[Footnote: Address before the Astronomical and Astrophysical Society of America, December 29, 1902]
If I were called upon to convey, within the compass of a single sentence, an idea of the trend of recent astronomical and physical science, I should say that it was in the direction of showing the universe to be a connected whole. The farther we advance in knowledge, the clearer it becomes that the bodies which are scattered through the celestial spaces are not completely independent existences, but have, with all their infinite diversity, many attributes in common.
In this we are going in the direction of certain ideas of the ancients which modern discovery long seemed to have contradicted. In the infancy of the race, the idea that the heavens were simply an enlarged and diversified earth, peopled by beings who could roam at pleasure from one extreme to the other, was a quite natural one. The crystalline sphere or spheres which contained all formed a combination of machinery revolving on a single plan. But all bonds of unity between the stars began to be weakened when Copernicus showed that there were no spheres, that the planets were isolated bodies, and that the stars were vastly more distant than the planets. As discovery went on and our conceptions of the universe were enlarged, it was found that the system of the fixed stars was made up of bodies so vastly distant and so completely isolated that it was difficult to conceive of them as standing in any definable relation to one another. It is true that they all emitted light, else we could not see them, and the theory of gravitation, if extended to such distances, a fact not then proved, showed that they acted on one another by their mutual gravitation. But this was all. Leaving out light and gravitation, the universe was still, in the time of Herschel, composed of bodies which, for the most part, could not stand in any known relation one to the other.
When, forty years ago, the spectroscope was applied to analyze the light coming from the stars, a field was opened not less fruitful than that which the telescope made known to Galileo. The first conclusion reached was that the sun was composed almost entirely of the same elements that existed upon the earth. Yet, as the bodies of our solar system were evidently closely related, this was not remarkable. But very soon the same conclusion was, to a limited extent, extended to the fixed stars in general. Such elements as iron, hydrogen, and calcium were found not to belong merely to our earth, but to form important constituents of the whole universe. We can conceive of no reason why, out of the infinite number of combinations which might make up a spectrum, there should not be a separate kind of matter for each combination. So far as we know, the elements might merge into one another by insensible gradations. It is, therefore, a remarkable and suggestive fact when we find that the elements which make up bodies so widely separate that we can hardly imagine them having anything in common, should be so much the same.
In recent times what we may regard as a new branch of astronomical science is being developed, showing a tendency towards unity of structure throughout the whole domain of the stars. This is what we now call the science of stellar statistics. The very conception of such a science might almost appall us by its immensity. The widest statistical field in other branches of research is that occupied by sociology. Every country has its census, in which the individual inhabitants are classified on the largest scale and the combination of these statistics for different countries may be said to include all the interest of the human race within its scope. Yet this field is necessarily confined to the surface of our planet. In the field of stellar statistics millions of stars are classified as if each taken individually were of no more weight in the scale than a single inhabitant of China in the scale of the sociologist. And yet the most insignificant of these suns may, for aught we know, have planets revolving around it, the interests of whose inhabitants cover as wide a range as ours do upon our own globe.
The statistics of the stars may be said to have commenced with Herschel's gauges of the heavens, which were continued from time to time by various observers, never, however, on the largest scale. The subject was first opened out into an illimitable field of research through a paper presented by Kapteyn to the Amsterdam Academy of Sciences in 1893. The capital results of this paper were that different regions of space contain different kinds of stars and, more especially, that the stars of the Milky Way belong, in part at least, to a different class from those existing elsewhere. Stars not belonging to the Milky Way are, in large part, of a distinctly different class.
The outcome of Kapteyn's conclusions is that we are able to describe the universe as a single object, with some characters of an organized whole. A large part of the stars which compose it may be considered as divisible into two groups. One of these comprises the stars composing the great girdle of the Milky Way. These are distinguished from the others by being bluer in color, generally greater in absolute brilliancy, and affected, there is some reason to believe, with rather slower proper motions The other classes are stars with a greater or less shade of yellow in their color, scattered through a spherical space of unknown dimensions, but concentric with the Milky Way. Thus a sphere with a girdle passing around it forms the nearest approach to a conception of the universe which we can reach to-day. The number of stars in the girdle is much greater than that in the sphere.
The feature of the universe which should therefore command our attention is the arrangement of a large part of the stars which compose it in a ring, seemingly alike in all its parts, so far as general features are concerned. So far as research has yet gone, we are not able to say decisively that one region of this ring differs essentially from another. It may, therefore, be regarded as forming a structure built on a uniform plan throughout.
