Chapter XXVII: Part 27

Time with its continuity logically involves some other kind of continuity than its own. Time, as the universal form of change, cannot exist unless there is something to undergo change, and to undergo a change continuous in time, there must be a continuity of changeable qualities. Of the continuity of intrinsic qualities of feeling we can now form but a feeble conception. The development of the human mind has practically extinguished all feelings, except a few sporadic kinds, sound, colors, smells, warmth, etc., which now appear to be disconnected and disparate. In the case of colors, there is a tridimensional spread of feelings. Originally, all feelings may have been connected in the same way, and the presumption is that the number of dimensions was endless. For development essentially involves a limitation of possibilities. But given a number of dimensions of feeling, all possible varieties are obtainable by varying the intensities of the different elements. Accordingly, time logically supposes a continuous range of intensity in feeling. It follows, then, from the definition of continuity, that when any particular kind of feeling is present, an infinitesimal continuum of all feelings differing infinitesimally from that is present.

THAT FEELINGS HAVE SPATIAL EXTENSION.

Consider a gob of protoplasm, say an amœba or a slime-mould. It does not differ in any radical way from the contents of a nerve-cell, though its functions may be less specialised. There is no doubt that this slime-mould, or this amœba, or at any rate some similar mass of protoplasm feels. That is to say, it feels when it is in its excited condition. But note how it behaves. When the whole is quiescent and rigid, a place upon it is irritated. Just at this point, an active motion is set up, and this gradually spreads to other parts. In this action, no unity nor relation to a nucleus, or other unitary organ can be discerned. It is a mere amorphous continuum of protoplasm, with feeling passing from one part to another. Nor is there anything like a wave-motion. The activity does not advance to new parts, just as fast as it leaves old parts. Rather, in the beginning, it dies out at a slower rate than that at which it spreads. And while the process is going on, by exciting the mass at another point, a second quite independent state of excitation will be set up. In some places, neither excitation will exist, in others each separately, in still other places, both effects will be added together. Whatever there is in the whole phenomenon to make us think there is feeling in such a mass of protoplasm,—_feeling_, but plainly no _personality_,—goes logically to show that that feeling has a subjective, or substantial, spatial extension, as the excited state has. This is, no doubt, a difficult idea to seize, for the reason that it is a subjective, not an objective, extension. It is not that we have a feeling of bigness; though Professor James, perhaps rightly, teaches that we have. It is that the feeling, as a subject of inhesion, is big. Moreover, our own feelings are focused in attention to such a degree that we are not aware that ideas are not brought to an absolute unity; just as nobody not instructed by special experiment has any idea how very, very little of the field of vision is distinct. Still, we all know how the attention wanders about among our feelings; and this fact shows that those feelings that are not co-ordinated in attention have a reciprocal externality, although they are present at the same time. But we must not tax introspection to make a phenomenon manifest which essentially involves externality.

Since space is continuous, it follows that there must be an immediate community of feeling between parts of mind infinitesimally near together. Without this, I believe it would have been impossible for minds external to one another, ever to become coördinated, and equally impossible for any coördination to be established in the action of the nerve-matter of one brain.

AFFECTIONS OF IDEAS.

But we are met by the question what is meant by saying that one idea affects another. The unravelment of this problem requires us to trace out phenomena a little further.

Three elements go to make up an idea. The first is its intrinsic quality as a feeling. The second is the energy with which it affects other ideas, an energy which is infinite in the here-and-nowness of immediate sensation, finite and relative in the recency of the past. The third element is the tendency of an idea to bring along other ideas with it.

As an idea spreads, its power of affecting other ideas gets rapidly reduced; but its intrinsic quality remains nearly unchanged. It is long years now since I last saw a cardinal in his robes; and my memory of their color has become much dimmed. The color itself, however, is not remembered as dim. I have no inclination to call it a dull red. Thus, the intrinsic quality remains little changed; yet more accurate observation will show a slight reduction of it. The third element, on the other hand, has increased. As well as I can recollect, it seems to me the cardinals I used to see wore robes more scarlet than vermilion is, and highly luminous. Still, I know the color commonly called cardinal is on the crimson side of vermilion and of quite moderate luminosity, and the original idea calls up so many other hues with it, and asserts itself so feebly, that I am unable any longer to isolate it.

A finite interval of time generally contains an innumerable series of feelings; and when these become welded together in association, the result is a general idea. For we have just seen how by continuous spreading an idea becomes generalised.

The first character of a general idea so resulting is that it is living feeling. A continuum of this feeling, infinitesimal in duration, but still embracing innumerable parts, and also, though infinitesimal, entirely unlimited, is immediately present. And in its absence of boundedness a vague possibility of more than is present is directly felt.

Second, in the presence of this continuity of feeling, nominalistic maxims appear futile. There is no doubt about one idea affecting another, when we can directly perceive the one gradually modified and shaping itself into the other. Nor can there any longer be any difficulty about one idea resembling another, when we can pass along the continuous field of quality from one to the other and back again to the point which we had marked.

