain change as
having occurred, but I am not conscious of it as an event
which has occurred to mc, as a change in my state. But
this is what happens when I am conscious of a desire.
When I have the craving of hunger, it is for me not
simply an event, but an event that affects me: I am
conscious of myself as striving in idea towards an object
that promises satisfaction to me. We cannot therefore
oppose desire to reason as if the former were a mere
mechanical occurrence and the latter involved the con-
sciousness of self. Desire, being already the consciousness
of oneself as capable of being satisfied, involves self-

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

247

consciousness. The idea of satisfaction in the object of a
desire is therefore already the possibility of will, and so of
freedom. Kant is therefore wrong in contrasting action
from desire with action from reason, as external determina-
tion to self-determination, necessity to freedom. Every
motive, whatever its moral character — whether good or
bad — involves freedom, because it involves ^c^-determina-
tion. Kant, in other words, correctly says that freedom
consists in willing the idea of self, but he is wrong in
saying that willing the idea of self only takes place when
we will the good. To show this clearly we must ask how
the contrast of freedom and necessity arises for us.

Self-consciousness is primarily the consciousness of self
as opposed to the world, and especially to other self-
conscious beings. The self appears to be a single indi-
vidual, who is conscious of desires that make for his oivn
satisfaction, as distinguished from the satisfaction of others.
But this apparent individuality or separateness of the self
is a natural illusion ; for it is impossible for the individual
to find his mvn satisfaction apart from the world and from
other selves. Selfishness is self-contradictory, because it
seeks to satisfy the individual self by breaking the bonds
which unite all selves ; and hence it is a repeated effort to
obtain satisfaction, ending in repeated failure.

Here is the point where the opposition of desire and
reason presents itself. To act from passion, i.e., from the
idea of individual satisfaction, is seen to be to act in
contradiction of reason, i.e., to the idea of a universal
satisfaction. We may therefore correctly contrast desire
and reason, if by this we mean willing a selfish end and
willing a universal end. Such a contrast, however, is not
identical with the Kantian opposition of desire and reason ;

I-

248

COMTE, MTLL, AND SPENCER.

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for, on Kant's view, desire is a merely natural impulse,
reason alone giving the idea of the self. Selfishness involves
ihe idea of self as much as unselfishness ; the difference is
that the former seeks to realize the self in what is in-
adequate to its true nature, the latter seeks to realize the
self in what is adequate to its true nature. We can
therefore say that selfishness is irrational, but we cannot
say that it is exclusive of reason. Only a rational being
can be irrational. Reason involves the possibility of error
as well as of truth ; or, more precisely, reason gives man
the idea of himself, and makes it possible for him to seek
his good in what is inconsistent with that idea, while it
also makes it possible for him to seek his good in what
is consistent with that idea. The explanation of this
anomaly is, that man at first seems to himself to be an
individual standing in opposition to others. So appearing,
reason tells him to realize this individual self. It is only
when in attempting to do so he becomes conscious that
he cannot realize himself in selfish ways that he comes
to the consciousness of a self-realization through unselfish-
ness. In this sense the Fall of Man is necessary to his
salvation. Selfishness, in fact, may be called an irrational
activity of rearon, or a free willing of slavery. Freedom,
then, is implied in all man's activity, but freedom can lead
to perfect self-realization only when it is exercised in willing
the good.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

249

THE SUMMUiM BONUM.

We have therefore to ask ; AVhat is the good ? what is the
summtwi bonujH ?

The answer of the Hedoni-^i is that the highest good
will consist in the greatest possible . n of pleasure. We
need not stay to show that this -a -not be the highest
good: pleasure is no doubt involved in the attainment
of The highest good, but the highest good must consist
in the perfect realization of self, or, in other words, in
perfection of character, not in the experience of pleasure.
It will be more profitable to consider the Kantian con-
ception of the summum honum, which attempts to show
that man can only attain his " being's end and aim in
so far as the conflicting claims of reason and desire are
reconciled.

Kant begins by asking what is meant by the siwwium
bonum; and he answers, that it may mean cither {a) the
chief good., or {/,) the comp/efe good. Now, there is no
doubt that virtue is man's chief good, since apart from
morality man cannot be good at all. But a finite being
cannot attain complete good unless he also obtains happi-
ness. The complete good therefore involves the com-
bination of perfect goodness with perfect happiness. And
as men are not good by nature, but can only gradually
approximate towards goodness, reason demands that happi-
ness should be experienced by each in proportion to his
goodness.

The first point to be considered is, hou happiness is
related to virtue.

The Stoics and Epicureans hold that virtue and happi-

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COMTE, MILT,, AND SPENCER.

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ness are identical. According to the former, the viituous
man is the only happy man ; according to the latter, the
happy man is the only virtuous man. This identification
Kant rejects. To be viituous is not necessarily to be
happy, to be happy is not necessarily to be virtuous. A
man may be virtuous without being happy, or happy
without being virtuous.

The problem therefore remains, and af first sight it
seems insoluble. If I will the moral law, do I thereby
secure happiness ? By no means : to secure happiness I
must learn the laws of nature and be able to turn my
knowledge to account in furthering my o\..' ends. If, on
the other hand, I make happiness my end, my action
ceases to be moral.

When we look more closely, however, we find that
there is an essential difference between the propositions,
"Virtue is the necessary consequence of Happiness," and
"Happiness is the necessary consequence of Virtue." The
former proposition is absolutely false. The man who
makes happiness his aim cannot be virtuous, because
virtue consists in willing the moral law purely for itself.
The latter proposition is not necessarily false. There is
a sense in which it may be admitted to be true. We can-
not say that by acting v'irtuously man will secure happi-
ness, but it is quite conceivable that virtue should bring
happiness, if the world were so arranged as to make
happiness follow from virtue. Such a harmony man
cannot eftect, but it may be effected by a Being who
stands to nature in the relation of its Author. The
postulate, therefore, of an Author of nature is the only
way in which we can conceive of the union of virtue
and happiness.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

251

; can-

man
who
The

only
virtue

This idea of nature as conceivably harmonizing with the
moral life does not show that man can realize the summum
bonuin. There are two obstacles to such realization

In the first place, man can realize the summian bomim
only if he is capable of perfect virtue. To be p.^rfectly
virtuous would be to get rid of all immediate desire and
act purely from the law of reason. Now, this is impossible,
because man cannot get rid of the solicitations of desire,
and therefore morality can only be a continual process of
subjecting the desires, as they spring up, to the moral law.
All that is possible for man is, not the completed harmony
of his desires with his reason, but the certain hope of con-
tinuous progress in morality, as <esting upon the habit of
acting virtuously. Now, such a continuity in willing the
moral law requires continued existence; and hence the
possibility of realizing the chief good requires us to
postulate the immortality of man. In no other way can
we defend the absolute obligation laid upon us to live the
moral life. In this life we can never realize the chief
good, and therefore we are tempted to say that man can-
not be required to realize it. On the other hand, if we
say that in this life a man may become perfectly holy,
we fall into " theosophic dreams " of a possible perfection
that, with our continual shortcomings, is for us an im-
possibility. By the postulate of immortality we avoid
both of these fatal alternatives : we do not need to relax
the severity of the moral law, because we are capable of
continual progress towards perfect holiness : and we do
not fall into the dream of an impossible perfection,
because we see that morality is an endless progress
towards perfection.

In the second place, the realization of the summum

/•

252

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

bonmn implies the union of virtue and happiness. Sup-
posing virtue to oe more or less perfectly attained, how
can we say that happiness in proportion to virtue must
be united with it? Yet, if it is our duty to seek the
highest good, it must be possible that it should be
realized. Now, it cannot be realized by us, for though
we may will the moral law, we cannot by that volition
secure happiness. /The union of virtue and happiness is
^ therefore possible only independently of our will. It can
be produced only by a Being who is distinct from nature
and yet the cause of it. And such a Being must be a
cause whose character is in conformity with ', .ity, i.e.^
a Being who is perfectly rational and perfecuy good ; in
other words, God.

Kant's first postulate is immortality, or endless time,
as the condition of the realization of the chief good, i.e.^
of virtue. The natural desires are in antagonism to the
moral law, and as man cannot get rid of them without
ceasing to be man, this subjection to the law of reason
is a progressus ad i/ififiitum. Now, to this view it may
be objected, in the first place, that not even the postu-
late of infinite time will account for the realization of
virtue on Kant's premisses. For, so long as man is con-
ceived to be a subject of desire, so long he is incapable
of realizing perfect virtue. The opposition between reason
and desire is supposed to be absolute, and therefore no
extension of time will destroy it It, indeed, we supposed
Kant to hold that in a future life man would no lor ;?r
be the subject of desire, we might suppose perfect vi.fue
to be realized. But this he cannot hold, sine- his C'g'i-
ment for immortality rests upon the confli.c betwcrci:
desire and reason. We are compelled to postulate

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

253

lor :?:.

£'gU-

jtulate

I
r

immortality, because reason demands the realization of
perfect virtue, and such realization is impossible because
the work of reason in subjecting desire to itself is never
complete. We must deny, then, that the postulate of
immortality solves the problem of the realization of holi-
ness. "Infinite time," as has been said, "is /lot enough
for an impossible task."

In the second place, not only can virtue not be com-
pletely realized, but it cannot be realized at all. Kant's
argument rests upon the absolute opposition of reason
and desire ; and it is plainly impossible to bring oppo-
sites any nearer to each other. On the other hand,
,if there is no opposition of reason and desire, the
whole argument for a progress to infinity falls to the
ground.

Kant's argument for immortality loses its force because
he reasons from the impossibility of morality in a finite
time to the possibility of morality in an infinite time.
This argument we have seen to be invalid. The nature
of a thing is not changed by the mere passing of time.
" White is not made any more white," as Aristotle said,
in criticizing the eternal ideas of Plato, "by uc'ng sup-
posed to exist for ever." In other '.vords, unless man
can be moral now, he cannot become moral simply if
he is supposed to exist for ever. What we must say,
therefore, is that every act in which the agent identifies
himself with an objective end is a moral act. In Kant's
view no progress in morality is possible because morality
can never begin. Just as knowledge cannot develop
unless there is knowledge, so moral progress can be made
only if man can be moral. Now, if man has within
him a principle of morality, the argument for immor-

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COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

tality will take a new form. There is no limit, it may
be said, to the development of a living principle. If
man is capable of knowledge he is capable of growing
intellectually until his knowledge " has orbed into the
perfect star " ; if he is capable of morality he is capable
of a progress in morality to which no limits can be set.
Thus we may argue, that as man is capable of infinite
progress in knowledge and morality — in a word, of
infinite self-development — immortality is bound up with
the very idea of self -onsc' )usness. To l>e completely
self-conscious would be to know all reality and to have
attained to perfect holiness, since perfect self-conscious-
ness is possible only in the perfect union of subject and
object. In other words, the argument for immortality
must be based, not upon what man cannot know or do,
but upon what he can know and do.

