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George Stuart Fullerton - An Introduction to Philosophy

G >> George Stuart Fullerton >> An Introduction to Philosophy




In the Middle Ages there gradually grew up rather a sharp distinction
between those things that can be known through the unaided reason and
those things that can only be known through a supernatural revelation.
The term "philosophy" came to be synonymous with knowledge attained by
the natural light of reason. This seems to imply some sort of a
limitation to the task of the philosopher. Philosophy is not
synonymous with all knowledge.

But we must not forget to take note of the fact that philosophy, even
with this limitation, constitutes a pretty wide field. It covers both
the physical and the moral sciences. Nor should we omit to notice that
the scholastic philosopher was at the same time a theologian. Albert
the Great and St. Thomas Aquinas, the famous scholastics of the
thirteenth century, had to write a "_Summa Theologiae_," or system of
theology, as well as to treat of the other departments of human
knowledge.

Why were these men not overwhelmed with the task set them by the
tradition of their time? It was because the task was not, after all,
so great as a modern man might conceive it to be. Gil Blas, in Le
Sage's famous romance, finds it possible to become a skilled physician
in the twinkling of an eye, when Dr. Sangrado has imparted to him the
secret that the remedy for all diseases is to be found in bleeding the
patient and in making him drink copiously of hot water. When little is
known about things, it does not seem impossible for one man to learn
that little. During the Middle Ages and the centuries preceding, the
physical sciences had a long sleep. Men were much more concerned in
the thirteenth century to find out what Aristotle had said than they
were to address questions to nature. The special sciences, as we now
know them, had not been called into existence.

5. THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY.--The submission of men's minds to the
authority of Aristotle and of the church gradually gave way. A revival
of learning set in. Men turned first of all to a more independent
choice of authorities, and then rose to the conception of a philosophy
independent of authority, of a science based upon an observation of
nature, of a science at first hand. The special sciences came into
being.

But the old tradition of philosophy as universal knowledge remained.
If we pass over the men of the transition period and turn our attention
to Francis Bacon (1561-1626) and Rene Descartes (1596-1650), the two
who are commonly regarded as heading the list of the modern
philosophers, we find both of them assigning to the philosopher an
almost unlimited field.

Bacon holds that philosophy has for its objects God, man, and nature,
and he regards it as within his province to treat of "_philosophia
prima_" (a sort of metaphysics, though he does not call it by this
name), of logic, of physics and astronomy, of anthropology, in which he
includes psychology, of ethics, and of politics. In short, he attempts
to map out the whole field of human knowledge, and to tell those who
work in this corner of it or in that how they should set about their
task.

As for Descartes, he writes of the trustworthiness of human knowledge,
of the existence of God, of the existence of an external world, of the
human soul and its nature, of mathematics, physics, cosmology,
physiology, and, in short, of nearly everything discussed by the men of
his day. No man can accuse this extraordinary Frenchman of a lack of
appreciation of the special sciences which were growing up. No one in
his time had a better right to be called a scientist in the modern
sense of the term. But it was not enough for him to be a mere
mathematician, or even a worker in the physical sciences generally. He
must be all that has been mentioned above.

The conception of philosophy as of a something that embraces all
departments of human knowledge has not wholly passed away even in our
day. I shall not dwell upon Spinoza (1632-1677), who believed it
possible to deduce a world _a priori_ with mathematical precision; upon
Christian Wolff (1679-1754), who defined philosophy as the knowledge of
the causes of what is or comes into being; upon Fichte (1762-1814), who
believed that the philosopher, by mere thinking, could lay down the
laws of all possible future experience; upon Schelling (1775-1854),
who, without knowing anything worth mentioning about natural science,
had the courage to develop a system of natural philosophy, and to
condemn such investigators as Boyle and Newton; upon Hegel (1770-1831),
who undertakes to construct the whole system of reality out of
concepts, and who, with his immediate predecessors, brought philosophy
for a while into more or less disrepute with men of a scientific turn
of mind. I shall come down quite to our own times, and consider a man
whose conception of philosophy has had and still has a good deal of
influence, especially with the general public--with those to whom
philosophy is a thing to be taken up in moments of leisure, and cannot
be the serious pursuit of a life.