Third, consider the insistency of an idea. The insistency of a past idea with reference to the present is a quantity which is less the further back that past idea is, and rises to infinity as the past idea is brought up into coincidence with the present. Here we must make one of those inductive applications of the law of continuity which have produced such great results in all the positive sciences. We must extend the law of insistency into the future. Plainly, the insistency of a future idea with reference to the present is a quantity affected by the minus sign; for it is the present that affects the future, if there be any effect, not the future that affects the present. Accordingly, the curve of insistency is a sort of equilateral hyperbola. [See the figure.] Such a conception is none the less mathematical, that its quantification cannot now be exactly specified.

Now consider the induction which we have here been led into. This curve says that feeling which has not yet emerged into immediate consciousness is already affectible and already affected. In fact, this is habit, by virtue of which an idea is brought up into present consciousness by a bond that had already been established between it, and another idea while it was still _in futuro_.

We can now see what the affection of one idea by another consists in. It is that the affected idea is attached as a logical predicate to the affecting idea as subject. So when a feeling emerges into immediate consciousness, it always appears as a modification of a more or less general object already in the mind. The word suggestion is well adapted to expressing this relation. The future is suggested by, or rather is influenced by the suggestions of, the past.

IDEAS CANNOT BE CONNECTED EXCEPT BY CONTINUITY.

That ideas can nowise be connected without continuity is sufficiently evident to one who reflects upon the matter. But still the opinion may be entertained that after continuity has once made the connection of ideas possible, then they may get to be connected in other modes than through continuity. Certainly, I cannot see how anyone can deny that the infinite diversity of the universe, which we call chance, may bring ideas into proximity which are not associated in one general idea. It may do this many times. But then the law of continuous spreading will produce a mental association; and this I suppose is an abridged statement of the way the universe has been evolved. But if I am asked whether a blind ἀνάγκη cannot bring ideas together, first I point out that it would not remain blind. There being a continuous connection between the ideas, they would infallibly become associated in a living, feeling, and perceiving general idea. Next, I cannot see what the mustness or necessity of this ἀνάγκη would consist in. In the absolute uniformity of the phenomenon, says the nominalist. Absolute is well put in; for if it merely happened so three times in succession, or three million times in succession, in the absence of any reason, the coincidence could only be attributed to chance. But absolute uniformity must extend over the whole infinite future; and it is idle to talk of that except as an idea. No; I think we can only hold that wherever ideas come together they tend to weld into general ideas; and wherever they are generally connected, general ideas govern the connection; and these general ideas are living feelings spread out.

MENTAL LAW FOLLOWS THE FORMS OF LOGIC.

The three main classes of logical inference are Deduction, Induction, and Hypothesis. These correspond to three chief modes of action of the human soul. In deduction the mind is under the dominion of a habit or association by virtue of which a general idea suggests in each case a corresponding reaction. But a certain sensation is seen to involve that idea. Consequently, that sensation is followed by that reaction. That is the way the hind legs of a frog, separated from the rest of the body, reason, when you pinch them. It is the lowest form of psychical manifestation.

By induction, a habit becomes established. Certain sensations, all involving one general idea, are followed each by the same reaction; and an association becomes established, whereby that general idea gets to be followed uniformly by that reaction.

Habit is that specialisation of the law of mind whereby a general idea gains the power of exciting reactions. But in order that the general idea should attain all its functionality, it is necessary, also, that it should become suggestible by sensations. That is accomplished by a psychical process having the form of hypothetic inference. By hypothetic inference, I mean, as I have explained in other writings, an induction from qualities. For example, I know that the kind of man known and classed as a “mugwump” has certain characteristics. He has a high self-respect and places great value upon social distinction. He laments the great part that rowdyism and unrefined good-fellowship play in the dealings of American politicians with their constituency. He thinks that the reform which would follow from the abandonment of the system by which the distribution of offices is made to strengthen party organisations and a return to the original and essential conception of office-filling would be found an unmixed good. He holds that monetary considerations should usually be the decisive ones in questions of public policy. He respects the principle of individualism and of _laisser-faire_ as the greatest agency of civilisation. These views, among others, I know to be obtrusive marks of a “mugwump.” Now, suppose I casually meet a man in a railway-train, and falling into conversation find that he holds opinions of this sort; I am naturally led to suppose that he is a “mugwump.” That is hypothetic inference. That is to say, a number of readily verifiable marks of a mugwump being selected, I find this man has these, and infer that he has all the other characters which go to make a thinker of that stripe. Or let us suppose that I meet a man of a semi-clerical appearance and a sub-pharisaical sniff, who appears to look at things from the point of view of a rather wooden dualism. He cites several texts of scripture and always with particular attention to their logical implications; and he exhibits a sternness, almost amounting to vindictiveness, toward evildoers, in general. I readily conclude that he is a minister of a certain denomination. Now the mind acts in a way similar to this, every time we acquire a power of coördinating reactions in a peculiar way, as in performing any act requiring skill. Thus, most persons have a difficulty in moving the two hands simultaneously and in opposite directions through two parallel circles nearly in the medial plane of the body. To learn to do this, it is necessary to attend, first, to the different actions in different parts of the motion, when suddenly a general conception of the action springs up and it becomes perfectly easy. We think the motion we are trying to do involves this action, and this, and this. Then, the general idea comes which unites all those actions, and thereupon the desire to perform the motion calls up the general idea. The same mental process is many times employed whenever we are learning to speak a language or are acquiring any sort of skill.