Kant's second postulate of God as the Being who har-
monizes virtue and happiness is also open to objection.
On the one hand Kant argues that the good lies in the
will of man, so that it is realized whether a man attains
happiness or not. The martyr sacrifices his happiness
absolutely in laying down his life, yet in this sacrifice
he realizes the good. There can therefore be no reason
for postulating the existence of a Supreme Being, so far
as the realization of man's true self is concerned. Happi-
ness is, from this point of view, a matter of indiffer-
ence. Kant, however, holds that reason rightly demands
the union of virtue and happiness. But this unif/n, he
maintains, cannot be attained by man; and that for two
reasons ; firstly, because nature goes on by a law of its
own, a law which does not harmonize v/ith the law of
reason ; and, secondly, becaustJ each man is dependent

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

255

har-

:tion.

the

ains

ness

ficc

ison

far

mds
he

two
its

/ of

lent

upon others, so that only in a community of perfectly
moral beings could happiness be proportionate to virtue,
and such a community is an ideal that can never be
realized. Kant therefore argues that we must postulate
the existence of God, just because in human life happi-
ness cannot be united with virtue. They cannot be
united, yet reason demands their union, therefore they
are united in God.

But the argument, to be valid, must take a positive
form. That the world is incompatible with the realiza-
tion of the highest good cannot be a reason for main-
taining the existence of God, but rather a reason for
denying it. Only if it can be shown that the world is
compatible with the highest good can wc argue that exist-
ence is a manift tation of God. We uist, in other
words, show that in the moral life happmess and virtue
are combined, and are combined just because "all things
work together for good to ^hera that love tin- Lord."
This faith is the source of the religious consciousness,
and from it spring all the efforts of men to raise them-
selves and others. We must therefore v^tv, not that the
imj .ibility of dfectiiio the union cf virtue and happi-
ness i,- tht' ;_'ound of our belief in the existence of God,
but, on the contrary, the possibility of such imion. The
union is effected for the individual in the willing of
objective ends that bring satisfaction with them. The
man who lives for his family at once wills the good and
finds his happiness in realizing it. The reformer wills
his country, and in devotion to it he finds his happiness.
So in all cases of willing an end that is not selfish. It
is true that complete happiness is not obtained. But
neither is complete goodness. And it is not too much

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256

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

to say, that a man is happy in proportion to his good-
ness. Even the martyr in the sacrifice of all lower
happiness gains a happiness for wliich nothing else
could compensate. It is, then, the possibility of this
union of happiness and goodness in man that entitles
us to maintain the perfect union of the two in God.
If the world is compatible with the relative harmony
of virtue and goodness in us, it already shows itseh"
to be the expression of a Being who is perfectly
good.

CHAPTER XI.

MORAL PHILOSOPHY (Continuf.d).

PIULOSOrilV OK RIGHTS.

We have seen that the idea of Duty implies the identifi-
cation of the subject with a universal end in which the
true self may be realized ; and that freedom is the capacity,
and the highest good the result, of such self-identification!
We have now to consider more particularly the forms in
which the subject realizes universal ^\\^% Tlic first and
simplest form is in relation to external things and services;
in other words, self-realization is exhibited in the sphe^«
of individual A'^/its.

Kant distinguishes the sphere of J?/g/its from the sphere
of Mora/s in this way, that in the former the will of man
is viewed as expressing itself outimrdly in acts, while, in
the latter, it is viewed only as determined inwardly by
motives.

The moral law tells us to treat all self-conscious beiugs
as ends, never as means. But here a difficulty arises.
When a man acts, his action takes an outer form, and
therefore it affects the outer existence of others. If, ^.^,,

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a man steals my property, he interferes with that which
is necessary to my existence as a particular being. The
problem of jurisprudence is therefore to prevent one man
from interferinj^f with the free activity of another, and
this cannot be done, consistently with the freedom of
each, unless eaoh man voluntarily imposes upon himself
the same limit as he imi)oses upon others. Now, the
principle of all free will is to act in conformity with a
law that can be universalized. Applying this principle to
external action, it would take the form : Impose no limit
upon others that you do not impose upon yourself. For
example, if others are to respect my property, I must
respect theirs ; otherwise the maxim on which I act is
not universal.

All acts which prevent another from doing the like are
self-contradictory. It is therefore in accordance with the
law of freedom that such acts should be prevented or
annulled. Hence the compulsion of law is quite consistent
with freedom. A man is free to will a universal law, but
he is not free to will what is merely agreeable to himself.
Law, in compelling men to respect the rights of others,
does not interfere with freedom, but only with the
unreason of particular desires, which is, in fact, the nega-
tion of freedom.

Now, in the sphere of Rights, we have nothing to do
with the motive from which an action is done, but only
with the overt act. If a man respects the rights of pro-
perty of others. Law does not ask whether he does so
from the fear of punishment, from a desire for the esteem
of others, or from, regard for the moral law ; it is enough
that the act conforms to the law. Hence, the aim of law
is not to make men act from the highest motives, but to

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

'59

f law
ut to

prevent them fnnn acting in o])iJOsition to the rights ot
others. A ri^ht is thus something purely external. "When
it is said that a creditor has the right of exacting pay-
ment from Ills debtor, this does not mean that he can
put it to the conscience of the debtor that he ought to
l)ay. It means that a comi>ulsion to pay in such .i case
can be applied consistently with everyone's freedom,
consistently, therefore, with the debtor's own freedom,
according to a universal external law. Right and claim
to apply compulsion are therefore the same thing."

Now, as in law freedom means mdei)endence of com-
pulsion by another, and the reciprocal limitation of each
by the others, the first of rights is equality. No man can
demand of me what I cannot demand of him, and I can
act towards others as 1 please so long as 1 do nothing
to prevent them from acting as they please towards me.

How is such freedom realized in the outer world?
What is meant by a right? Nothing can limit the
freed in of one man but the freedom of another. (i)
Rights belong only to persons., not to thi/ii^s. Outward
things are the means of realizing the will of a person.
Hence (2) rights are held by one person as against all
others. And (3) lastly, the relation of persons is recip-*"
rocal. Slavery, e.g., is inconsistent with the principle of
rights, because it gives all the rights to one person, with-
out xccognizing that he is only entitled to rights at all
if he espects the rights of all other persons.

The basis of all rights, then, is the inviolability of each
person. But each person expresses himself in the objects
into which he has put his will, and which are inviolable
because expressing the will of an inviolable person. Thus
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interfere with the objects in which each person expresses
his will is to interfere with the person himself. Property
is not the same thing as physical possession ; it is an
"intelligible" possession. A thirg is mine, not because
I hold it, but because my will is expressed in it.

(a) The first form, then, of rights is that of j'l/s i?t
rem, or the right of persons over things. Such a right
implies other persons while yet it excludes them. It must
be recognized, or persons would come into collision with
one another. At the same time it does ijOl imply the
actual assent of others, and in ihis it differs from

lb) Jus in personam, i.e., personal rights, the rights of
one person to an object first possessed by another, or to
some service which the other can perform for him. Such
a right implies a direct act of transference to the one of
that which primarily belongs to the other. This is coti-
truct. Here the right is established not against all, but
against a particular person. In the case of contract for
service, the service must be limited in extent and char-
acter, otherwise the jus in personam would be equivalent
to slavery.

if) Kant adds a third form of rights, jus realiter
personale. Here a person becomes not only the subject
but the object of a right, i.e., a person is treated as a
thing. Kant should evidently have said that such a right
contradicts the very idea of free personality on which
rights are based. The contradiction arises from the
attempt to apply the idea of rights to the family. In
marriage the contracting parties acquire right over each
other. Each must surrender to the other. Hence poly-
gamy and all irregular unions are contrary to the idea
of personal rights, because they give to one a right not

iMORAL PHILOSOPHY.

261

xpresses
Property
it is an
because

jus in

a right

It must

ion with

iply the

rights of
;r, or to
I. Such
: one of
1 is cofi-
all, but
:ract for
id char-
[uivalent

realiter
subject
id as a
I a right
1 which
om the
ily. In
'er each
ce poly-
he idea
ight not

granted to the other. Again, children have no rights as
against parents, except the right to be supported and
educated; corresponding to which is the right of the
parents to govern and direct the child while its powers
are immature.

So much as to the nature of Private Rights {Jus Pri-
vatum, Jus Naiurale). But how is the individual to be
secured in his rights? There must be a political power,
which at once secures each man's rights and excb des him
from interfering with the rights of others. There is there-
fore required a universal will armed with absolute power.
The condition of those who submit to this power is the
civil state. Everyone must enter the civil state, because
in it alone is there security for rights. "The act whereby
a people constitutes itself into a state ... is the
original contract by which all members of the people give
up their freedom in order to take it up again as members
of a commonwealth." The State frees the individual from
his particular desires by bringing him under a law of reason.
But Kant holds that the State can only take away hin-
drances to freedom. The social contract is therefore a
contract men are bound to make; and, when made, it
can never be broken. A right of revolution is a contra-
diction of the very idea of right. Rebellion can never be
just, however imperfect the form of the State. To execute
the sovereign, as was done in the case of Charles I. and
Louis XVI., is a crime against the very idea of justice.