All scientific conclusions drawn from statistical data require a critical investigation of the basis on which they rest. If we are going, from merely counting the stars, observing their magnitudes and determining their proper motions, to draw conclusions as to the structure of the universe in space, the question may arise how we can form any estimate whatever of the possible distance of the stars, a conclusion as to which must be the very first step we take. We can hardly say that the parallaxes of more than one hundred stars have been measured with any approach to certainty. The individuals of this one hundred are situated at very different distances from us. We hope, by long and repeated observations, to make a fairly approximate determination of the parallaxes of all the stars whose distance is less than twenty times that of a Centauri. But how can we know anything about the distance of stars outside this sphere? What can we say against the view of Kepler that the space around our sun is very much thinner in stars than it is at a greater distance; in fact, that, the great mass of the stars may be situated between the surfaces of two concentrated spheres not very different in radius. May not this universe of stars be somewhat in the nature of a hollow sphere?
This objection requires very careful consideration on the part of all who draw conclusions as to the distribution of stars in space and as to the extent of the visible universe. The steps to a conclusion on the subject are briefly these: First, we have a general conclusion, the basis of which I have already set forth, that, to use a loose expression, there are likenesses throughout the whole diameter of the universe. There is, therefore, no reason to suppose that the region in which our system is situated differs in any essential degree from any other region near the central portion. Again, spectroscopic examinations seem to show that all the stars are in motion, and that we cannot say that those in one part of the universe move more rapidly than those in another. This result is of the greatest value for our purpose, because, when we consider only the apparent motions, as ordinarily observed, these are necessarily dependent upon the distance of the star. We cannot, therefore, infer the actual speed of a star from ordinary observations until we know its distance. But the results of spectroscopic measurements of radial velocity are independent of the distance of the star.
But let us not claim too much. We cannot yet say with certainty that the stars which form the agglomerations of the Milky Way have, beyond doubt, the same average motion as the stars in other regions of the universe. The difficulty is that these stars appear to us so faint individually, that the investigation of their spectra is still beyond the powers of our instruments. But the extraordinary feat performed at the Lick Observatory of measuring the radial motion of 1830 Groombridge, a star quite invisible to the naked eye, and showing that it is approaching our system with a speed of between fifty and sixty miles a second, may lead us to hope for a speedy solution of this question. But we need not await this result in order to reach very probable conclusions. The general outcome of researches on proper motions tends to strengthen the conclusions that the Keplerian sphere, if I may use this expression, has no very well marked existence. The laws of stellar velocity and the statistics of proper motions, while giving some color to the view that the space in which we are situated is thinner in stars than elsewhere, yet show that, as a general rule, there are no great agglomerations of stars elsewhere than in the region of the Milky Way.
With unity there is always diversity; in fact, the unity of the universe on which I have been insisting consists in part of diversity. It is very curious that, among the many thousands of stars which have been spectroscopically examined, no two are known to have absolutely the same physical constitution. It is true that there are a great many resemblances. Alpha Centauri, our nearest neighbor, if we can use such a word as "near" in speaking of its distance, has a spectrum very like that of our sun, and so has Capella. But even in these cases careful examination shows differences. These differences arise from variety in the combinations and temperature of the substances of which the star is made up. Quite likely also, elements not known on the earth may exist on the stars, but this is a point on which we cannot yet speak with certainty.
Perhaps the attribute in which the stars show the greatest variety is that of absolute luminosity. One hundred years ago it was naturally supposed that the brighter stars were the nearest to us, and this is doubtless true when we take the general average. But it was soon found that we cannot conclude that because a star is bright, therefore it is near. The most striking example of this is afforded by the absence of measurable parallaxes in the two bright stars, Canopus and Rigel, showing that these stars, though of the first magnitude, are immeasurably distant. A remarkable fact is that these conclusions coincide with that which we draw from the minuteness of the proper motions. Rigel has no motion that has certainly been shown by more than a century of observation, and it is not certain that Canopus has either. From this alone we may conclude, with a high degree of probability, that the distance of each is immeasurably great. We may say with certainty that the brightness of each is thousands of times that of the sun, and with a high degree of probability that it is hundreds of thousands of times. On the other hand, there are stars comparatively near us of which the light is not the hundredth part of the sun.
[Illustration with caption: Star Spectra]
The universe may be a unit in two ways. One is that unity of structure to which our attention has just been directed. This might subsist forever without one body influencing another. The other form of unity leads us to view the universe as an organism. It is such by mutual action going on between its bodies. A few years ago we could hardly suppose or imagine that any other agents than gravitation and light could possibly pass through spaces so immense as those which separate the stars.