Thus, by induction, a number of sensations followed by one reaction become united under one general idea followed by the same reaction; while by the hypothetic process, a number of reactions called for by one occasion get united in a general idea which is called out by the same occasion. By deduction, the habit fulfils its function of calling out certain reactions on certain occasions.

UNCERTAINTY OF MENTAL ACTION.

The inductive and hypothetic forms of inference are essentially probable inferences, not necessary; while deduction may be either necessary or probable.

But no mental action seems to be necessary or invariable in its character. In whatever manner the mind has reacted under a given sensation, in that manner it is the more likely to react again; were this, however, an absolute necessity, habits would become wooden and ineradicable, and no room being left for the formation of new habits, intellectual life would come to a speedy close. Thus, the uncertainty of the mental law is no mere defect of it, but is on the contrary of its essence. The truth is, the mind is not subject to “law,” in the same rigid sense that matter is. It only experiences gentle forces which merely render it more likely to act in a given way than it otherwise would be. There always remains a certain amount of arbitrary spontaneity in its action, without which it would be dead.

Some psychologists think to reconcile the uncertainty of reactions with the principle of necessary causation by means of the law of fatigue. Truly for a _law_, this law of fatigue is a little lawless. I think it is merely a case of the general principle that an idea in spreading loses its insistency. Put me tarragon into my salad, when I have not tasted it for years, and I exclaim “What nectar is this!” But add it to every dish I taste for week after week, and a habit of expectation has been created; and in thus spreading into habit, the sensation makes hardly any more impression upon me; or, if it be noticed, it is on a new side from which it appears as rather a bore. The doctrine that fatigue is one of the primordial phenomena of mind I am much disposed to doubt. It seems a somewhat little thing to be allowed as an exception to the great principle of mental uniformisation. For this reason, I prefer to explain it in the manner here indicated, as a special case of that great principle. To consider it as something distinct in its nature, certainly somewhat strengthens the necessitarian position; but even if it be distinct, the hypothesis that all the variety and apparent arbitrariness of mental action ought to be explained away in favor of absolute determinism does not seem to me to recommend itself to a sober and sound judgment, which seeks the guidance of observed facts and not that of prepossessions.

RESTATEMENT OF THE LAW.

Let me now try to gather up all these odds and ends of commentary and restate the law of mind, in a unitary way.

First, then, we find that when we regard ideas from a nominalistic, individualistic, sensualistic way, the simplest facts of mind become utterly meaningless. That one idea should resemble another or influence another, or that one state of mind should so much as be thought of in another is, from that standpoint, sheer nonsense.

Second, by this and other means we are driven to perceive, what is quite evident of itself, that instantaneous feelings flow together into a continuum of feeling, which has in a modified degree the peculiar vivacity of feeling and has gained generality. And in reference to such general ideas, or continua of feeling, the difficulties about resemblance and suggestion and reference to the external, cease to have any force.

Third, these general ideas are not mere words, nor do they consist in this, that certain concrete facts will every time happen under certain descriptions of conditions; but they are just as much, or rather far more, living realities than the feelings themselves out of which they are concreted. And to say that mental phenomena are governed by law does not mean merely that they are describable by a general formula; but that there is a living idea, a conscious continuum of feeling, which pervades them, and to which they are docile.

Fourth, this supreme law, which is the celestial and living harmony, does not so much as demand that the special ideas shall surrender their peculiar arbitrariness and caprice entirely; for that would be self-destructive. It only requires that they shall influence and be influenced by one another.

Fifth, in what measure this unification acts, seems to be regulated only by special rules; or, at least, we cannot in our present knowledge say how far it goes. But it may be said that, judging by appearances, the amount of arbitrariness in the phenomena of human minds is neither altogether trifling nor very prominent.

PERSONALITY.

Having thus endeavored to state the law of mind, in general, I descend to the consideration of a particular phenomenon which is remarkably prominent in our own consciousnesses, that of personality. A strong light is thrown upon this subject by recent observations of double and multiple personality. The theory which at one time seemed plausible that two persons in one body corresponded to the two halves of the brain will, I take it, now be universally acknowledged to be insufficient. But that which these cases make quite manifest is that personality is some kind of coördination or connection of ideas. Not much to say, this, perhaps. Yet when we consider that, according to the principle which we are tracing out, a connection between ideas is itself a general idea, and that a general idea is a living feeling, it is plain that we have at least taken an appreciable step toward the understanding of personality. This personality, like any general idea, is not a thing to be apprehended in an instant. It has to be lived in time; nor can any finite time embrace it in all its fulness. Yet in each infinitesimal interval it is present and living, though specially colored by the immediate feelings of that moment. Personality, so far as it is apprehended in a moment, is immediate self-consciousness.