At the same time the true or ultimate form of the State
is a Republic, and it is obligatory on the sovereign power
gradually to bring the State into that form. In the Ideal
State the supreme legislative power must be exercised by
representatives of the people. This Kant seeks to prove

262

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

I i,

as follows. All citizens, as free, equal, and independent,
are at once subject and ruler, i.e., they are under a law
which they themselves enact. But if so, must not all
laws be enacted by all the citizens ? At first Kant seems
to say so, but he makes limitations which destroy the
force of the admission, (i) There is a distinction between
active and passive citizens. Passive citizens include women
and children, house servants and day labourers, i.e., all
who sell their services. These are only potential citizens,
and have no votes until they become actual citizens by
gaining a position in which they do not sell their services.
(2) There must be a representative system, in which the
people do not directly legislate, but elect dt [)uties to do
so. The reason is that the legislative must be separated
from the executive power. But while the whole peoj)le
should not legislate, no law should be passed to which
the whole people could not give their assent. For ex-
ample, a law giving supreme authority to a class is not
just. Hence it is wrong to secure such authority to a
class by inheritance. But any law that a whole people
could possibly accent must be regarded as just, even
though at the time the people might not assent to it.
Applying this principle, Kant rejects all privileges of
birth, all right of inheritance in offices of State, and an
established church, especially if it has a fixed creed. So
all corporate institutions, for education or charity, are sub-
ordinate to the State, and may be abolished at any time
and their property seized. The citizens, on the other
hand, should have the right of free speech ; for all laws
must be assumed to be such as the whole people would
enact, and therefore the people have the right to show
that any law proposed or enacted is contrary to that

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

263

pendent,
^r a law

not all
It seems
troy the
between
2 women

i.e., all
citizens,
izens by
services,
hich the
es to do
separated
e people
to which

For ex-
ss is not
)rity to a
le people
List, even
mt to it.
ileges of
:, and an
reed. So
•, are sub-
any time
the other
r all laws
pie would

to show
y to that

principle. Kant therefore denies Hobbes' principle, that
the sovereign has only rights and not duties. It is the
duty of the sovereign to enact nothing that is contrary
to justice, and to enact everything that is essential to the
maintenance of justice.

Kant applies this idea of the State to Penal Justice in
an unflinching way. Punishment, he holds, must be
inflicted without any regard to the happiness either of the
criminal or of society, but solely with a view to the main-
tenance of justice. Legal penalty {Jyoena forensis) is not
like natural i-cnalty {poena naturalis). Vice punishes
itself by bringing unhappiness, but the punishment of
crime is purely because of the transgression committed.
A man is punished because he deserves it ; punishment is
his own transgression coming back upon himself. Whether
punishment is useful is not to the point : for " if justice
perish there is no longer any value in the existence of
men upon the earth." The principle on which punishment
should be inflicted is that of equality. By inflicting evil
on another a man affirms that the same amount of evil
should be inflicted on himself. Hence the only adequate
punishment for murder is death, for nothing is commen-
surable with death but death. " Even if a civil society
were on the point of being dissolved with the consent of
all its members {e.g., if a people dwelling on a desert
island had resolved to separate), they would be bound
first of all to execute the last murderer in their prisons."

Passing now to International Law, we have to ask on
what principles it is based. It is based, says Kant, on
the same principle as the law of the State. Just as indi-
vidual men were bound to combine in a State, so all
States are bound to combine in a Univcr5.al State. But

wmmm

' :!.

264

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

' I

■.'i \9 •> I

the practical difficulties which stand in the way are so
f,'reat that we must be content to employ the conception
of a Universal State mainly as an ideal. An everlasting
peace cannot be realized, but to it a continual approxi-
mation may be made, and therefore every State ought to
act with a view to its realization. Kant even suggests
articles for the future Law of Nations, which he thinks
would tend, to bring about such a peace, (a) No treaty
of peace shall be made with the secret reservation of
causes of (juarrel. (d) No State shall be transferred by
inheritance or gift, (c) No public debts shall be con-
tracted with a view to war. (d) No State shall in war
make use of means that destroy mutual faith, e.g., breach
of capitulation or attempts to make use of treachery
among the enemy. But these articles are merely prepara-
tory. It is further required that every State should be
republican in its constitution, for no other constitution is
based on the freedom and equality of all the citizens. It
is the great body of the people who suffer from war, not
the king or governing aristocracy. Starting from one
republic, a federation of States may gradually be secured,
with the object of preventing war. In such a league
one special article would be to secure the rights of each
citizen in the contracting States as a "citizen of the
world," I.e., to secure to him freedom to visit and to
trade in other countries than his own. Finally, the prin-
ciple of all politics is that what is right should be
done, not what is practicable. We cannot tell what is
practicable, but we can tell what is right. The philoso-
pher ought therefore to be called in to assist the statesman,
i.e., there should be free discussion of the principles on
which States are and ought to be based. Thus in

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

^^>5

ly are so
onception
verlasting
[ approxi-

ought to

suggests
he thinks
No treaty
vation of
ferred by

be con-
ill in war
f., breach
treachery
r prepara-
hould be
itution is
izens. It

war, not
rom one
: secured,
a league
; of each
1 of the
t and to
the prin-
lould be
i what is

philoso-
tatesman,
:iples on
Thus in

politics, as in morals, we shall learn to make what ought
to be our standard.'

CRITICISM OF KANT'S DOCTRINE OF RIGHTS.
Kant's Doctrine of Rights may be said to be a trans-
ference to the outward acts of man of that opposition
between Desire and Reason, which on his general theory
is exhibited in the inner world of the individual's own
consciousness. The actions of a man may either flow
from a desire for his own personal satisfaction, or they
may be consistent with the law of reason. In the former
case everything which the man desires he will seek to
secure by employing the means necessary. Thus he may
desire to possess land, or goods, or the services of others,
simply because he regards these as fitted to minister to
his individual pleasure. But desire has no limit in itself.
If I act purely from a desire for land, 1 shall take it
without any reference to the desires of others. It
matters not that another may possess the land, and may
equally desire it with me. I care nothing for his desires,
but only for my own. If I come into collision with
another because we both wish to have the same land,
the only way to settle the conflicting claims is that " h J
should take who has the power, and he should keep who
can." -Might is right." Thus the unlimited exercise
of desire leads to violence, to the war of all against
all, in which the strongest or the most cunning will

^ A fuller statement of Kant's doctrine of Rights will be found in

Caird s Cn^tca^ Account of the Fhilosofhy of Kaut, V.,1. II., chapter

V.., which ,s so admirable that nothing remained for me to do but to

condense ,t The same remark applies to the statement of Kant's

System of Moral Duties" given below.

I : ^I i

266

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

f i'

li -I

■S '!?■

succeed best. So far as desire is concerned, no indi-
vidual has any rights ; because no one recognizes the
chiims of another, and each seeks to satisfy his own
natural desire for what will bring him pleasure.

With this activity of natural desire Kant contrasts the
activity which proceeds from a law A reason. For
reason denies the claims of mere desire, and asserts that
each man should be treated as a " person," i.e., as a
being who has claims to external things. Reason says
that I have no more claim to external things than other
persons. If limits are to be set to my naturally unlimited
desire for my own satisfaction, I must not only claim a
right over things, but I must admit that others have an
equal dalm over them. Now, things are limited, and
therefore no single person ^an lay claim to all things.
The only way therefoie in which violence can be brought
to an end is by each person limiting himself to those
things that belong to him. So long as these limits are
observed there can be no disputes and no violence.

But here the difficulty arises, that it is always possible
for the individual to tall back upon natural desire. Men
are quite willing that others should respect their rights,
but under the influence of natural desire they are
prompted to deny the rights of others. A piece of land
belongs to another, but some one who covets it may
get possession of it if he is stronger or more cunning
than the rightful possessor. Thus the unlimited claim
of desire is substituted for the limited claim of reason.
Now, anyone who thus sets up his own desire as ultimate
can no longer claim to be treated as a rational being.
If he is justified in seizing a thing which belongs to
another simply because he desires it, another is equally

MORAI. PHILOSOPHY.

no indi-

lizes the

his own

trasts the
)n. For
serts that
i.e., as a
son says
lan other
unUmited

I claim a
have an

ited, and

II things.
J brought

to those
imits are
nee.

1 possible
re. Men
lir rights,
they are
e of land
; it may
; cunning
;ed claim
>f reason,
s ultimate
lal being,
elongs to
is equally

267

justified in seizing what belongs to him, and thus the
reign of violence begins over again. To act from desire
IS thus to appeal to violence, and therefore violence may
be employed against him.

It is from this point of view that Kant justifies the
existence of the State. A power is needed to compel the
desires o. men to keep within the limits: of reason. It-
men always respected the rights of others, there would be
no need for any external force to compel them to do so.
But they do not; and hence a power outside of them-
selves IS required to make f'^em respect the rights of
others, and to make others respect their rights. In the
outward sphere, therefore, a State Power is necessary to
"compel men to be free." And only the State can be
invested with such a power, because violence exerted by
an individual is merely a new manifestation of desire
For example, in blood-feuds, the motive is not a law of
reason, but the desire of revenge. It is therefore justifi-
able to force men to enter into society, since society is
tlie condition of each person becoming free.

(i) This theory of society is not self-consistent. It
holds, on the one hand, that rights belong to individuals
irrespective of society, and, on the other hand, that for
such rights they are indebted to society. For Kant bases
individual rights upon the conception of a person as an
abstract or exclusive self As such an abstract self I can
realize myself in independence of other selves. My free-
dom consists in this, that there are things in which my
will is expressed, and with which no one may interfere.
Now, it is no doubt true that the conception of rights
as an ideal excludes the interference of others with what
IS mine. But who is to secure the observance of such

(

til

^ I

268

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCKR.

rights? Obviously, the individual must recognize that
the law of reason, and not the law of desire, is to be
obeyed, />., he must view himself as a member of a
community in which the rights of all are bound up with
the rights of each. If so, the community is not a matter
of accident : it is not a contract into which individuals
may or may not enter, but it is a form of association
U) which they belong, because otherwise they would have
no rights. In other words, supj)ose each man to be
only accidentally related to others, and there can be
no absolute rights, because no one is bound to combine
with others. The individual may say, I prefer to seek
my good by myself, />., I prefer to find satisfaction for
my desires by getting as much as I can for myself. Only
if we grant that without society men cannot realize their
true self, can it be maintained that no one is justified in
separating himself from society. But if society is neces-
sary to constitute a right, as distinguished from a mere
object of desire, it cannot be said that society is an
accidental relation into which men may or may not
enter ; it is a relation into which they must enter by the
very law of their reason. 1 have rights only as a mem-
ber of society, not as a separate individual.

If we develop what is implied in Kant's theory, we
shall see that he virtually admits society to be essential
to the existence of rights. P'or he maintains that men
may force others to enter into society, and that it is an
absolute duty to respect the order of society when once
it has been formed. On what ground can it be main-
tained that men may be compelled to enter into society,
unless on the ground that only so can man's true nature
be realized? On any other supposition society can have

MORAL PHH-OSOPHY.