The most remarkable and hopeful characteristic of the unity of the universe is the evidence which is being gathered that there are other agencies whose exact nature is yet unknown to us, but which do pass from one heavenly body to another. The best established example of this yet obtained is afforded in the case of the sun and the earth.
The fact that the frequency of magnetic storms goes through a period of about eleven years, and is proportional to the frequency of sun-spots, has been well established. The recent work of Professor Bigelow shows the coincidence to be of remarkable exactness, the curves of the two phenomena being practically coincident so far as their general features are concerned. The conclusion is that spots on the sun and magnetic storms are due to the same cause. This cause cannot be any change in the ordinary radiation of the sun, because the best records of temperature show that, to whatever variations the sun's radiation may be subjected, they do not change in the period of the sun-spots. To appreciate the relation, we must recall that the researches of Hale with the spectro-heliograph show that spots are not the primary phenomenon of solar activity, but are simply the outcome of processes going on constantly in the sun which result in spots only in special regions and on special occasions. It does not, therefore, necessarily follow that a spot does cause a magnetic storm. What we should conclude is that the solar activity which produces a spot also produces the magnetic storm.
When we inquire into the possible nature of these relations between solar activity and terrestrial magnetism, we find ourselves so completely in the dark that the question of what is really proved by the coincidence may arise. Perhaps the most obvious explanation of fluctuations in the earth's magnetic field to be inquired into would be based on the hypothesis that the space through which the earth is moving is in itself a varying magnetic field of vast extent. This explanation is tested by inquiring whether the fluctuations in question can be explained by supposing a disturbing force which acts substantially in the same direction all over the globe. But a very obvious test shows that this explanation is untenable. Were it the correct one, the intensity of the force in some regions of the earth would be diminished and in regions where the needle pointed in the opposite direction would be increased in exactly the same degree. But there is no relation traceable either in any of the regular fluctuations of the magnetic force, or in those irregular ones which occur during a magnetic storm. If the horizontal force is increased in one part of the earth, it is very apt to show a simultaneous increase the world over, regardless of the direction in which the needle may point in various localities. It is hardly necessary to add that none of the fluctuations in terrestrial magnetism can be explained on the hypothesis that either the moon or the sun acts as a magnet. In such a case the action would be substantially in the same direction at the same moment the world over.
Such being the case, the question may arise whether the action producing a magnetic storm comes from the sun at all, and whether the fluctuations in the sun's activity, and in the earth's magnetic field may not be due to some cause external to both. All we can say in reply to this is that every effort to find such a cause has failed and that it is hardly possible to imagine any cause producing such an effect. It is true that the solar spots were, not many years ago, supposed to be due in some way to the action of the planets. But, for reasons which it would be tedious to go into at present, we may fairly regard this hypothesis as being completely disproved. There can, I conclude, be little doubt that the eleven-year cycle of change in the solar spots is due to a cycle going on in the sun itself. Such being the case, the corresponding change in the earth's magnetism must be due to the same cause.
We may, therefore, regard it as a fact sufficiently established to merit further investigation that there does emanate from the sun, in an irregular way, some agency adequate to produce a measurable effect on the magnetic needle. We must regard it as a singular fact that no observations yet made give us the slightest indication as to what this emanation is. The possibility of defining it is suggested by the discovery within the past few years, that under certain conditions, heated matter sends forth entities known as Rontgen rays, Becquerel corpuscles and electrons. I cannot speak authoritatively on this subject, but, so far as I am aware, no direct evidence has yet been gathered showing that any of these entities reach us from the sun. We must regard the search for the unknown agency so fully proved as among the most important tasks of the astronomical physicist of the present time. From what we know of the history of scientific discovery, it seems highly probable that, in the course of his search, he will, before he finds the object he is aiming at, discover many other things of equal or greater importance of which he had, at the outset, no conception.