But the word coördination implies somewhat more than this; it implies a teleological harmony in ideas, and in the case of personality this teleology is more than a mere purposive pursuit of a predeterminate end; it is a developmental teleology. This is personal character. A general idea, living and conscious now, it is already determinative of acts in the future to an extent to which it is not now conscious.

This reference to the future is an essential element of personality. Were the ends of a person already explicit, there would be no room for development, for growth, for life; and consequently there would be no personality. The mere carrying out of predetermined purposes is mechanical. This remark has an application to the philosophy of religion. It is that a genuine evolutionary philosophy, that is, one that makes the principle of growth a primordial element of the universe, is so far from being antagonistic to the idea of a personal creator, that it is really inseparable from that idea; while a necessitarian religion is in an altogether false position and is destined to become disintegrated. But a pseudo-evolutionism which enthrones mechanical law above the principle of growth, is at once scientifically unsatisfactory, as giving no possible hint of how the universe has come about, and hostile to all hopes of personal relations to God.

COMMUNICATION.

Consistently with the doctrine laid down in the beginning of this paper, I am bound to maintain that an idea can only be affected by an idea in continuous connection with it. By anything but an idea, it cannot be affected at all. This obliges me to say, as I do say, on other grounds, that what we call matter is not completely dead, but is merely mind hide-bound with habits. It still retains the element of diversification; and in that diversification there is life. When an idea is conveyed from one mind to another, it is by forms of combination of the diverse elements of nature, say by some curious symmetry, or by some union of a tender color with a refined odor. To such forms the law of mechanical energy has no application. If they are eternal, it is in the spirit they embody; and their origin cannot be accounted for by any mechanical necessity. They are embodied ideas; and so only can they convey ideas. Precisely how primary sensations, as colors and tones, are excited, we cannot tell, in the present state of psychology. But in our ignorance, I think that we are at liberty to suppose that they arise in essentially the same manner as the other feelings, called secondary. As far as sight and hearing are in question, we know that they are only excited by vibrations of inconceivable complexity; and the chemical senses are probably not more simple. Even the least psychical of peripheral sensations, that of pressure, has in its excitation conditions which, though apparently simple, are seen to be complicated enough when we consider the molecules and their attractions. The principle with which I set out requires me to maintain that these feelings are communicated to the nerves by continuity, so that there must be something like them in the excitants themselves. If this seems extravagant, it is to be remembered that it is the sole possible way of reaching any explanation of sensation, which otherwise must be pronounced a general fact absolutely inexplicable and ultimate. Now absolute inexplicability is a hypothesis which sound logic refuses under any circumstances to justify.

I may be asked whether my theory would be favorable or otherwise to telepathy. I have no decided answer to give to this. At first sight, it seems unfavorable. Yet there may be other modes of continuous connection between minds other than those of time and space.

The recognition by one person of another’s personality takes place by means to some extent identical with the means by which he is conscious of his own personality. The idea of the second personality, which is as much as to say that second personality itself, enters within the field of direct consciousness of the first person, and is as immediately perceived as his ego, though less strongly. At the same time, the opposition between the two persons is perceived, so that the externality of the second is recognised.

The psychological phenomena of intercommunication between two minds have been unfortunately little studied. So that it is impossible to say, for certain, whether they are favorable to this theory or not. But the very extraordinary insight which some persons are able to gain of others from indications so slight that it is difficult to ascertain what they are, is certainly rendered more comprehensible by the view here taken.

A difficulty which confronts the synechistic philosophy is this. In considering personality, that philosophy is forced to accept the doctrine of a personal God; but in considering communication, it cannot but admit that if there is a personal God, we must have a direct perception of that person and indeed be in personal communication with him. Now, if that be the case, the question arises how it is possible that the existence of this being should ever have been doubted by anybody. The only answer that I can at present make is that facts that stand before our face and eyes and stare us in the face are far from being, in all cases, the ones most easily discerned. That has been remarked from time immemorial.

CONCLUSION.

I have thus developed as well as I could in a little space the _synechistic_ philosophy, as applied to mind. I think that I have succeeded in making it clear that this doctrine gives room for explanations of many facts which without it are absolutely and hopelessly inexplicable; and further that it carries along with it the following doctrines: 1st, a logical realism of the most pronounced type; 2nd, objective idealism; 3rd, tychism, with its consequent thorough-going evolutionism. We also notice that the doctrine presents no hindrances to spiritual influences, such as some philosophies are felt to do.

C. S. PEIRCE.

FOOTNOTES:

[72] This proposition is substantially the same as a theorem of Cantor, though it is enunciated in a much more general form.

MR. CHARLES S. PEIRCE’S ONSLAUGHT ON THE DOCTRINE OF NECESSITY.

The problem of necessity lurks at the bottom of all problems, and according as we accept or reject the idea of necessity we shall be led to two entirely different world-conceptions.

The conception of indeterminism generally offers itself first to the doubting mind; and it is apparently a pleasant idea. It promises freedom, it leaves room for the imagination, it makes the world and its possibilities wide, much wider than it could be on the plan of determinism. Determinism is at first sight an oppressive notion and we naturally shrink from it. It seems to destroy the freedom of the will and all moral responsibility. From infinite possibilities it narrows the world down to one single actuality; and thus it seems to destroy all the charms of life.