269

nize that

is to be
iber of a
I up with

a matter
idividiials
5sociation
)uld have
m to be

can be
combine

to seek
ction for
If. Only
ize their
stifled in
s neces-

a mere
y is an
nay not
r by the
a mem-
ory, we
essential
»at men
it is an
;n once
e main-
society,
: nature
m have

power over the individual only because it is stronger
than he, i.e., it becomes a mere desj)otism, interfering with
the individual's claim to be free of its regulations, liut
Kant really implies that the compulsion of society is a
compulsion of reason. Men must enter society because
in society they get rid of the caprice of their individual
desires, which have no limit in themselves. Hence Kant
holds that, whether the individual consents or not, the
laws imposed by society mtist be respected; and this
means that society is essential to the very existence of
rights, i.e., to the necessary means by which the indivi-
dual secures his freedom.

^ This may be seen still more clearly if we consider
Kant's theory of jus realiter pcrsonalc. Take, e.^., the
family relation. Kant admits that here the principle on
which all other rights are based does not properly apply.
An ordinary right can exist only in relation to a thing,
/>., an object which has no personality. No one can
possess a right in a person, because that would make the
person a mere thing, and deprive him of his personality.
This is why slavery is contrary to the idea of rights. The
slave has no rights. Now, in the family relation, there
are no exclusive rights. Husband and wife give up to
each other their independent personality, and have no
rights as against each other. What belongs to the one
belongs also to the other, so far as the relation applies.
Here therefore there are no exclusive rights; in other
words, the separate personality of each is negated. Kant
says that in this case the surrender of personality is re-
ciprocal. No doubt this is true; but if personality is
surrendered by each, it must be because there is here a
bond higher than that of abstract personality; for other-

,1 r
■

COMTE, MILL, AND SI'KNCZR.

I r'

: n^-itt.

wise the relation would be a violation of freedom. The
facts thus force Kant to admit that the true nature of
man is here realized only on the sujjposition that man in
his true nature is not an abstract person, but is capable
of entering; into a relation which is higher than abstract
pers(jnality.

Now the same thing applies to society. The members
of a State are not se[)arate individuals who may or may
not combine, but their combination is essential to the
freedom of each, ICach individual is a member in an
organism, and realizes himself only as he makes the
common good 'lis end. If society is organic, individuals
can have no rights apart from society. In other words,
the foundation of the claim for rights must lie in this,
that the general good can be realized only by assigning to
each individual rights with which no other individual may
interfere. The ultimate reason for the claim to rignts is
not that as an individual a man has such a claim, but
that the perfection of his nature as a social being
demands it. If it could be shown that men would
realize a higher perfection in a society in which there
were no individual rights, we should have to say that
such rights cannot be permitted. The reason for main-
taining personal rights is thus a social one.

(2) Kant holds that law deals only with overt acts,
not at all with the motives from which acts are done.
Morality, again, looks only at motives, asking whether
the will has been determined purely by the law of reason,
and not by desire. What we may seek is a form of the
State in which individuals are brought into external har-
mony with each other ; but we must not by means of law
seek lO make men moral. Goodness cannot be produced

MOkAl, IMIII.OSOI'IIY.

271

n. The

aturc of

inim in

capable

abstract

members
or may

I to the
;r in an
ikes the
dividuals
sr words,
; in this,
igning to
dual may
rignts is
laim, but
al being
n would
cli there
say that
r main-

jrt acts,
re done,
whether
reason,
h of the
^nal har-
Is of law
Iroduced

by the compulsion of society, because, while you may
make men conform to the external law of society, you
cannot make them good, (loodness is something that
can be realized only by each subject for himself. It is
certainly the iiulividual's duty to do what he can fo
bring about a more jjcrfect form of society, and he
must also try to further the hapjjiness of otliers ; but he
cannot be asked to make them good, 1 ecause it is not in
his power to do so. Thus mankind is conceived as a
sum of independent persons.

Now, if there are no rights ai)art from society, we
cannot thus separate the moral development of each in-
dividual from that of ethers. It is no doubt plausible to
say that the inner life of each is hidden from every one
but himself, or, at least, only imperfectly exi^ressed in his
outward actions ; and that we can therefore infer nothing
in regard to the inner life of others without first experi-
encing it in ourselves. It is indeed a mere truism that
what we have had no experience of we cannot learn from
without. But this inner experience is not separable from
outer experience. We have not first a knowledge of our
own individual states and then refer these by analogy to
others. It is only when we have gone beyond our im-
mediate feelings that we understand ourselves at all,
and the same process enables us to understand others.
Nay, it may be said that we first learn to understand
ourselves by understanding others. It is through the
community of persons that the individual understands
himself. If there were no common life, if society were
not an expression of morality, the individual would never
realize the meaning of his own moral nature. When
a man comes to the consciousness that in his own reason

■■

«■

272

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

there is a law of morality, he at first opposes the idea
of himself to the community ; but had he not been
moralized by the community in the first place, such a
return upon himself would be impossible.

(3) And this leads us to see what is the true meaning of
punishment. Kant denies that punisnment can be regarded
either as preventative cr as ediKational. Tiie sole object
of punishment is to vindicate the principle of rights. The
criminal affirms the law of his natural desires, and society
uses violence to cause his irrational act to recoil on
himself. Properly regarded, there is no contradiction
between these three theories of punishment. The object
of all punishment is to maintain the social unity as against
the caprice jf individuals. Punishment is therefore pre-
ventative in this sense, that, by tendir.^, 10 awaken in men
the consciousness that they are all members of one body,
it supplies them with an ideal which tends to prevent
them from acting as if thf.-y were mere individuals. It is
also educational, because it tends to awaken the conscious-
ness that crime is worthy of punishment. And lastly, it "
is a vindication of right in the sense that right is the
means by which the higher social self may be realized.
Observe, however, that punishment is not preventative
merely in the sense thac it hir.ders the commission of
particular crimes, but in the sense that it affirms the
principle which strikes at the root of all crimes. That is
to say, the object of punishment is not simply to deter
men from crime by the fear of punishment, but to lead
them to view crime as irrational. So punishment is edu-
cational, not in the sense of making men fear the penalty,
but in the sense of making them fear the guilt. And
finally, punishment vmdicates right, not as the rights of

the idea
lot been
, such a

waning of
regarded
e object
ts. The
i society
ecoil on
radiction
e object
> against
ore pre-
in men
le body,
prevent

J. It IS

nscious-
astly, it
; is the
ealized.
entative
sion of
tns the
That is
3 deter
to lead
is edu-
)enalty,
And
?hts of

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

.'"tie :■ '"' r "" """"""' "' '"^ "'8"" -'f 'vhich

s r ed ,„ .he soca. organism. We may therefore

-y that pu„,shme,u has ,o do with the moral nature of

an, because n seeks to make .he individual substitute

w h o^" r "'T- "' -'^'f--'-'-" ^y identification
e r^^ ",- ">\'"^'--" -"- of -If.realieation by
separ.t,on from others. Thus the two ends of making
men mora, and making them happy combine u> on

the one is to secure the other also.

SY.STE.M OF MORAL XIKTUE.S

iu-mse^P "wi' 7 "" T'^' '""" '■" "'"* ■"•™ -'-"
of man? ' '" °*" '"""'' "^ '"^ ^"-'fi^ 'lu'ies

Kant's conception of duties, as distinguished from rights
s that whereas the latter are enforced by society, thj
former are enforced by the individual upon himself. I
compels men to respect the rights of others, what t
.>e>r natural mclination may be; Morality comjels a ,n
^ respea the moral law which his own 'reason' reveals :

auhoaty and natural inclination, but between natural
nchnatton and the internal authority of reason. No
can compel a man to be moral, because morality consists
m free sutn.ssion of the individual to the moriri J
A man may act u, accordance with the idea of duty
because he ,s compelled to do so by the pressure of n
external authority, but his act is not therefore moral
because ,t .s not done from a moral motive. In moraUy
ir:^-r".-'^^---tbeinharm^'

with the law. This is the

single principle of duty. B

ony

« -. ^1

•74

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

5 4 I

1 V

this principle takes different forms according to the
different ends which are sought to be realized, i.e., we
can distinguish various duties by distinguishing the
various ends of action which we ought to have.

Now, there are two ends which we ought to realize :
(i) our own perfection, (2) the happiness of others.

(i) By perfection is meant conformity with the moral
law. Such conformity is possible only in so far as a man
rises above his animal nature and develops the faculties
belonging to him as man. Perfection therefore means,
firstly, the development of the faculties characteristic of
man. But, secondly, perfection implies purity of will, i.e.,
that virtuous temper of mind in which the moral law is
the sole motive and standard of action. Our duty to
ourselves, then, is to develop all our fliculties and to
cultivate purity of will.

(2) Our duty to others is to seek their happineiis. It
is not our duty to seek our own happiness, for that
is an end which natural inclination inevitably prompts
us to seek. The happiness of others, again, is not
what they think to be their happiness, for often they
suppose it to consist in what is inconsistent with it.
Nor can we seek the perfection of others directly, for
perfection can only be secured by the individual himself;
still we may indirectly aid men in their efforts after
perfection, by avoiding everything that will mislead them
into a false view of their perfection. Thus the moral
law implies two commands: (i) Do for yourself all that
you regard as binding upon others; (2) Do for others
all that you would wish them to do for you.

We must, however, distinguish between "obligations of
right" and "obligations of virtue." There are various

to the
i.e., we
ng the

realize :
rs.

e moral
s a man
faculties
means,
-ristic of
will, i.e.,
al law is
duty to
and to

ness. It
or that
prompts
is not
ten they
with it.
ctly, for
himself;
ts after
ad them
e moral
all that
others

itions of
various

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

275

duties, and one of these may limit the other to a certain
extent. Thus the question may arise how far phil-
anthropy is to be limited by one's duty to his own
family. It is a man's duty to seek both the general
good and the good of his family, and no exception can
be admitted ; but how far he is to seek the one or the
other must be determined by particular considerations.

There are three characteristics of duty.

(i) There is only one ground of each duty. For
example, obligation to truthfulness is not the injury done
to others by lying, but the moral wortiilessness of the liar.