The main point I desire to bring out in this review is the tendency which it shows towards unification in physical research. Heretofore differentiation—the subdivision of workers into a continually increasing number of groups of specialists—has been the rule. Now we see a coming together of what, at first sight, seem the most widely separated spheres of activity. What two branches could be more widely separated than that of stellar statistics, embracing the whole universe within its scope, and the study of these newly discovered emanations, the product of our laboratories, which seem to show the existence of corpuscles smaller than the atoms of matter? And yet, the phenomena which we have reviewed, especially the relation of terrestrial magnetism to the solar activity, and the formation of nebulous masses around the new stars, can be accounted for only by emanations or forms of force, having probably some similarity with the corpuscles, electrons, and rays which we are now producing in our laboratories. The nineteenth century, in passing away, points with pride to what it has done. It has become a word to symbolize what is most important in human progress Yet, perhaps its greatest glory may prove to be that the last thing it did was to lay a foundation for the physical science of the twentieth century. What shall be discovered in the new fields is, at present, as far without our ken as were the modern developments of electricity without the ken of the investigators of one hundred years ago. We cannot guarantee any special discovery. What lies before us is an illimitable field, the existence of which was scarcely suspected ten years ago, the exploration of which may well absorb the activities of our physical laboratories, and of the great mass of our astronomical observers and investigators for as many generations as were required to bring electrical science to its present state. We of the older generation cannot hope to see more than the beginning of this development, and can only tender our best wishes and most hearty congratulations to the younger school whose function it will be to explore the limitless field now before it.
[Footnote: An address before the Washington Philosophical Society]
Among those subjects which are not always correctly apprehended, even by educated men, we may place that of the true significance of scientific method and the relations of such method to practical affairs. This is especially apt to be the case in a country like our own, where the points of contact between the scientific world on the one hand, and the industrial and political world on the other, are fewer than in other civilized countries. The form which this misapprehension usually takes is that of a failure to appreciate the character of scientific method, and especially its analogy to the methods of practical life. In the judgment of the ordinary intelligent man there is a wide distinction between theoretical and practical science. The latter he considers as that science directly applicable to the building of railroads, the construction of engines, the invention of new machinery, the construction of maps, and other useful objects. The former he considers analogous to those philosophic speculations in which men have indulged in all ages without leading to any result which he considers practical. That our knowledge of nature is increased by its prosecution is a fact of which he is quite conscious, but he considers it as terminating with a mere increase of knowledge, and not as having in its method anything which a person devoted to material interests can be expected to appreciate.
This view is strengthened by the spirit with which he sees scientific investigation prosecuted. It is well understood on all sides that when such investigations are pursued in a spirit really recognized as scientific, no merely utilitarian object is had in view. Indeed, it is easy to see how the very fact of pursuing such an object would detract from that thoroughness of examination which is the first condition of a real advance. True science demands in its every research a completeness far beyond what is apparently necessary for its practical applications. The precision with which the astronomer seeks to measure the heavens and the chemist to determine the relations of the ultimate molecules of matter has no limit, except that set by the imperfections of the instruments of research. There is no such division recognized as that of useful and useless knowledge. The ultimate aim is nothing less than that of bringing all the phenomena of nature under laws as exact as those which govern the planetary motions.
Now the pursuit of any high object in this spirit commands from men of wide views that respect which is felt towards all exertion having in view more elevated objects than the pursuit of gain. Accordingly, it is very natural to classify scientists and philosophers with the men who in all ages have sought after learning instead of utility. But there is another aspect of the question which will show the relations of scientific advance to the practical affairs of life in a different light. I make bold to say that the greatest want of the day, from a purely practical point of view, is the more general introduction of the scientific method and the scientific spirit into the discussion of those political and social problems which we encounter on our road to a higher plane of public well being. Far from using methods too refined for practical purposes, what most distinguishes scientific from other thought is the introduction of the methods of practical life into the discussion of abstract general problems. A single instance will illustrate the lesson I wish to enforce.
The question of the tariff is, from a practical point of view, one of the most important with which our legislators will have to deal during the next few years. The widest diversity of opinion exists as to the best policy to be pursued in collecting a revenue from imports. Opposing interests contend against one another without any common basis of fact or principle on which a conclusion can be reached. The opinions of intelligent men differ almost as widely as those of the men who are immediately interested. But all will admit that public action in this direction should be dictated by one guiding principle—that the greatest good of the community is to be sought after. That policy is the best which will most promote this good. Nor is there any serious difference of opinion as to the nature of the good to be had in view; it is in a word the increase of the national wealth and prosperity. The question on which opinions fundamentally differ is that of the effects of a higher or lower rate of duty upon the interests of the public. If it were possible to foresee, with an approach to certainty, what effect a given tariff would have upon the producers and consumers of an article taxed, and, indirectly, upon each member of the community in any way interested in the article, we should then have an exact datum which we do not now possess for reaching a conclusion. If some superhuman authority, speaking with the voice of infallibility, could give us this information, it is evident that a great national want would be supplied. No question in practical life is more important than this: How can this desirable knowledge of the economic effects of a tariff be obtained?