The former view may be represented as conceiving the all-power of the whole in which and through which we live as a well meaning and yielding ruler or a kind-hearted parent who if strongly plied with prayer, will for a trifle in order to please an importune favorite change his decisions. The dispensations of his government will be full of exceptions, of private cabinet decrees, of counter orders and irregularities. The latter view, however, would represent the entirety of the All as an inexorable and uncompromising sovereign, or as a severe educator, a stern father who unfalteringly clings to his principles. He leaves full independence to his children, he does not prevent their mistakes, yet rigidly lets them bear the consequences of their actions. He never answers prayers except that the prayer itself has its educating effects upon him who prays; but he never alters objective facts for the sake of him who requests his interference, and he never makes exceptions either in favor or disfavor of anybody. In brief; the God of him who accepts the former view, will be Chance, while the God of him who accepts the latter view will be Law.

The choice between the two views seems to remind us of the choice left to the heroes of our fairy tales. He who chooses that which appears pleasant will be led into inextricable confusion, he who chooses that which appears rigid and oppressive will be led on a path where in spite of many difficulties he will be able to make firm and certain steps and will arrive at clearness as well as moral freedom. It is not the golden casket that contains Portia’s picture.

Science constantly operates on the basis of the maxim that there is no chance, that everything that happens, happens as it does with necessity. The question is, Is this maxim a mere assumption, a non-verifiable working hypothesis; or is there any reliable evidence in its favor? Is it true, and if it is, how can it be proved?

I.

DAVID HUME REDIVIVUS.

Mr. Charles S. Peirce’s article entitled “The Doctrine of Necessity Examined,” which appeared in the last number of _The Monist_, must have been a surprise to many thinking readers. It must have affected them in a somewhat similar manner as Hume’s “Treatise of Human Nature” affected Kant. It roused him from his dogmatic slumber: He abandoned dogmatism but nevertheless did not accept Hume’s skepticism; he remained positive; yet he propounded a better positive view than was the old dogmatism; he established in philosophy the method of critique.

The parallelism between David Hume, who doubted the validity of our conception of causation, and Mr. Charles S. Peirce who denies the universality of the doctrine of necessity, is very marked in more than one respect. It is, in spite of many differences, a case of close analogy, and the answer which we shall have to give to either, will in many respects be suited to both. Both shake the ultimate ground of scientific research at its very root. Both call in question the most fundamental concept upon which all our methods of investigation and philosophy rest. Both challenge the reliability of an idea of which few would hesitate to say that it is all but universally accepted. In fact the ideas “causation” and “necessity” are more than kin. If analysed, many of their elements will be found to be actually identical. Thus the one cannot be either established or doubted without establishing or doubting the other. Accordingly Mr. Peirce, in some respect, repeats David Hume’s onslaught upon the current conception of the basis of human knowledge with the more formidable weapons which a century of close thought and scientific investigation have furnished him.

If Kant’s answer to Hume had been satisfactory, Mr. Peirce probably would not have renewed the attack or he would have had to modify it considerably. Kant, however, whom we both, Mr. Peirce as much as I myself, admire as a master of philosophic thought, did not solve the question satisfactorily. Yet Kant pointed out the way of solving it, which was the middle way between dogmatism and scepticism, called by him and his followers “Criticism,” and it is this way on which we trust is safest travelling.

Mr. Peirce is right that the doctrine of necessity cannot be “postulated,” for “to postulate a proposition is no more than to hope it will be true.” The doctrine of necessity is, indeed, usually treated as a postulate, and Mr. Peirce’s attack appears formidable because he shows the weakness of the arguments which are commonly brought forward in its favor and which we grant to be insufficient.

Mr. Peirce says (_The Monist_, II, 3, p. 330):

“In view of all these considerations, I do not believe that
anybody, not in a state of case-hardened ignorance respecting
the logic of science, can maintain that the precise and
universal conformity of facts to law is clearly proved, or even
rendered particularly probable, by any observations hitherto
made. In this way, the determined advocate of exact regularity
will soon find himself driven to _a priori_ reasons to support
his thesis. These received such a sockdologer from Stuart Mill
in his Examination of Hamilton, that holding to them now seems
to me to denote a high degree of imperviousness to reason; so
that I shall pass them by with little notice.”

Mr. Peirce is right when saying that necessitarianism must be founded on something other than observation. Observation is _a posteriori_; it has reference only to single facts, to particulars; yet the doctrine of necessity, if there is anything in it at all, is of universal application. The doctrine of necessity, let us not be afraid to pronounce it clearly, is of an _a priori_ nature. The scientist assumes _a priori_, i. e. even before he makes his observations or experiments, as a general law applicable to every process which takes place, that, whatever happens, happens of necessity in consequence of a cause and in conformity to law, so that the same cause under the same circumstances will produce the same effects. If all the _a priori_ reasons, as Mr. Peirce maintains, received a sockdologer from Stuart Mill, then indeed we shall have to abandon the idea of necessity as the superstition of a past and erroneous philosophy and we shall have to start the world of science over again.