(2) The difference between virtue and vice is a differ-
ence in kind not in degree. Aristotle is therefore wrong
in making virtue a mean between two vices. The virtue
of good husbandry is not that more is spent than is
done by the avaricious man and less than is done by
the prodigal. Prodigality and avarice are vices because
their motives are immoral. The {.irodigal spends his
money simply as a means to enjoyment, the avaricious
man saves his money because of the enjoyment which
is found in its possession ; good husbandry makes use of
wealth simply as a means to higher ends.

(3) Our duties are not determined by our capacity, but
our capacity by our duties. We must not say, " I have
done ill that could be expected of me," but, "I have
not attained to the perfect standard of humanity."

Virtue may be called a " habit," if it is added that it is
a "free habit/' or a "habit of acting by the idea of law."
Virtue is always advancing, because it is an unattainable
ideal : it is always beginning, because the natural desires
cannot be got rid of, and therefore we never attain to a
perfectly formed state of virtue. If our actions ever

276

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

became merely habitual, they would have no moral
character, because there would be no freedom in the
choice of maxims of conduct.

Kant distinguishes between (i) Duties to ourselves
and (2) Duties to others.

I. Duties to Ourselves.

I. Negative or Strict.

!• \y

\ !

ia) Duties to ourselves as having an animal nature.

These correspond to the three natural impulses of («)
self-preservation, (/i) maintenance of the species, (7) main-
tenance of the capacity to use one's powers for useful
ends, and for the animal enjoyment of life. These are
virtues, because man's physical life is a means to his exist-
ence as a person. The vices opposed to them are (a)
suicide, (/?) unnatural sej^sual indulgence, (7) inordinate
enjoyment of the pleasures of the table.

{b) Duties to ourselves as moral beings.

There are here also three virtues, (a) truthfulness, (fi)
good husbandry, (7) self-respect. The corresponding vices
are (a) lying, iji) avarice, (7) false humility. The liar is
"a mere semblance of humanity, and not a true man."
Avarice is the slavish subjection of oneself to the goods
of fortune. As to false humility, "he who makes himself
a worm cannot complain if others trample upon him."
As a person, a man is above all price, and ought not to
crouch before his fellows, as if he had no self-centred
life of his own. Even the slavish fear of Eastern devotees
before the divine involves a sacrifice of human dignity.

All the duties of man to himself rest upon his being
the "born judge of himself." Hence man's first duty is

no moral
)m in the

ourselves

nature.
Ises of (a)
, (y) main-
for useful
These are
) his exist-
jm are (a)
inordinate

ilness, {13}
ding vices
"he liar is
rue man."
the goods
es himself
)on him."
[ht not to
ilf-centred
I devotees
dignity,
his being
St duty is

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

to "know himself," in th^ c^r,c^ r r; ,■

science ..^ 1 ^ °^ ^"^'"^ 0"t ^vhat

science commands. «' Descent

knowledge is the only w.-

excellence."

277

con-
into the hell of self-
ay to the heaven of divine

2. Positive.
purity of will ^ "^"'^ "^ cultivating

IJ. Duties to Othkrs.
These are either (.) those which give rise to an obliga-
give rise to an obligation on the part of others The
ormer are accompanied by the feeling of lo 'e th
latter by the feeling of resoect T nv. a
to be united wt ^ "^^ ^""^ '"'P^^^ ^ught

.ttr. !• . ""'^ '°'^P''^^^ ^hem to a force of

attraction and a force of repulsion ^^n .u ■

mutual love men are callln ^ " ^""''P^^ °^

ve men are called upon to approach each other

by the principle of resnect tn nr.c '

(a) The maxim of benevolence rests on the principle
ha we can w,sh well ,o ourselves only on cond ,on
hat we w,sh well to others. The duties 'that n 1 u tr

rei V " °' ^'™''="<=^ '°' «^^- --e from "the

ecognmon ,n other men of a worth for which there i
no pnce or equivalent." We must reverence the d gnity
of humanity even in the degraded and vicious. Hence
we mttst condemn all punishment by mutilations, wJch

278

COMTE, MILL, AND Sl'ENCER.

bring shame on humanity. So we must respect the in-
telligence of others, and in correcting their errors bring
out the element of truth in that which misled them.

The vices opposed to respect for humanity are (a)
pride, (fS) evil-speaking, (y) readiness to mock and insult.

There are other duties determined by age, sex, or cir-
cumstances, but they cannot be determined on general
principles. Of these the most important is Friendship.

I
1 ',

.Jl

Kant holds that we can further the happiness of others,
but not their moral perfection. For, if a man is acted
upon by another, he argues, he cannot be determined
purely by the moral law, and therefore he cannot be
free. Each man must therefore work out his own moral
salvation. It is our duty to seek our own perfection and
the happiness of others, but it can never be a duty to seek
the perfecHon of others or the happiness of ourselves.
Kant, however, so far modifies his first view as to admit
that we may individually assist others in the attainment
of moral perfection by taking care not to throw tempta-
tions in their way which would lead to their having the
misery of a bad conscience. In other words, it is each
man's own duty to preserve a blameless conscience, and
when he does wrong he can blame no one but himself.
To say that " the woman tempted me " is to deny one's
freedom as a rational being. But, while no one can
blame another for his moral guilt, each may blame himself
for putting obstacles in the way of another. For human
nature is weak, and is too ready to follow the passions.

Now, if it is admitted that we may put hindrances in
the way of others, it cannot be denied that we may also
act so as to help others in their moral life. If a man

MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

•ect the in-
:rrors bring

them,
ity are (a)

and insuh.
sex, or cir-
on general
iendship.

s of others,

in is acted

determined

cannot be

own moral

fection and

uty to seek

ourselves.

s to admit

attainment

w tempta-

laving the

it is each

ence, and

t himself.

eny one's

one can

e himself

r human

assions.

ranees in

may also

f a man

by his bad example tempts others to wrong, may he not
also by his good example induce others to do right? Kant
thinks that we cannot affect directly the moral life of
others, because morality is a personal matter. Morality
is no doubt a personal matter, but it is not therefore
carried on in isolation. The intluence of good or bad
1 example would not be a moral influence, if men were
not capable of appropriating what is good or bad for
themselves. Men are not exonerated from moral blame
because others act immorally, nor do they cease to deserve
moral praise because others act morally ; but this does
not alter the fact that morality is essentially social. We are
moral beings only as we are capable of viewing ourselves
as members of a social organism. We usuaDy deter-
mine the moral quality of our actions by reference to the
standard of the society to which we belong. If it is
objected that in that case we are simply acting from
custom, the answer is that to view conduct from the
social point of view is not necessarily to act from custom.
To act merely from custom is to act by reference to an
external standard, the basis of which we do not compre-
hend. To act from the social point of view, on the
other hand, is to judge all actions, our own and others,
from the unexpressed principles on which the conmion
social life rests. The consciousness of these principles
gradually grows up in us because we gain the conscious-
ness of ourselves only in and through our relations to
others. It is true that we may at a later stage come to
be conscious that the ordinary standard of action em-
bodied in the special form of society to which we belong
is inadequate ; but the consciousness of this inadequacy
would be impossible for us did not society already

r-('f

III

280

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

involve rational principles of action. Thus he who has
been so far moralized by coming to the consciousness of
the principle upon which the family rests, is prepared for
the comprehension of the wider principle upon which the
State rests, and, ultimately, for the still wider principle
uj)on which humanity rests. Thus, moral freedom is not
the freedom of the mere individual, but the freedom
which rests upon self-identification with a universal law
that first reveals itself to us in a social law.

From this point of view we can see that there can be
no opposition, such as Kant maintains, between our duty
to ourselves and our duty to others. Every duty is at
once a duty to ourselves and a duty to others. Thus
the duty of furthering one's own physical and moral well-
being is at the same time a duty to society, because it
is only by doing so that we can become fit members of
the social organism. We are to withstand the immediate
promptings of desire, but the gratification of these is con-
trary at once to our own welfare and the welfare of others.
Nor can it be said, as Kant says, that we must give up
our own happiness for the good of others and not at all
of ourselves. If this were so, the perfect form of society
would be one in which each surrendered all that belonged
to himself. In such a society, the aim would be to gratify
the selfishness of others, not to reach a point in which
all selfishness is done away. In point of fact, the attempt
to yield up all to the will of another may develop enor-
mous selfishness on the part of those to whom the surrender
is made.^ What we ought to seek is to secure the moral

^ It may be worth while referring to the ilhiminating poetic treat-
ment of this idea in Euripides' Akestis, at least as "transcribed"
and interpreted in Browning's noble " Balaustion's Adventure."

he who has
iciousness of
prepared for
n which the
er principle
dom is not
le freedom
liversal law

MOKAI, PHILOSOPHY

*"us, only can a higher snirf^ t-ih.>
-ery member of the co„„nm,i,y. ' ''""-■ P°^^ess,o„ of

ere can be
n our duty
duty is at
Jrs. Thus
noral well-
because it
embers of
immediate
se is con-
of others.
t give up
lot at all
)f society
belonged
to gratify
in which
attempt
op enor-
urrender
e moral

Jtic treat-
iscribed "
re."

CHAPTER XII.

PHILOSOPHY OF THK ABSOLUTK.

RELIGION.

f .

Hii

Morality ultimately rests upon the consciousness of an
ideal good for man which is identical with the good of
existence as a whole. In other words, there is no abso-
lute good unless it can be shown that man is seeking to
realize what is in conformity with the unchangeable nature
of God. A rational faith in God is, therefore, at the basis
of morality.

This is denied by Kant. He maintains that morality
is independent of religion, because the reason of man
commands him to realize the moral law, even irrespec-
tive of the union of virtue and happiness. The idea
of morality is its own guarantee, and unless it can be
established independently it is impossible to prove the
existence of God at all. God is postulated only because
on no other supposition can we explain the possibility of
the union of virtue and happiness.

Kant, however, proceeds to ask how far, in consistency
with his own theory, he can accept the fundamental ideas
of the Christian religion. And, first of all, he discusses
the question of Original Sin.

'K.

less of an
e good of
s no abso-
seeking to
ble nature
the basis

,t morality
of man
irrespec-
The idea
it can be
[prove the
|y because
isibihty of

)nsistency

Intal ideas

discusses

PHILOSOPHY OF THF. AllSOI.UTF..