The answer to this question is clear and simple. The subject must be studied in the same spirit, and, to a certain extent, by the same methods which have been so successful in advancing our knowledge of nature. Every one knows that, within the last two centuries, a method of studying the course of nature has been introduced which has been so successful in enabling us to trace the sequence of cause and effect as almost to revolutionize society. The very fact that scientific method has been so successful here leads to the belief that it might be equally successful in other departments of inquiry.
The same remarks will apply to the questions connected with banking and currency; the standard of value; and, indeed, all subjects which have a financial bearing. On every such question we see wide differences of opinion without any common basis to rest upon.
It may be said, in reply, that in these cases there are really no grounds for forming an opinion, and that the contests which arise over them are merely those between conflicting interests. But this claim is not at all consonant with the form which we see the discussion assume. Nearly every one has a decided opinion on these several subjects; whereas, if there were no data for forming an opinion, it would be unreasonable to maintain any whatever. Indeed, it is evident that there must be truth somewhere, and the only question that can be open is that of the mode of discovering it. No man imbued with a scientific spirit can claim that such truth is beyond the power of the human intellect. He may doubt his own ability to grasp it, but cannot doubt that by pursuing the proper method and adopting the best means the problem can be solved. It is, in fact, difficult to show why some exact results could not be as certainly reached in economic questions as in those of physical science. It is true that if we pursue the inquiry far enough we shall find more complex conditions to encounter, because the future course of demand and supply enters as an uncertain element. But a remarkable fact to be considered is that the difference of opinion to which we allude does not depend upon different estimates of the future, but upon different views of the most elementary and general principles of the subject. It is as if men were not agreed whether air were elastic or whether the earth turns on its axis. Why is it that while in all subjects of physical science we find a general agreement through a wide range of subjects, and doubt commences only where certainty is not attained, yet when we turn to economic subjects we do not find the beginning of an agreement?
No two answers can be given. It is because the two classes of subjects are investigated by different instruments and in a different spirit. The physicist has an exact nomenclature; uses methods of research well adapted to the objects he has in view; pursues his investigations without being attacked by those who wish for different results; and, above all, pursues them only for the purpose of discovering the truth. In economic questions the case is entirely different. Only in rare cases are they studied without at least the suspicion that the student has a preconceived theory to support. If results are attained which oppose any powerful interest, this interest can hire a competing investigator to bring out a different result. So far as the public can see, one man's result is as good as another's, and thus the object is as far off as ever. We may be sure that until there is an intelligent and rational public, able to distinguish between the speculations of the charlatan and the researches of the investigator, the present state of things will continue. What we want is so wide a diffusion of scientific ideas that there shall be a class of men engaged in studying economic problems for their own sake, and an intelligent public able to judge what they are doing. There must be an improvement in the objects at which they aim in education, and it is now worth while to inquire what that improvement is.
It is not mere instruction in any branch of technical science that is wanted. No knowledge of chemistry, physics, or biology, however extensive, can give the learner much aid in forming a correct opinion of such a question as that of the currency. If we should claim that political economy ought to be more extensively studied, we would be met by the question, which of several conflicting systems shall we teach? What is wanted is not to teach this system or that, but to give such a training that the student shall be able to decide for himself which system is right.
It seems to me that the true educational want is ignored both by those who advocate a classical and those who advocate a scientific education. What is really wanted is to train the intellectual powers, and the question ought to be, what is the best method of doing this? Perhaps it might be found that both of the conflicting methods could be improved upon. The really distinctive features, which we should desire to see introduced, are two in number: the one the scientific spirit; the other the scientific discipline. Although many details may be classified under each of these heads, yet there is one of pre-eminent importance on which we should insist.
The one feature of the scientific spirit which outweighs all others in importance is the love of knowledge for its own sake. If by our system of education we can inculcate this sentiment we shall do what is, from a public point of view, worth more than any amount of technical knowledge, because we shall lay the foundation of all knowledge. So long as men study only what they think is going to be useful their knowledge will be partial and insufficient. I think it is to the constant inculcation of this fact by experience, rather than to any reasoning, that is due the continued appreciation of a liberal education. Every business-man knows that a business-college training is of very little account in enabling one to fight the battle of life, and that college-bred men have a great advantage even in fields where mere education is a secondary matter. We are accustomed to seeing ridicule thrown upon the questions sometimes asked of candidates for the civil service because the questions refer to subjects of which a knowledge is not essential. The reply to all criticisms of this kind is that there is no one quality which more certainly assures a man's usefulness to society than the propensity to acquire useless knowledge. Most of our citizens take a wide interest in public affairs, else our form of government would be a failure. But it is desirable that their study of public measures should be more critical and take a wider range. It is especially desirable that the conclusions to which they are led should be unaffected by partisan sympathies. The more strongly the love of mere truth is inculcated in their nature the better this end will be attained.
The scientific discipline to which I ask mainly to call your attention consists in training the scholar to the scientific use of language. Although whole volumes may be written on the logic of science there is one general feature of its method which is of fundamental significance. It is that every term which it uses and every proposition which it enunciates has a precise meaning which can be made evident by proper definitions. This general principle of scientific language is much more easily inculcated by example than subject to exact description; but I shall ask leave to add one to several attempts I have made to define it. If I should say that when a statement is made in the language of science the speaker knows what he means, and the hearer either knows it or can be made to know it by proper definitions, and that this community of understanding is frequently not reached in other departments of thought, I might be understood as casting a slur on whole departments of inquiry. Without intending any such slur, I may still say that language and statements are worthy of the name scientific as they approach this standard; and, moreover, that a great deal is said and written which does not fulfil the requirement. The fact that words lose their meaning when removed from the connections in which that meaning has been acquired and put to higher uses, is one which, I think, is rarely recognized. There is nothing in the history of philosophical inquiry more curious than the frequency of interminable disputes on subjects where no agreement can be reached because the opposing parties do not use words in the same sense. That the history of science is not free from this reproach is shown by the fact of the long dispute whether the force of a moving body was proportional to the simple velocity or to its square. Neither of the parties to the dispute thought it worth while to define what they meant by the word "force," and it was at length found that if a definition was agreed upon the seeming difference of opinion would vanish. Perhaps the most striking feature of the case, and one peculiar to a scientific dispute, was that the opposing parties did not differ in their solution of a single mechanical problem. I say this is curious, because the very fact of their agreeing upon every concrete question which could have been presented ought to have made it clear that some fallacy was lacking in the discussion as to the measure of force. The good effect of a scientific spirit is shown by the fact that this discussion is almost unique in the history of science during the past two centuries, and that scientific men themselves were able to see the fallacy involved, and thus to bring the matter to a conclusion.
If we now turn to the discussion of philosophers, we shall find at least one yet more striking example of the same kind. The question of the freedom of the human will has, I believe, raged for centuries. It cannot yet be said that any conclusion has been reached. Indeed, I have heard it admitted by men of high intellectual attainments that the question was insoluble. Now a curious feature of this dispute is that none of the combatants, at least on the affirmative side, have made any serious attempt to define what should be meant by the phrase freedom of the will, except by using such terms as require definition equally with the word freedom itself. It can, I conceive, be made quite clear that the assertion, "The will is free," is one without meaning, until we analyze more fully the different meanings to be attached to the word free. Now this word has a perfectly well-defined signification in every-day life. We say that anything is free when it is not subject to external constraint. We also know exactly what we mean when we say that a man is free to do a certain act. We mean that if he chooses to do it there is no external constraint acting to prevent him. In all cases a relation of two things is implied in the word, some active agent or power, and the presence or absence of another constraining agent. Now, when we inquire whether the will itself is free, irrespective of external constraints, the word free no longer has a meaning, because one of the elements implied in it is ignored.
To inquire whether the will itself is free is like inquiring whether fire itself is consumed by the burning, or whether clothing is itself clad. It is not, therefore, at all surprising that both parties have been able to dispute without end, but it is a most astonishing phenomenon of the human intellect that the dispute should go on generation after generation without the parties finding out whether there was really any difference of opinion between them on the subject. I venture to say that if there is any such difference, neither party has ever analyzed the meaning of the words used sufficiently far to show it. The daily experience of every man, from his cradle to his grave, shows that human acts are as much the subject of external causal influences as are the phenomena of nature. To dispute this would be little short of the ludicrous. All that the opponents of freedom, as a class, have ever claimed is the assertion of a causal connection between the acts of the will and influences independent of the will. True, propositions of this sort can be expressed in a variety of ways connoting an endless number of more or less objectionable ideas, but this is the substance of the matter.