Mr. Peirce denies the strict regularity of natural law and introduces an element of chance. He says (ibid. p. 336):

“To undertake to account for anything by saying boldly that it
is due to chance would, indeed, be futile. But this I do not
do. _I make use of chance chiefly to make room for a principle
of generalization, or tendency to form habits, which I hold
has produced all regularities._[73] The mechanical philosopher
leaves the whole specification of the world utterly unaccounted
for, which is pretty nearly as bad as to boldly attribute it to
chance. I attribute it altogether to chance, it is true, but
to chance in the form of a spontaneity which is to some degree
regular.”

Mr. Peirce is the pathfinder of a new and as yet untried road. He strikes out boldly into the tumultuous ocean of chance, hoping to find in his journey the connection between the East and the West, between contrasts that seem to him otherwise unconnectible. The confidence of the bold discoverer is set forth in the warnings he gives to all seafaring people. He attempts to frighten the ill-informed minds who might innocently venture out in other directions; and he will thus naturally prevent many from falling either into the Charybdis of doubting the propriety of applying the logic of probabilities to the problem of necessity and causation in general, or, worse still, into the Scylla of the _a priori_. The former, he tells us denotes “a state of case-hardened ignorance respecting the logic of science,” the latter “a high degree of imperviousness to reason.”

Mr. Peirce is well known as one of the keenest logicians now living. Considering this fact I am slow to take up arms against him in defending a case which he so strongly brands beforehand. I must from the beginning plead guilty to a belief in necessity, and having critically revised my view once more I cannot help upholding it. I am fully conscious of the fact that hundreds, thousands, and millions of single experiences (which in Kantian terminology are called _a posteriori_ arguments) cannot establish a solid belief in necessity, nor can any imaginable number of sequences prove the rigidity of causation, and I confess freely that I support my thesis with _a priori_ reasons. Yet at the same time attention must be called to the fact that neither Mr. Hamilton nor Mr. Mill had any adequate conception of the _a priori_, and Mr. Mill’s sockdologer does not disturb in the least the assurance of my view; for the _a priori_ can, in my opinion, be based upon the firm ground of experience.

All the many sense-experiences at our command, if considered singly, cannot constitute knowledge. In order to weave the woof of the _a posteriori_ into coherent cloth we want the warp of the _a priori_, and I do not see how we can do without it. But the _a priori_ is not that mystical hocus-pocus of absolute truth with its impertinent assumptions such as it is presented by pseudo-Kantians and justly denounced by Mill; it is not as Mr. Peirce brands it an “I cannot help believing,” it is not a “natural belief,” nor is it as others conceive it an innate idea. It is, briefly described, simply and solely formal knowledge, such as 2 × 2 = 4, to which we attribute universality and necessity and with the assistance of which we are enabled to predict and predetermine certain results beforehand (i. e. _a priori_). We might invent a new name for the _a priori_, the latter having become odious through the denunciations of its enemies and worse still, having been distorted beyond recognition through the misuse to which it was put by its defenders and suppositional friends. Yet that would be another question, and the idea of the _a priori_, i. e. of formal knowledge involving universality and necessity would remain the same.

The universality and necessity of formal knowledge are as a rule taken for granted by scientists. But philosophy can take nothing for granted, and the problem rises: How is the belief in the universality and necessity of formal knowledge to be justified? Mr. Peirce’s onslaught on the doctrine of necessity is a challenge to answer this question.

II.

CAUSATION NOT MERE SEQUENCE.

Mr. John Venn published some twenty-five or six years ago an excellent treatise called “The Logic of Chance.” This work opened the eyes of many to the great importance of the calculus of probabilities as a method of science which was of much wider application than had before been suspected. This admirable work we may boldly say marks a new epoch in the study of logic, it opened new vistas, and many expectations created by it have since been realised. Yet it is to be regretted that the author adopts Hume’s erroneous conception of causality and thus implicitly paves the way which Mr. Peirce has actually followed and which leads to a denial of the doctrine of necessity. Concerning “the doctrine of universal causation” Mr. Venn says, in Chapter XIV:

“We will employ the word simply in the sense which is becoming
almost universally adopted by scientific men, viz. that of
invariable unconditional sequence.

“It is in this sense that the word _cause_ is used by Mr.
Mill....

“This meaning of the term is rapidly becoming the popular, or
rather, the popular scientific one.”

This idea of “sequence” however was exactly Hume’s mistake, adopted by Mr. Mill and through Mr. Mill popularised among English thinkers. If the nature of cause and effect were really constituted by invariable sequence, then the night might be called the effect of the day because night is invariably consequent upon day.

Hume, taking the ground that cause and effect constitute a sequence, attempted a synthesis of both; he searched for a proof of their identity and failed. And it was natural that he failed, for cause and effect are so radically different that we cannot bring them into the formula of an equation as “cause = effect.” There is no cause that is equal to its effect.

Hume should have considered causation as one single process, and instead of attempting a synthesis, he should have made an analysis. The analysis would have shown that cause and effect are two abstract and correlative terms of one whole and inseparable event. Cause is not identical with effect, but the whole event is identical with itself.