283

The problem, as he puts it, is this ; There is in all
men a bias to evil ; and this bias seems to be a tendency
inherited from our ancestors. Jiut, on the other hand,
when we do a wrong action, we attribute the evil to
ourselves, and that irrespective of any inherited tendency
to evil. How, then, are we to say at once that evil is a
natural propensity over which we have no control, anil
that evil is under our own control, or is done freely?

(i) What constitutes the bias to evil? It does not lie
in our natural impulses as such. The appetite of iiunger,
e.g., is in itself neither good nor bad, anil for it we are
in no way responsible. Nor can we explain the evil bias
as due to a loss of the idea of moral obligation ; for, if
we had no idea of moral obligation, we should not be
responsible for our acts, nor should we even be con-
scious of guilt. So tar as we view man as a sensuous
being, endowed with immediate imi)ulses, we reduce him
to the level of the animals. On the other hand, if man's
will were absolutely evil, if he were not conscious of
himself as under obligation to obey the moral law, his
sole motive would be to act contrary to it. Man would
act on the principle of Milton's Satan : " Evil, be thou
my good " ; he would, in fact, be " neither more nor less
than a deiniy Now, if the bias to evil does not lie in
the natural impulses, nor in the rational nature of man,
wherein can it lie ? It can only lie, Kant answers, in this,
that man subordinates moral law to happiness, instead of
/ subordinating happiness to moral law. Thus, though the
natural impulses are in themselves morally indifferent, they
become evil when they are made the motives of action.
The bias *^o evil is thus the tendency in man to disobey
the moral law, which his reason prescribes, by seeking

■— <<l*l»l'l»-l>fc

■ ■■1 ,1 I ifclljll

284

COMTK, Mil, I., AND SPENCER.

i*i)

for his own Individual happiness, />., for the satisfaction
of all his immediate desires. Kant accepts the scrii)tural
doctrine that "there is none righteous, no not one,"
but he does not admit that the tendency to evil can be
explained by referring it to any person but the agent
himself. Kvil exists for each man only as he himself
wills evil.

But how are we to explain the fact that every man
exhibits this tendency to seek for happiness, instead of
making the moral law his sole motive? The tendency
undoubtedly exists in man prior to all definite acts of
will, and it seems natural to say that the individual must
have received the bias not by his own act, but from
some external source. This explanation, however, cannot
be accepted. If my evil bias comes from another, 1 am
not responsible for it ; nothing can be attributed to me
but what I freely will. Kant gets over the difficulty in
his own peculiar way. Every volition that I exert pro-
ceeds from the very centre of my inner being, but I
cannot 'uake that inner being an object of my know-
ledge. My volitions I must necessarily present to myself
as events in time, but in their true nature they are not
events in time. Hence a volition is not due to anything
but itself; it proceeds from the free activity of the
subject. When we do an evil act, we may say that we
fall out of the state of innocence into the state of guilt,
^j^viry evil act is thus a new fall from innocence : the
fall of man is perpetually reenacted. We cannot shift
our responsibility for evil to the acts of any one prior
to ourselves, because each evil act may be described
as an uncaused act, />., as an act proceeding straight
from our own will. If, however, we ask, Why does man

"-llf

PHILOSUI'HY OK THE AUSOI.UTK.

285

iatisfaction
scrii)tural

not one,"

vil can be
the agent

he himself

every man
instead of
e tendency
ite acts of
adual must
, but from
ver, cannot
)ther, 1 am
Lited to me
difficulty in
exert pro-
;ing, but I
my know-
t to myself
|iey are not
o anything
[ity of the
|ay that we
|te of guilt,
ence : the
nnot shift
one prior
described
ig straight
does man

will evil, and thus fall or rather phinge into evil? we can
find no answer : the origin of evil is inexplicable. The
Biblical narration seems to express this when it makes
tennitation come from an evil spirit. This, however,
leaves unexplained how a being who is pure within
could be tempted from v.ithout, and we must therefore
interpret it to mean, not that man is really tempted by
an evil spirit, but that the fall from purity is unsearch-
able. We see, however, ivhy it is unsearchable ; fc" to
comprehend ;he origin of evil we should have to con-
template the inner nature of man as free from the form
of time, and that is impossible from the necessary limita-
tion of our knowledge.

Similarly, when we read that sin is inherited from our
first parents, we must not inter[)ret the statement literally.
Our first i)arents could not sin for us, but only for them-
selves. What we must understand is, tnat we recognize
that in his place we should have acted as the first man
is represented as acting. And if we cannot comprehend
how a free being should fall from innocence into evil, no
more can we comprehend how he can turn again from
evil to good. We need not, indeed, exclude the idea
that some "supernatural cooperation with our will may
be needed to remove hindrances, if not to give positive
help ; but if such cooperation be possible, we must first
make ourselves worthy of it," /.<?., we must open our wills
to receive it by our own free action. To suppose that we
can be made good in any way but by good action, e.g.^
that a supernatural influence can be got by doing nothing
but praying, "which, before an all-seeing Being, is nothing
but wishing," is mere superstition.

On these principles, we must say that man passes from

ii\

i i

l\:

I r

! :'■ I

286

COMTE, MILL, AND SPF.NCER.

evil to good, or from good to evil, in an instantaneous
act. Conversion is an instantaneous act in this sense,
that it implies an absolute change in the principle of the
will, a change whioh cannot be better expressed than by
calling it a new birth or even a new creation. Still we
can only realize this change by a progress from worse to
better • and only God, whose intelligence is not limited
by the form of time, can perceive as a complete whole
what for us is a succession. We can only have a relative
confidence in the change of principle within us, but as
we find our character grow in stability our confidence will
be also increased.

The Pauline doctrine of Redemption, like that of the
Fall, is reinterpreted by Kant in his own way. As he
denied that moral evil can be imputed to any one because
of the guilt of another, so he denies that any one can
become morally good by the imputadon to him of the
righteousness of another. Adam's sin cannot become our
sin, nor Christ's goodness our goodness. Yet the Pauline
idea of redemption points to a truth. The Stoics supposed
that our moral warfare is with passion. The Apostle saw
that our "warfare is not with flesh and blood, but with
principalities and powers," i.e., with evil spirits. The spirit
of evil, however, is not external but internal ; it is a
principle of evil in the very nature of our own will. And
it can be combated only by another spiritual power, viz.,
by a principle of good. Yet, though evil and good spring
from the individual man himself, the principle of good is
by St. Paul personified in a way that corresponds to the
truth. We never know our own nature as it is behind
the veil. We speak of that as an event, v/hich is indeed
the source of all events in the way of volition, but which

PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE.

287

itaneous
s sense,
e of the
than by
Still we
A'orse to

limited
:e whole

relative
, but as
;nce will

t of the
Ag he
because
one can
of the
pme our
Pauline
upposed
stle saw
nit with
lie spirit
it is a
. And
|er, viz.,
spring
food is
to the
behind
indeed
which

in its real nature cannot be called an event at all. Thus
the root of all moral evil and good lies hidden in the
inner nature of man, though it exhibits itself in a long
series of acts. The principle of good being in us, and
yet not being produced by ourselves, it may properly be
said that it has come down from heaven and taken our
nature that it may elevate us, who are by niture evil.
Hence it is that we must speak of the willing of good
as done for us by another, by one who has realized the
ideal of humanity; for God cannot love the world except
as ideally realized in the complete moral perfection of
humanity. Kant, in short, holds that the righteousness of
Christ is imputed to us only in the sense that God takes
our imperfect goodness (as springing from the eternal
principle of goodness in us) as ecjuivalent to perfect
goodness. For though man in this life can only approxi-
mate to goodness, yet, if the principle of goodness is at
work in him, it will ultimately purge his nature of all
evil. Thus, in so far as we are conscious of continued
purity of will, we may have a foretaste of the joy whfch
must spring from an unalterable will for the good. " This
joy we may fitly represent as an eternal bliss of heaven,
secured to us through unity with our divinely human
Lord ; while its opposite sorrow will appear to us as an
endless hell, through identification with the sj)irit of evil."
What, then, is to be said of our past guilt ? How can
there be atonement for it? Our present obedience is
imperfect, and, even if it were perfect, it could not atone
for the past. In willing evil in the past we have, it would
seem, taken the principle of evil into our inmost being,
and therefore merited infinite punishment. To atone for
our past gui't, it may appear that at the moment v/hen

288

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

our will proceeds from the principle of evil to the principle
of good, we ought to bear an infinite punishment. Kant
meets this difficulty by saying that the change from the
corrupt to the good man already involves the sacrifice of
self and the acceptance of a long series of the evils of
life, merely for the sake of the good.

') :

Kant's subjective view of morality prevents him from
doing justice to the truth contained in the Pauline
doctrine of the Fall. In St. Paul's conception man is
not a separate individual whose inner life is incapable of
being influenced by others. On the contrary, he conceives
of all men as members of one great* organism, so that the
evil or good of one communicates itself to all the rest.
The sin of Adam passes on from generation to generation,
and works increasing woe to man ; and the Law, while
it makes men conscious of the evil power which has taken
hold cf them, does not enable them to throw it off. On
the other hand, Christ is the source of a new regenerative
principle, fitted to restore the wh-^le of humanity to more
than its original purity. Viewing this new principle as
having already realized what it is fitted to realize^ St. Paul
says that as in Adam all die, so in Christ all are again
made alive.