To suppose that the advocates on the other side meant to take issue on this proposition would be to assume that they did not know what they were saying. The conclusion forced upon us is that though men spend their whole lives in the study of the most elevated department of human thought it does not guard them against the danger of using words without meaning. It would be a mark of ignorance, rather than of penetration, to hastily denounce propositions on subjects we are not well acquainted with because we do not understand their meaning. I do not mean to intimate that philosophy itself is subject to this reproach. When we see a philosophical proposition couched in terms we do not understand, the most modest and charitable view is to assume that this arises from our lack of knowledge. Nothing is easier than for the ignorant to ridicule the propositions of the learned. And yet, with every reserve, I cannot but feel that the disputes to which I have alluded prove the necessity of bringing scientific precision of language into the whole domain of thought. If the discussion had been confined to a few, and other philosophers had analyzed the subject, and showed the fictitious character of the discussion, or had pointed out where opinions really might differ, there would be nothing derogatory to philosophers. But the most suggestive circumstance is that although a large proportion of the philosophic writers in recent times have devoted more or less attention to the subject, few, or none, have made even this modest contribution. I speak with some little confidence on this subject, because several years ago I wrote to one of the most acute thinkers of the country, asking if he could find in philosophic literature any terms or definitions expressive of the three different senses in which not only the word freedom, but nearly all words implying freedom were used. His search was in vain.
Nothing of this sort occurs in the practical affairs of life. All terms used in business, however general or abstract, have that well-defined meaning which is the first requisite of the scientific language. Now one important lesson which I wish to inculcate is that the language of science in this respect corresponds to that of business; in that each and every term that is employed has a meaning as well defined as the subject of discussion can admit of. It will be an instructive exercise to inquire what this peculiarity of scientific and business language is. It can be shown that a certain requirement should be fulfilled by all language intended for the discovery of truth, which is fulfilled only by the two classes of language which I have described. It is one of the most common errors of discourse to assume that any common expression which we may use always conveys an idea, no matter what the subject of discourse. The true state of the case can, perhaps, best be seen by beginning at the foundation of things and examining under what conditions language can really convey ideas.
Suppose thrown among us a person of well-developed intellect, but unacquainted with a single language or word that we use. It is absolutely useless to talk to him, because nothing that we say conveys any meaning to his mind. We can supply him no dictionary, because by hypothesis he knows no language to which we have access. How shall we proceed to communicate our ideas to him? Clearly there is but one possible way—namely, through his senses. Outside of this means of bringing him in contact with us we can have no communication with him. We, therefore, begin by showing him sensible objects, and letting him understand that certain words which we use correspond to those objects. After he has thus acquired a small vocabulary, we make him understand that other terms refer to relations between objects which he can perceive by his senses. Next he learns, by induction, that there are terms which apply not to special objects, but to whole classes of objects. Continuing the same process, he learns that there are certain attributes of objects made known by the manner in which they affect his senses, to which abstract terms are applied. Having learned all this, we can teach him new words by combining words without exhibiting objects already known. Using these words we can proceed yet further, building up, as it were, a complete language. But there is one limit at every step. Every term which we make known to him must depend ultimately upon terms the meaning of which he has learned from their connection with special objects of sense.
To communicate to him a knowledge of words expressive of mental states it is necessary to assume that his own mind is subject to these states as well as our own, and that we can in some way indicate them by our acts. That the former hypothesis is sufficiently well established can be made evident so long as a consistency of different words and ideas is maintained. If no such consistency of meaning on his part were evident, it might indicate that the operations of his mind were so different from ours that no such communication of ideas was possible. Uncertainty in this respect must arise as soon as we go beyond those mental states which communicate themselves to the senses of others.
We now see that in order to communicate to our foreigner a knowledge of language, we must follow rules similar to those necessary for the stability of a building. The foundation of the building must be well laid upon objects knowable by his five senses. Of course the mind, as well as the external object, may be a factor in determining the ideas which the words are intended to express; but this does not in any manner invalidate the conditions which we impose. Whatever theory we may adopt of the relative part played by the knowing subject, and the external object in the acquirement of knowledge, it remains none the less true that no knowledge of the meaning of a word can be acquired except through the senses, and that the meaning is, therefore, limited by the senses. If we transgress the rule of founding each meaning upon meanings below it, and having the whole ultimately resting upon a sensuous foundation, we at once branch off into sound without sense. We may teach him the use of an extended vocabulary, to the terms of which he may apply ideas of his own, more or less vague, but there will be no way of deciding that he attaches the same meaning to these terms that we do.