"Knowledge of the lowest kind," says Herbert Spencer, "is _un-unified_
knowledge; Science is _partially-unified_ knowledge; Philosophy is
_completely-unified_ knowledge." [1] Science, he argues, means merely
the family of the Sciences--stands for nothing more than the sum of
knowledge formed of their contributions. Philosophy is the fusion of
these contributions into a whole; it is knowledge of the greatest
generality. In harmony with this notion Spencer produced a system of
philosophy which includes the following: A volume entitled "First
Principles," which undertakes to show what man can and what man cannot
know; a treatise on the principles of biology; another on the
principles of psychology; still another on the principles of sociology;
and finally one on the principles of morality. To complete the scheme
it would have been necessary to give an account of inorganic nature
before going on to the phenomena of life, but our philosopher found the
task too great and left this out.

Now, Spencer was a man of genius, and one finds in his works many
illuminating thoughts. But it is worthy of remark that those who
praise his work in this or in that field are almost always men who have
themselves worked in some other field and have an imperfect
acquaintance with the particular field that they happen to be praising.
The metaphysician finds the reasonings of the "First Principles" rather
loose and inconclusive; the biologist pays little heed to the
"Principles of Biology"; the sociologist finds Spencer not particularly
accurate or careful in the field of his predilection. He has tried to
be a professor of all the sciences, and it is too late in the world's
history for him or for any man to cope with such a task. In the days
of Plato a man might have hoped to accomplish it.

6. WHAT PHILOSOPHY MEANS IN OUR TIME.--It savors of temerity to write
down such a title as that which heads the present section. There are
men living to-day to whom philosophy means little else than the
doctrine of Kant, or of Hegel, or of the brothers Caird, or of Herbert
Spencer, or even of St. Thomas Aquinas, for we must not forget that
many of the seminaries of learning in Europe and some in America still
hold to the mediaeval church philosophy.

But let me gather up in a few words the purport of what has been said
above. Philosophy once meant the whole body of scientific knowledge.
Afterward it came to mean the whole body of knowledge which could be
attained by the mere light of human reason, unaided by revelation. The
several special sciences sprang up, and a multitude of men have for a
long time past devoted themselves to definite limited fields of
investigation with little attention to what has been done in other
fields. Nevertheless, there has persisted the notion of a discipline
which somehow concerns itself with the whole system of things, rather
than with any limited division of that broad field. It is a notion not
peculiar to the disciples of Spencer. There are many to whom
philosophy is a "_Weltweisheit_," a world-wisdom. Shall we say that
this is the meaning of the word philosophy now? And if we do, how
shall we draw a line between philosophy and the body of the special
sciences?

Perhaps the most just way to get a preliminary idea of what philosophy
means to the men of our time is to turn away for the time being from
the definition of any one man or group of men, and to ask ourselves
what a professor of philosophy in an American or European university is
actually supposed to teach.

It is quite clear that he is not supposed to be an Aristotle. He does
not represent all the sciences, and no one expects him to lecture on
mathematics, mechanics, physics, chemistry, zooelogy, botany, economics,
politics, and various other disciplines. There was a time when he
might have been expected to teach all that men could know, but that
time is long past.

Nevertheless, there is quite a group of sciences which are regarded as
belonging especially to his province; and although a man may devote a
large part of his attention to some one portion of the field, he would
certainly be thought remiss if he wholly neglected the rest. This
group of sciences includes logic, psychology, ethics and aesthetics,
metaphysics, and the history of philosophy. I have not included
epistemology or the "theory of knowledge" as a separate discipline, for
reasons which will appear later (Chapter XIX); and I have included the
history of philosophy, because, whether we care to call this a special
science or not, it constitutes a very important part of the work of the
teacher of philosophy in our day.

Of this group of subjects the student who goes to the university to
study philosophy is supposed to know something before he leaves its
walls, whatever else he may or may not know.