Kant, again, denies that either nature, or man, or even
God can directly hinder us m our willing of the morai^-
law. He will have no interference with the self-deter-
mination of each individual subject. Now, the subject
so isolated he conceives of as having no motive but the
law of reason, or, in other words, as containing within
himself only the principle of good. If so, the willing
of evil is not only, as he says, " mysterious," but it

the principle
nent. Kant
ige from the
: sacrifice of
the evils of

:s him from
:he Pauline
;ion man is
incapable of
le conceives

so that the
all the rest.
' generation,

Law, while
:h has taken

it off. On
regenerative
lity to more
principle as
izej, St. Paul
11 are again

an, or even
f the morai^^^^
e self-deter-

the subject
ive but the
ning within

the willing
lus," but it

PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE. ,^^

is a numfest impossibility. For the subject to will evil
he m St 3^ ,^^^^ ,_.^ BJKantha ;

alTtlCfrhe^^^^^^^^^^^^^

lie goes on to say that man may will evil

™ J far as he subordinates reason ,0 ,.ssL;
■noral recovery of man is not, as tl,e Stoics held a

law Hence ev,l n,ust, he says, consist in a perversion
of the proper relations between reason and de ir! ^
cannot lie eM^r in the nafnr.l ^ ■ ,

selves are nei,h 7 "■"' "''"^"^ '" 'hem-

reason «h,ch ,s ,n,poss,ble. But this opposition s false

oran at ;tl7:rrar,'^™^"'^ ''' '-"-"°"
perversion nf ^^"'"^ «°°''- The moral

perversion of man ,s not to be explained as a war

h nirof^".'''"^"''^^' ^"' - ^ -"«'^'
tne nature of man himself as capable of willing nar

.cular or ™,versal ends. The conflict can o ly come
'o an end when the consciousness of an abs. Lt 7
of goodness is transmuted into th. .
social relations. '" consciousness of

btoics The Stoics also held morality to be a lif
according to reason, ,> a iffe i„ f • u

' ^ '" winch man is in

no way under the dominion of passion R 7^
further than Kant in „ • "' ""'>' SO

consists n the abslte t"'"' "'' '"' ™°^=" '"^
desires Th. "'°" °^ =>" "''' "-'"ral

desires. The passions, they say, are "unnatural" ,V

they are in absolute contradiction to the r„- 7 '
of man H«„„ u'cnon to the rational nature

o man. Hence man can only be himself if he exnels
all the natural dpsirp« o«^ expeis

desires, and so comes to "harmony"

ill

II'!

i:-r?

290

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

with himself. This doctrine makes the passions some-
thing so foreign to the nature of man that the difficulty
is to explain how man should ever be under the influence
of passion at all. If man is by nature pure reason, how
do^s he come to give way to passion ? i\re we not com-
pelled to hold that he cannot be pure reason, or, in other
words, that passion is his self-surrender to evil ? The
Stoics, however, simply assume that as a matter of fact
natural desire has an influence upon man, and, affirming
the passionless life of reason to be the true life, they say
that passion must be extruded as a foreign element.
Kant, on the other hand, makes an attempt to explain
how passion comes into the will of man. Man is by
nature a composite being, having both reason and desire.
' Evil is not the mere determination by desire, but a
determination by the will that places desire above reason.
! The moral recovery of man is therefore not the annihila-
^ tion of desire, but its subordination to reason. This is
the compromise by which Kant seeks to harmonize desire
and reason. The desire for happiness is reasonable, but
not the desire for happiness at the expense of morality ;
and in the elevation of happiness over morality he finds
the explanation of evil.

If we carry out to its consequences the view of Kant
that man is by nature at once rational and sensuous, we
shall have to transform his doctrine. If ihe moral end
is to bring desire into conformity with reason, we cannot
hold that desire is the abstract opposite of reason. There
can be no truce between irreconcilable enemies. The
true realization of self must be a realization in which the
sensuous and the rational aspects of man's life are in
harmony with each other. The desires of man are not

w«r--«w««aMM

■«««.<»:•««'••-'

PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE.

J9I

some-
ifficulty
ifluence
>n, how
Dt com-
in other
? The

of fact
iffirming
they say
element.

explain
in is by
d desire.
;, but a
e reason,
annihila

This is
ze desire
lable, but
jmorality ;

he finds

of Kant
luous, we
loral end
fe cannot
There
js. The
^rhich the
|fe are in
are not

impulses, but desires for particular objects which only
differ from the universal end of reason in being particular
modes in which that end is sought to be realized. The
moral division in man's nature does not arise from the
conflict of two opposite principles, but from a false ap-
plication of the one principle of self-determination. It is
the same self that is present in what is called the life of
sense and the life of reason. Even a wrong desire is
possible only to a being who in his desires is seeking a
universal good, a good chat will bring harmony to his
ideal nature.

The great imperfection of Kant's view of the moral
liie lies in its strong individualism. The moral law he
conceives as so absolutely a law of our own being that
we can be aided in our moral life neither by God nor
man. Thii view is an exaggeration of the principle of
individual liberty, which was the watch-word of the Re-
formation. Luther insisted upon the absoluteness of the
individual conscience, but he maintained that before God
the individual has no freedom. The enlightenment of the
eighteenth century denied even this reservation, and thus
the individual was left alone with himself. Kant accepted
the principle of individualism, but he maintained that the
individual is truly himself only as he prescribes for him-
self a universal law — the law of his own being. The
individual is influenced by others only on the side of his
sensuous desires, and even that influence is possible only
as his will gives assent to them. In opposition to this
view, we must say that the law which man prescribes to
himself presupposes objective ends in which the indivi-
dual may realize himself. It is true that we cannot be
satisfied, in the realization of any particular end, with the

292

COMTE, MFLF-, AND SPENCER.

V ia

satisfaction of a particular desire ; but this dissatisfaction
arises only from tiie consciousness that in willing a
particular end we have not realized the self. This opposi-
tion, however, is transcended when the true meaning
of the particular desires is apprehended ; for then we
find that the particular end may be willed as identical
with the universal or good. It is t^'is identification of
desire with good that constitutes morality. All particular
I objects of desire become good in so far as they are
\ the specific forms in which universal good is realized.
P>om this it follows that the moral law is primarily
social. Our consciousness of ourselves as moral and
spiritual beings is made possible only by our con-
sciousness of other selves. The outer law which binds
the different members of society together is really an

* inner law. Man can rise above his immediate desires,
, just because he can rise above the point of view of his

• own individual life and live in the life of others. At
first, indeed, the law of society appears as an external
law based upon authority, and when man comes to the
consciousness of law as the inner law of his own being,
it is only natural that he should oppose this Inner law
to the outer law of society. But in reality it is both
inner and outer, the law of his owii being, and a social
law which binds him to others. The important thing is,
that he should submit to ihe law of society, not because
society imposes the law, but because he consciously

I recognizes it to be identical with the realization of

' himself.

The nearest approximation of Kant to the view that
man's moral life is essentially social, is contained in
his conception of an invisible ethical community. This

PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE.

293

isfaction
billing a
5 opposi-
meaning
then we
identical
;ation of
Darticular
they are
realized,
primarily
oral and
our con-
ich binds
really an
2 desires,
ew of his
ers. At
external
to the
vn being,
nner law
is both
a social
thing is,
because
msciously
ation of

view that
tained in
ty. This

community, as he holds, rests upon the idea of the
moral law as realizable because it ought to be reaHzed ;
and therefore it seeks to remove the hindrances which
prevent men from living the moral life. Until such a
community is established, all men are in an ethical
state of nature, in which they hinder on all sides the
moral advancement of the race. The great power of

•' evil in the world is the envious rivalr_y of men. In
society they corrupt each other, and become each other's
worst enemies. They ought, therefore, to combine on
the basis of a common submission to the moral law.
In this community force cannot be employed, because
moral freedom is inconsistent with it. This community
can only be imperfectly represented by any outward
institution. The nearest approach to it is in the growth
of the consciousness of the importance of morality.

This conception of an ethical community is not con-
sistent with the general principles of Kant. As we
have seen, his principles led him to deny that the
individual can further the moral life of others. But he
so far modifies this view as to say, that men may put
temptations in the way of others, and hence that they
may combine to remove hindrances to the moral life.
In this doctrine Kant is virtually preparing the way for
the idea that true freedom is realized in and through
social relations. Man is rational, not because he lives
an inner life with which no one can interfere, but

1) because no influence upon him is purely external. The
influence of others does not really interfere with the
freedom of the individual, because such influence becomes
a motive only as it is passed through the transmuting

'1 medium of self-consciousness. Thus the influence of

294

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCLR.

others may be good or bud, not because it forces the
individual to act in a certain way, but because the ideal
of self cannot be realized by the individual apart, but
only through the develoi)ment of the ideal in society.
Kant's fundamental mistake is to view the natural
desires as belonging to the individual sensibility which
may be acted upon from without. Every natural desire
being, on his view, a susceptibility of the individual
to be affected by what is external .0 him, he assumes
that to speak of the influence of society is the same
thing as to speak of the influence of natural desire
as understood in this unspiritual way.

It is only another form of the same imperfection that
Kant allows of no distinction between morality and religion.
Morality is a purely individual matter, and therefore man
cannot be aided in his moral life by God any more
than by others, or at least only by God, in so far as he
himself wills the law of his own reason. Now, if we
thus conceive of God as necessarily withdrawn from the
inner life of man, we fall back upon a self-determination
which is purely individual. The moral law thus becomes
a law only for the individual. Man cannot, indeed, being
what he is, rid himself of its authority ; but, after all, the
goal of his efforts may be only the realization of an ideal
that does not harmonize v/ith the true nature of things.
What he supposes to be moral progress may, from the
point of view of God, be moral retrogression. Thus that
which constitutes the essential feature in the religious
consciousness is lost, or at least becomes problematic.
! The essence of the religious consciousness is the assurance
that in realizing the higher life man is a fellow-worker
with God, and that in so realizing himself all things work

PHILOSOPFiV OF THE ABSOLUTE.

295

irces the
:he ideal
aart, but

society.

natural
y which
il desire
dividual
assumes
le same
1 desire

on that
religion.
>re man
y more
r as he '
, if we
om the
lination
ecomes
, being
all, the
n ideal
things,
•m the
lis that
iligious
2matic.
urance
worker
s work

together for good. If man cannot identify himself with
God all his strivings are vain efforts to escape from the
prison-house of his own limited individuality. If he can-
not know God he can know nothing, because all his
apparent knowledge must be infected with the illusion
of his finitude; if he cannot identify his will with the
will of God, his goodness is from the absolute point
of view a mere semblance. Hence the consciousness of
the moral law cannot be separated from the conscious-
ness of God without losing its power and authority.
What gives absoluteness both to the individual conscience
and to the laws of society is the identity of both with
the infinite perfection of God. It is true that neither
involves a complete consciousness of all that is implicit
in that perfection; but, except in so far as man is
conscious that in himself and others the divine is con-
' tinually being realized, he has no ground for his faith
in goodness. Ultimately, therefore, morality rests upon
religion.

ART.

The higher consciousness of man expresses itself not
only in Religion but in Art. What in the one takes
the form of a personal experience, lifting the individual
above the flux of the transitory and reconciling him to
himself and to the world, takes in the other the form of
an objective presentation of the ideal nature of existence
in one or more of its manifold phases. To deal with so
important and complex a subject as the Philosophy of
Art in anything like an adequate way would require much
time and care, and we must be content at present with
a short statement and criticism of the aesthetic theory of

■ t

I s

t i

296

COMTE, MILL, AN I J SFKNCKR.