What we have shown true of an intelligent foreigner is necessarily true of the growing child. We come into the world without a knowledge of the meaning of words, and can acquire such knowledge only by a process which we have found applicable to the intelligent foreigner. But to confine ourselves within these limits in the use of language requires a course of severe mental discipline. The transgression of the rule will naturally seem to the undisciplined mind a mark of intellectual vigor rather than the reverse. In our system of education every temptation is held out to the learner to transgress the rule by the fluent use of language to which it is doubtful if he himself attaches clear notions, and which he can never be certain suggests to his hearer the ideas which he desires to convey. Indeed, we not infrequently see, even among practical educators, expressions of positive antipathy to scientific precision of language so obviously opposed to good sense that they can be attributed only to a failure to comprehend the meaning of the language which they criticise.
Perhaps the most injurious effect in this direction arises from the natural tendency of the mind, when not subject to a scientific discipline, to think of words expressing sensible objects and their relations as connoting certain supersensuous attributes. This is frequently seen in the repugnance of the metaphysical mind to receive a scientific statement about a matter of fact simply as a matter of fact. This repugnance does not generally arise in respect to the every-day matters of life. When we say that the earth is round we state a truth which every one is willing to receive as final. If without denying that the earth was round, one should criticise the statement on the ground that it was not necessarily round but might be of some other form, we should simply smile at this use of language. But when we take a more general statement and assert that the laws of nature are inexorable, and that all phenomena, so far as we can show, occur in obedience to their requirements, we are met with a sort of criticism with which all of us are familiar, but which I am unable adequately to describe. No one denies that as a matter of fact, and as far as his experience extends, these laws do appear to be inexorable. I have never heard of any one professing, during the present generation, to describe a natural phenomenon, with the avowed belief that it was not a product of natural law; yet we constantly hear the scientific view criticised on the ground that events MAY occur without being subject to natural law. The word "may," in this connection, is one to which we can attach no meaning expressive of a sensuous relation.
The analogous conflict between the scientific use of language and the use made by some philosophers is found in connection with the idea of causation. Fundamentally the word cause is used in scientific language in the same sense as in the language of common life. When we discuss with our neighbors the cause of a fit of illness, of a fire, or of cold weather, not the slightest ambiguity attaches to the use of the word, because whatever meaning may be given to it is founded only on an accurate analysis of the ideas involved in it from daily use. No philosopher objects to the common meaning of the word, yet we frequently find men of eminence in the intellectual world who will not tolerate the scientific man in using the word in this way. In every explanation which he can give to its use they detect ambiguity. They insist that in any proper use of the term the idea of power must be connoted. But what meaning is here attached to the word power, and how shall we first reduce it to a sensible form, and then apply its meaning to the operations of nature? Whether this can be done, I do not inquire. All I maintain is that if we wish to do it, we must pass without the domain of scientific statement.
Perhaps the greatest advantage in the use of symbolic and other mathematical language in scientific investigation is that it cannot possibly be made to connote anything except what the speaker means. It adheres to the subject matter of discourse with a tenacity which no criticism can overcome. In consequence, whenever a science is reduced to a mathematical form its conclusions are no longer the subject of philosophical attack. To secure the same desirable quality in all other scientific language it is necessary to give it, so far as possible, the same simplicity of signification which attaches to mathematical symbols. This is not easy, because we are obliged to use words of ordinary language, and it is impossible to divest them of whatever they may connote to ordinary hearers.
I have thus sought to make it clear that the language of science corresponds to that of ordinary life, and especially of business life, in confining its meaning to phenomena. An analogous statement may be made of the method and objects of scientific investigation. I think Professor Clifford was very happy in defining science as organized common-sense. The foundation of its widest general creations is laid, not in any artificial theories, but in the natural beliefs and tendencies of the human mind. Its position against those who deny these generalizations is quite analogous to that taken by the Scottish school of philosophy against the scepticism of Hume.
It may be asked, if the methods and language of science correspond to those of practical life, why is not the every-day discipline of that life as good as the discipline of science? The answer is, that the power of transferring the modes of thought of common life to subjects of a higher order of generality is a rare faculty which can be acquired only by scientific discipline. What we want is that in public affairs men shall reason about questions of finance, trade, national wealth, legislation, and administration, with the same consciousness of the practical side that they reason about their own interests. When this habit is once acquired and appreciated, the scientific method will naturally be applied to the study of questions of social policy. When a scientific interest is taken in such questions, their boundaries will be extended beyond the utilities immediately involved, and one important condition of unceasing progress will be complied with.