If my finger touches a key of the piano, a chord is struck; the chord swings and produces certain air-vibrations. In this process from the beginning to the end all the energy employed and the mass of the material particles remain in amount the same, yet there is a change of form taking place. Causation is not mere sequence, but a sequence of quite a special kind. It is a sequence of two states which belong together as an initial and a final aspect of one and the same event.

So long as we know of two events simply that they follow one another, although the sequence may in every case be invariable and unexceptional, we are not justified in calling them cause and effect. No amount of experience is sufficient to constitute causation by a mere synthesis of sequences, and to have appreciated this truth is the immortal merit of the great Scotchman who boldly took the consequence of the argument and acquiesced in scepticism.

The problem, however, is not so desperate as Hume thought. If Hume could have considered his argument in the light which the law of the conservation of matter and energy sheds upon it, he would most likely have abandoned his scepticism; for causality is perfectly intelligible if conceived not as a synthesis of two radically different events, but as a process of transformation, of which the prior state is called cause and the final one effect.

That two radically different events, which are not thought of as transformation, invariably follow each other without our being able to discover any connection between them, will naturally appear as a mystery; but that two forms are radically different things, although they may be forms of the same amount of matter and energy, is no mystery. The effect is, or may be, something entirely new.

The configuration of things as it appears in the effect, did not exist before. But for that reason, it is no creation out of nothing, it is not an incomprehensible event, it is no miracle.

It is a very wonderful thing that two congruent regular tetrahedrons, when put together, will form a hexahedron, but the laws of form do perfectly and satisfactorily explain it. Supposing we had no idea of the laws of form or only an incoherent and fragmentary knowledge of them, should we not look upon the result of this combination as a strange and incomprehensible mystery. Two heaps of flour one poured upon the other will give one heap of the same kind and shape but of a larger size. However, the combination of the two four-sided bodies does not produce another four-sided body doubly as large as any of the two four-sided bodies. Nor does it produce an eight-sided body. It produces a six-sided body, which is something quite new. The result is not contained in the conditions singly, for no one can say that six-sidedness is a quality implicitly contained in four-sided bodies.

The process of combining hydrogen with oxygen into water (H₂O) is an immensely more complex case, and the qualities resulting from a difference of density as well as configuration are entirely unknown to us. There is nevertheless no reason whatever to consider the process as different in principle; it is a case of transformation in which the amount of matter and energy remains the same.

Whatever the value of the logic of chance may be for scientific reasoning in establishing gradations of certainty and formulating the reliability of a certain belief, we deny most positively its applicability to the principle of causation in general. If we ask what the chance is of a combination of two congruent tetrahedrons becoming a hexahedron, we must answer that the probability is exactly 1, which means certainty, and certainty is but another name for necessity.

Mr. Peirce does not object to necessity in certain cases, he objects to necessity being a universal feature of the world. He objects to the rigidity of causation in so far only as to allow a trifle of chance to enter into nature.

One or two cases or even a hundred, and a thousand, nay millions of millions of cases in which causation is explicable as transformation is no proof that this must always be so. Mr. Peirce may grant and most likely he does grant that causation in a definite set of experiences is transformation, yet what guarantee do we have for saying that it is the only kind of causation. Might there not be room in this world for another causation which for lack of a full comprehension of its nature, we may call the causation of chance?

We answer that form is a quality of this world, not of some samples of it, but throughout, so far as we know of existence even in the most superficial way, and thus we know beforehand or _a priori_ that the laws of form hold good so far as our telescopes sweep through space. We are ignorant as to the qualities dependent upon special forms of matter or energy, and we can acquire any knowledge thereof only through experience; but that is no reason to doubt the validity of causation in general, or to surmise the probability of there being somewhere a different arrangement of nature.

Thus we come to the conclusion that the calculus of probabilities is not applicable to the order of the world as to whether it may or may not be universal. And in corroboration of this our position we quote the following passage from a high authority in the science of logic, who is no less than Mr. Charles S. Peirce himself. “Illustrations of the Logic of Science,” (_Popular Science Monthly_, 1877, p. 714):

“The relative probability of this or that arrangement of
Nature is something which we should have a right to talk about
if universes were as plenty as blackberries, if we could put
a quantity of them in a bag, shake them well up, draw out a
sample, and examine them to see what proportion of them had
one arrangement and what proportion another. But, even in
that case, a higher universe would contain us, in regard to
whose arrangements the conception of probability could have no
applicability.”

Mr. Peirce is still more emphatic in another passage which reads (ib. 1878, p. 205):

“If any one has ever maintained that the universe is a pure
throw of the dice, the theologians have abundantly refuted him.
‘How often,’ says Archbishop Tillotson, ‘might a man, after
he had jumbled a set of letters in a bag, fling them out upon
the ground before they would fall into an exact poem, yea,
or so much as make a good discourse in prose! And may not a
little book be as easily made by chance as this great volume
of the world?’ The chance world here shown to be so different
from that in which we live would be one in which there were
no laws, the characters of different things being entirely
independent; so that, should a sample of any kind of objects
ever show a prevalent character, it could only be by accident,
and no general proposition could ever be established. Whatever
further conclusions we may come to in regard to the order of
the universe, thus much may be regarded as solidly established,
that the world is not a mere chance-medley.”