Iv;int, who, in this as in. otiicr bninches of philosophy,
was the first philosopher of modern times who attemi)ted
to treat the subject in a com|)rehensive way. His doctrine
is open to grave objections, but it is full of fertile sugges-
tion, and is a distinct advance upon the sui)erficial or
ina(le(iuate theories of his predecessors.

There are, in Kant's view, two objects of Art, the
beautiful and the suhlime. Beauty is not, as is usually
supposed, a ([uality of the object, but a peculiar feeling
of satisfaction which arises in us in the mere contempla-
tion of the object. Our aesthetic judgments are therefore
entirely independent of practical utility : a flower, for
example, will be pronounced beautiful, (juite irrespective
of its market value. The feeling of satisfaction awakened
in us by a beautiful object is quite unique, and must not
be confused either with the feeling of pleasure associated
with the satisfaction of desire — say, the desire for a fine
wine — or with the feeling which is connected with the
willing of a good act. For in both of these cases our
satisfaction springs from interest in the object as related
to ourselves, whereas the feeling of beauty is entirely
disinterested^ arising as it does from the bare contemplation
of the object called beautiful, and in fact it is the only
free and disinterested feeling of which man is capable.
It follows from this that, as the feeling of beauty is not
determined by the peculiar sensuous susceptibility of the
individual, we have no hesitation in afiirming that all men
must find beautiful the object which awakens in us a
disinterested feeling of satisfaction. How, then, are we
to explain these peculiarities of our aesthetic judgments?
— for manifestly a judgment which rests upon feeling, and
yet is universal and necessary, urgently demands explana-

PHILOSOPHY OF THE AHSOI.UTE.

297

tion. Kant's answer is, that the secret does not h*e in
the object as such, but in the fact that in contemplating
it the sul)ject is conscious of an immediate harmony in
the relation of his faculties of kno\vled{j;e. His intellect
and his perception j)erfectly correspond, and therefore
he naturally feels pleasure so long as he remains in the
aesthetic mood. Such pleasure is very different from the
satisfaction which accompanies the resolute willing of
what is binding upon him by the law of his reason.
The feeling of beauty comes without effort the moment
we contemplate the beautiful object disinterestedly, and it
therefore gives us a sort of projihecy of that union of reason
and sense which no effort of ours can actually realize.

Besides the beautiful we frame aesthetic judgments in
regard to the sublime. These judgments agree in their
main characteristics with those in regard to beauty, but
there are important differences. For one thing, the feeling
of sublimity arises in us even when the object as ])erceived
has no definite limits, though it is always conceived as
a whole. The feelings themselves are also different in
kind, for, whereas the feeling of beauty is direct, the
feeling of sublimity involves a momentary check to the
vital forces, followed immediately by their more vigorous
outflow. The mind is at once attracted and repelled,
and the accompanying pleasure is therefore negative rather
than positive : it is in fact due to the disharmony between
the object perceived and an ideal object existing only
for thought. Strictly speaking, therefore, there is no
sublimity in nature, but only in ourselves, and in our-
selves as rational beings. ,„-,^-, -

The sublime has two forms, which may be distinguished
as the mathematical and the dynamical. In the first

2y8

COMTK, MILL, AND SPENCER.

r 'i

iji

place, the feeling of sublimity riKiy be called out by
that which is too great in magnitude to be pictured by
the imagination. Such an object is the immensity of
the starry heavens. Here we have the conception of an
absolute whole, while yet the imagination rtterly fails
to give a comi)lete picture of it. We may imagine
world on world, and system stretching into system, but
by all our efforts we cannot attain to that completeness
of view which is contained in our idea of the whole
material universe. It is this inability to give form to our
thought which gives rise to the feeling of the sublime.
The very failure of imagination awakens in us the con-
sciousness of a power within ourselves far transcending
sense and imagination. " Thus the feeling of the sublime
in nature is a kind of reverence for our own character
as rational beings which we transfer to an object of
nature."

In the second place, we have the feeling of sublimity
in the presence of the forces of nature. We are aware
of their greatness, and yet we feel that they cannot over-
power us. That force we call great which we cannot
resist ; yet we may be conscious of our powerlessness
without being afraid. " The virtuous man fears God,
but is not afraid of Him"; for he knows that if he desired
to disobey His commands he would have reason to fear.
So we may be conscious that as physical beings we are
impotent to resist the tremendous forces of nature, while
yet there is in us a power that nature cannot overcome.
The true sublime is therefore within us. The natural
man quakes at the storm or the earthquake : the moral
man is raised above fear by the consciousness of moral
harmony with the will of God. The feeling of the sub-

I'HILOSOI'MY OF IHK AI1S(3LUTE.

299

'line Is less common thun the feeling of beauty. It
J implies considerable cultuie, and hence the rude and
' undeveloped find the forces of nature simply terrible.
! fom its very nature the feeling of the sublime is a
more direct aid to the moral life of man than the feeling
of the beautiful; for it a.'.is in the contrast of the
inner to the outer, and tliciw.ore it prepares the way
for the higher moral interest. Hence the Jewish n'ligion,
which was preeminently the religion of sublimity, was
also the religion in which moral ideas were most power-
ful.

Turning to the artistic representation of the beautiful,
we have to remark that beauty excludes the idea of de-
finite purpose. The products of art must ajjpear as free
from conscious design as if they were products of nature.
The beautiful cannot be produced according to rule ; it
must proceed fresh from the hands of genius. In this
gift of genius the true artist is distinguished from his
imitators. He gives expression to aesthetic ideas, i.e.,
ideas of imagination which give occasion for much
thought, but to which no definite conception is adequate.
Such ideas are the counterpart of the ideas of reason,
to which no perception of sense can be adequate. The
productive imagination creates out of the world we know
a new world, which is constructed on principles that
occupy a higher place in our reason. Its products
may well be called ideas^ because they arise from
the effort after something lying beyond the limits of
experience, and give an approximate presentation of
the ideas of reason ; and because no conception of the
understanding can be quite adequate to them. " The
poet ventures to give sensuous realization to invisible

300

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

things, the realm of the -blessed, heaven, hell, eternity,
creation ; or, if he represents that which is exemplified
in experience, as, e.g., death, envy, love of fame, yet,
imitating by imagination the boundlessness of reason, he
seeks to give them a complete sensuous realization for
which nature furnishes no parallel."

As art presents the idea of the supersensible in sen-
suous form, its products are a symlwl of moral ideas.
A symbol is an image which does not adequately present
the idea of reason, but only suggests it. The beautiful
is the symbol of the morally good, and hence it makes
possible the transition from the allurements of sense to
a habitual interest in goodness. " When we find a
man interested in the beauty of nature, we have reason
to believe that there is in him at least a basis for a
good moral character."

The great value of Kant's conception of beauty lies
in the accuracy with which he has riOted the seemingly
self-contradictory elements contained in our aesthetic judg-
ments. He is still, it is true, perplexed by his imperfect
analysis of human feeling, as apparently fluctuating and
uncertain, but he insists, and rightly insists, that beauty
is not "subjective" in the sense of having no basis but
the changing states of the sensitive individual. Thus he
breaks once for all with that shallow hedonistic aesthetics
v/hich had in England its representatives in such writers
as Burke and Alison. On the othrr hand, Kant lefuses
to accept the doctrine of Baumgarten, itself a distcrted
application of the philosophy of Leibnitz, that our aestlictic
judgments rest upon "a confused conception of perfection,"
seeing clearly that, except by a liberal interpretation of its

PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE.

^OI

spirit, this doctrine must lead to the final extinction of
art as but an imperfect and preparatory stage of abstract
science. Kant has therefore to reconcile, as best he may,
the two aspects of beauty which are essential to its very
nature; and hence he affirms with equai emphasis (i) that
it rests upon feeling, and (2) that it involves thought.
Thus he is led to say that our aesthetic judgments pro-
ceed fro-n a dismterested pleasure in the contemplation
of beautiful objects, and that they are universal and
necessary, while yet no definite conception can be
adduced in support of their claim to universality and
necessity. He therefore falls back upon the doctrine,
that the peculiar character of such judgments can be ex-
plained only on the supposition that the consciousness
of beauty arises from the harmony with each other of
imagination and understanding, and that their universality
is due to the identity of all men 'n these faculties and
their consequent agreement in the experience of aesthetic
pleasure in the presence of an object which brings their
knowing faculties into harmony with each other.

Now, if Kant is right, as he certainly is, in saying that
in the consciousness of beauty the subject is in harmony
with himself, he is not entitled to retain that ojiposition
of the consciousness of self and the consciousness of the
object which haunts him like a spectre through the whole
of his speculations. Beauty is either a pure illusion,
having no foundation in the nature of things, or our
aesthetic judgments are "objective ' in the most absolute
sense. The feeling of harmony with himself which man
experiences in the contemplation of beauty must be
regarded as the jther side of the harmony which under-
lies the world as it really is. It is only because Kant is

302

COMTE, MILL, AND SPENCER.

11
1

not able to get rid of the, conviction that nothing can be
kfW7im^ in the strict sense of that term, which cannot be
compressed within the framework of the " scientific "
categories of thought, that he still speaks of our aesthetic
judgments as if they required an apology because they
do not rest upon "definite" concepMons. In point of
fact, what Kant calls the " indefiniteness " of the concep-
tions involved in such judgments is really their compre-
hensiveness, it is just the infinity of the beautiful object,
i.e.^ its power of revealing the whole in the part, that
gives rise to the peace and harmony of the whole man,
and lift' i^ ■ ; above the allurements of sense and the
strenuous effort of the struggle after goodness. The only
sense in which beauty can be called "subjective" is this:
that the divine meaning of the world is revealed through
it, but IS not completely realized in it. This, however,
merely shows that the concrete realization of the idea of
the whole, which is the differentia of beauty, still leaves
room for that reflective grasp of existence which it is the
function of philosophy to supply.

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE.

f can be
mnot be
ientific "
aesthetic
ise they
point of
concep-
compre-
object,
irt, that
le man,
md the
he only
is this :
through
owever,
idea of
leaves
is the

WORKS BY PROFESSOR WATSON.

KANT AND HIS ENGLISH CRITICS. A Comparison
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