It should be remarked, again, that there is commonly supposed to be a
peculiarly close relation between philosophy and religion. Certainly,
if any one about a university undertakes to give a course of lectures
on theism, it is much more apt to be the professor of philosophy than
the professor of mathematics or of chemistry. The man who has written
an "Introduction to Philosophy," a "Psychology," a "Logic," and an
"Outlines of Metaphysics" is very apt to regard it as his duty to add
to the list a "Philosophy of Religion." The students in the
theological seminaries of Europe and America are usually encouraged, if
not compelled, to attend courses in philosophy.

Finally, it appears to be definitely accepted that even the disciplines
that we never think of classing among the philosophical sciences are
not wholly cut off from a connection with philosophy. When we are
occupied, not with adding to the stock of knowledge embraced within the
sphere of any special science, but with an examination of the methods
of the science, with, so to speak, a criticism of the foundations upon
which the science rests, our work is generally recognized as
philosophical. It strikes no one as odd in our day that there should
be established a "Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific
Methods," but we should think it strange if some one announced the
intention to publish a "Journal of Philosophy and Comparative Anatomy."
It is not without its significance that, when Mach, who had been
professor of physics at Prague, was called (in 1895) to the University
of Vienna to lecture on the history and theory of the inductive
sciences, he was made, not professor of physics, but professor of
philosophy.

The case, then, stands thus: a certain group of disciplines is regarded
as falling peculiarly within the province of the professor of
philosophy, and the sciences which constitute it are frequently called
the philosophical sciences; moreover, it is regarded as quite proper
that the teacher of philosophy should concern himself with the problems
of religion, and should pry into the methods and fundamental
assumptions of special sciences in all of which it is impossible that
he should be an adept. The question naturally arises: Why has his task
come to be circumscribed as it is? Why should he teach just these
things and no others?

To this question certain persons are at once ready to give an answer.
There was a time, they argue, when it seemed possible for one man to
embrace the whole field of human knowledge. But human knowledge grew;
the special sciences were born; each concerned itself with a definite
class of facts and developed its own methods. It became possible and
necessary for a man to be, not a scientist at large, but a chemist, a
physicist, a biologist, an economist. But in certain portions of the
great field men have met with peculiar difficulties; here it cannot be
said that we have sciences, but rather that we have attempts at
science. The philosopher is the man to whom is committed what is left
when we have taken away what has been definitely established or is
undergoing investigation according to approved scientific methods. He
is Lord of the Uncleared Ground, and may wander through it in his
compassless, irresponsible way, never feeling that he is lost, for he
has never had any definite bearings to lose.

Those who argue in this way support their case by pointing to the lack
of a general consensus of opinion which obtains in many parts of the
field which the philosopher regards as his own; and also by pointing
out that, even within this field, there is a growing tendency on the
part of certain sciences to separate themselves from philosophy and
become independent. Thus the psychologist and the logician are
sometimes very anxious to have it understood that they belong among the
scientists and not among the philosophers.

Now, this answer to the question that we have raised undoubtedly
contains some truth. As we have seen from the sketch contained in the
preceding pages, the word philosophy was once a synonym for the whole
sum of the sciences or what stood for such; gradually the several
sciences have become independent and the field of the philosopher has
been circumscribed. We must admit, moreover, that there is to be found
in a number of the special sciences a body of accepted facts which is
without its analogue in philosophy. In much of his work the
philosopher certainly seems to be walking upon more uncertain ground
than his neighbors; and if he is unaware of that fact, it must be
either because he has not a very nice sense of what constitutes
scientific evidence, or because he is carried away by his enthusiasm
for some particular form of doctrine.

Nevertheless, it is just to maintain that the answer we are discussing
is not a satisfactory one. For one thing, we find in it no indication
of the reason why the particular group of disciplines with which the
philosopher occupies himself has been left to him, when so many
sciences have announced their independence. Why have not these, also,
separated off and set up for themselves? Is it more difficult to work
in these fields than in others? and, if so, what reason can be assigned
for the fact?

Take psychology as an instance. How does it happen that the physicist
calmly develops his doctrine without finding it necessary to make his
bow to philosophy at all, while the psychologist is at pains to explain
that his book is to treat psychology as "a natural science," and will
avoid metaphysics as much as possible? For centuries men have been
interested in the phenomena of the human mind. Can anything be more
open to observation than what passes in a man's own consciousness?
Why, then, should the science of psychology lag behind? and why these
endless disputes as to whether it can really be treated as a "natural
science" at all?

Again. May we assume that, because certain disciplines have taken a
position of relative independence, therefore all the rest of the field
will surely come to be divided up in the same way, and that there will
be many special sciences, but no such thing as philosophy? It is hasty
to assume this on no better evidence than that which has so far been
presented. Before making up one's mind upon this point, one should
take a careful look at the problems with which the philosopher occupies
himself.

A complete answer to the questions raised above can only be given in
the course of the book, where the main problems of philosophy are
discussed, and the several philosophical sciences are taken up and
examined. But I may say, in anticipation, as much as this:--

(1) Philosophy is reflective knowledge. What is meant by reflective
knowledge will be explained at length in the next chapter.

(2) The sciences which are grouped together as philosophical are those
in which we are forced back upon the problems of reflective thought,
and cannot simply put them aside.

(3) The peculiar difficulties of reflective thought may account for the
fact that these sciences are, more than others, a field in which we may
expect to find disputes and differences of opinion.

(4) We need not be afraid that the whole field of human knowledge will
come to be so divided up into special sciences that philosophy will
disappear. The problems with which the philosopher occupies himself
are real problems, which present themselves unavoidably to the
thoughtful mind, and it is not convenient to divide these up among the
several sciences. This will become clearer as we proceed.


[1] "First Principles," Part II, section 37.




CHAPTER II

COMMON THOUGHT, SCIENCE, AND REFLECTIVE THOUGHT

7. COMMON THOUGHT.--Those who have given little attention to the study
of the human mind are apt to suppose that, when the infant opens its
eyes upon the new world of objects surrounding its small body, it sees
things much as they do themselves. They are ready to admit that it
does not know much _about_ things, but it strikes them as absurd for
any one to go so far as to say that it does not see things--the things
out there in space before its eyes.

Nevertheless, the psychologist tells us that it requires quite a course
of education to enable us to see things--not to have vague and
unmeaning sensations, but to see things, things that are known to be
touchable as well as seeable, things that are recognized as having size
and shape and position in space. And he aims a still severer blow at
our respect for the infant when he goes on to inform us that the little
creature is as ignorant of itself as it is of things; that in its small
world of as yet unorganized experiences there is no self that is
distinguished from other things; that it may cry vociferously without
knowing who is uncomfortable, and may stop its noise without knowing
who has been taken up into the nurse's arms and has experienced an
agreeable change.

This chaotic little world of the dawning life is not our world, the
world of common thought, the world in which we all live and move in
maturer years; nor can we go back to it on the wings of memory. We
seem to ourselves to have always lived in a world of things,--things in
time and space, material things. Among these things there is one of
peculiar interest, and which we have not placed upon a par with the
rest, our own body, which sees, tastes, touches, other things. We
cannot remember a time when we did not know that with this body are
somehow bound up many experiences which interest us acutely; for
example, experiences of pleasure and pain. Moreover, we seem always to
have known that certain of the bodies which surround our own rather
resemble our own, and are in important particulars to be distinguished
from the general mass of bodies.

Thus, we seem always to have been living in a world of _things_ and to
have recognized in that world the existence of ourselves and of other
people. When we now think of "ourselves" and of "other people," we
think of each of the objects referred to as possessing a _mind_. May
we say that, as far back as we can remember, we have thought of
ourselves and of other persons as possessing minds?

Hardly. The young child does not seem to distinguish between mind and
body, and, in the vague and fragmentary pictures which come back to us
from our early life, certainly this distinction does not stand out.
The child may be the completest of egoists, it may be absorbed in
itself and all that directly concerns this particular self, and yet it
may make no conscious distinction between a bodily self and a mental,
between mind and body. It does not explicitly recognize its world as a
world that contains minds as well as bodies.

But, however it may be with the child in the earlier stages of its
development, we must all admit that the mature man does consciously
recognize that the world in which he finds himself is a world that
contains minds as well as bodies. It never occurs to him to doubt that
there are bodies, and it never occurs to him to doubt that there are
minds.

Does he not perceive that he has a body and a mind? Has he not
abundant evidence that his mind is intimately related to his body?
When he shuts his eyes, he no longer sees, and when he stops his ears,
he no longer hears; when his body is bruised, he feels pain; when he
wills to raise his hand, his body carries out the mental decree. Other
men act very much as he does; they walk and they talk, they laugh and
they cry, they work and they play, just as he does. In short, they act
precisely as though they had minds like his own. What more natural
than to assume that, as he himself gives expression, by the actions of
his body, to the thoughts and emotions in his mind, so his neighbor
does the same?

We must not allow ourselves to underrate the plain man's knowledge
either of bodies or of minds. It seems, when one reflects upon it, a
sufficiently wonderful thing that a few fragmentary sensations should
automatically receive an interpretation which conjures up before the
mind a world of real things; that, for example, the little patch of
color sensation which I experience when I turn my eyes toward the
window should seem to introduce me at once to a world of material
objects lying in space, clearly defined in magnitude, distance, and
direction; that an experience no more complex should be the key which
should unlock for me the secret storehouse of another mind, and lay
before me a wealth of thoughts and emotions not my own. From the poor,
bare, meaningless world of the dawning intelligence to the world of
common thought, a world in which real things with their manifold
properties, things material and things mental, bear their part, is
indeed a long step.

And we should never forget that he who would go farther, he who would
strive to gain a better knowledge of matter and of mind by the aid of
science and of philosophical reflection, must begin his labors on this
foundation which is common to us all. How else can he begin than by
accepting and more critically examining the world as it seems revealed
in the experience of the race?

8. SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE.--Still, the knowledge of the world which we
have been discussing is rather indefinite, inaccurate, and
unsystematic. It is a sufficient guide for common life, but its
deficiencies may be made apparent. He who wishes to know matter and
mind better cannot afford to neglect the sciences.

Now, it is important to observe that although, when the plain man grows
scientific, great changes take place in his knowledge of things, yet
his way of looking at the mind and the world remains in general much
what it was before. To prevent this statement from being
misunderstood, I must explain it at some length.

Let us suppose that the man in question takes up the study of botany.
Need he do anything very different from what is done more imperfectly
by every intelligent man who interests himself in plants? There in the
real material world before him are the same plants that he observed
somewhat carelessly before. He must collect his information more
systematically and must arrange it more critically, but his task is not
so much to do something different as it is to do the same thing much
better.

The same is evidently true of various other sciences, such as geology,
zooelogy, physiology, sociology. Some men have much accurate
information regarding rocks, animals, the functions of the bodily
organs, the development of a given form of society, and other things of
the sort, and other men have but little; and yet it is usually not
difficult for the man who knows much to make the man who knows little
understand, at least, what he is talking about. He is busying himself
with _things_--the same things that interest the plain man, and of
which the plain man knows something. He has collected information
touching their properties, their changes, their relationships; but to
him, as to his less scientific neighbor, they are the same things they
always were,--things that he has known from the days of childhood.

Perhaps it will be admitted that this is true of such sciences as those
above indicated, but doubted whether it is true of all the sciences,
even of all the sciences which are directly concerned with _things_ of
_some_ sort. For example, to the plain man the world of material
things consists of things that can be seen and touched. Many of these
seem to fill space continuously. They may be divided, but the parts
into which they may be divided are conceived as fragments of the
things, and as of the same general nature as the wholes of which they
are parts. Yet the chemist and the physicist tell us that these same
extended things are not really continuous, as they seem to us to be,
but consist of swarms of imperceptible atoms, in rapid motion, at
considerable distances from one another in space, and grouped in
various ways.

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