Here follows a close reasoning of several pages which ends (on p. 207) with a paragraph beginning with the words:

“This shows that a contradiction is involved in the very idea
of a chance world.”

And a long paragraph on p. 208 winds up with these sentences:

“The actual world is almost a chance-medley to the mind of a
polyp. The interest which the uniformities of Nature have for
an animal measures his place in the scale of intelligence.”

This is exactly the position which I defend. If universes were as plenty as blackberries we might talk about the order of other universes. They might be four- or five- or _n_-dimensional. Yet even in all these cases they would not be void of form. The four-dimensional universe would have another arrangement, but its laws would be none the less orderly, none the less regular, and a higher universe would contain them all. Supposing there were four- or five-dimensional space somewhere, we could state with absolute precision all the formal laws by which bodies of so many dimensions were governed.[74]

The order of form and the rigidity of formal laws is as universal and omnipresent as God. They encompass our path and our lying down, they have beset our behind and before. If we ascend up into heaven they are there, if we make our beds in hell, behold they are there. If we take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there they shall lead us and hold us.

III.

MR. PEIRCE’S LOGIC OF SCIENCE.

In spite of the fundamental difference that obtains between Mr. Peirce’s and our own world-conception, we must state that there are many most important points of agreement. Mr. Peirce says in his article “Illustrations of the Logic of Science,” (ibid. p. 3 and 7):

“The object of reasoning is to find out, from the consideration
of what we already know, something else which we do not know....

“The settlement of opinion is the sole object of inquiry.”

There are according to Peirce several methods of settling opinion, which swayed humanity in an historic succession: (1) The method of tenacity. Doubt being an uneasy and dissatisfied state, we cling tenaciously not merely to believing, but to believing just what we do believe. (2) The method of authority, which is that of the Roman Church and of all great political and religious institutions of the past. (3) The _a priori_ method, by which Mr. Peirce understands the fixing of belief agreeably to reason, i. e. to the subjective conviction of the individual thinker. All these methods have their merits, says Mr. Peirce (ibid. p. 13):

“The _a priori_ method is distinguished for its comfortable
conclusions. It is the nature of the process to adopt whatever
belief we are inclined to, and there are certain flatteries
to the vanity of man which we all believe by nature, until we
are awakened from our pleasing dream by some rough facts. The
method of authority will always govern the mass of mankind....
But most of all I admire the method of tenacity for its
strength, simplicity, and directness.”

It is apparent that the merit of the _a priori_ method so called is really a vice. The _a priori_ method so called is the basis of agnosticism. If according to my reason this, and according to your reason that, may be the truth, where does truth remain? If truth is purely subjective, truth becomes impossible. The method of settling belief agreeably to our individual tempers is the death of objective truth, of science and philosophy.

Mr. Peirce fully recognises the practical importance of thought. He says:

“The production of belief is the sole function of thought”
(ibid. p. 289).

“Our beliefs guide our desires and shape our actions” (ibid. p.
5).

“What is belief? First, it is something that we are aware of;
second, it appeases the irritation of doubt; and third, it
involves the establishment in our nature of a rule of action,
or, say for short, a _habit_” (ibid. p. 291).

“Thus, we come down to what is tangible and practical, as
the root of every real distinction of thought, no matter how
subtile it may be; and there is no distinction of meaning so
fine as to consist in anything but a possible difference of
practice” (ibid. p. 293).

Mr. Peirce is very far from considering philosophy as a mere matter of speculation or theory without practical importance. He says:

“What sort of a conception we ought to have of the universe,
how to think of the _ensemble_ of things, is a fundamental
problem in the theory of reasoning.”

The _a priori_ method, so called by Mr. Peirce, translated into practical life is not only the death of truth but also of morality. The objective criterion of truth is gone, and with it goes the objective standard of right and wrong. If that is true which seems so to my individual reason, then that is right which pleases me best. What is right to me might be wrong to you. Thus this method leads either to moral indifference, or to basing ethics upon the greatest amount of pleasure attainable, (Hedonism, as represented by Mr. H. Spencer, Prof. Harald Höffding, Professor Gizycki, and others,) or to relying upon the individual conscience as an absolute and ultimate authority.[75]

The method of settling opinion agreeably to individual reason is at present the most fashionable and widely spread conception, and it shows its influence in the almost universal acceptation of agnosticism to-day. Is that the final decision with which we have to rest satisfied? If it were, we would better return to the method of authority or tenacity. No, it is not the sum of all wisdom. The _a priori_ method so called represents a period of transition, which, if persistently pursued, will lead to the bankruptcy of thought, the desperate appearance of which is well disguised in the big sounding and modesty-parading term agnosticism. And here we return to the exposition of Mr. Peirce’s views. Mr. Peirce does not accept the _a priori_ method, he believes in “the logic of science.” Mr. Peirce says: