Philosophical Works of the Late James Frederick Ferrier/Lectures on Greek Philosophy (1888)/Socrates
SOCRATES.
1. There were two ways in which the perplexities occasioned by the argumentations of the Sophists might be encountered and rebutted. The one way was by abjuring all inquiry, and by falling back, in blind faith, on the old traditional morality as a matter too sacred to be questioned or investigated. This was the course adopted by the orthodox or civic or conservative party in Athens, the party of whom Aristophanes may be taken as the mouthpiece and representative. Looking merely to the mischief which the agitation of the Sophists tended to produce, and had perhaps actually produced, they became clamorous in their denunciations of these new pretenders to wisdom. They set their faces against the freedom of thought and of inquiry which these innovators had inaugurated. Their subtlety they regarded as empty quibbling—as a quibbling, however, which was dangerous to the institutions and the interests of society; and their reasonings, they held, should be put down rather by persecution than by argument. That was their idea of the way in which the Sophists should be dealt with. This party took its stand on the ancient beliefs, it clung to the social order and to the prescriptive morals which it had inherited from time immemorial, as a divinely appointed system. It reverenced them all the more on account of the obscurity in which their origin was shrouded; and it threatened vengeance against all who, by intellectual sophistications, would infringe or imperil institutions so venerable and so benign.
2. The other way of dealing with the Sophists was that which Socrates followed out. Unlike the orthodox party, he was far from being at variance with the Sophists in regard to the fundamental position which they had taken up; on the contrary, he cordially agreed with them as to the propriety, indeed the necessity, of subjecting the institutions of society and everything in which man was interested, or about which man could speculate, to the ordeal of a rigorous examination. No Sophist was ever more keenly bent on free and searching inquiry than he: and this is the reason why he has frequently, and not erroneously, been identified to a large extent with that party. If Socrates had been compelled to make his option between the Sophists and the old stubborn citizen party at Athens, there is little doubt which side he would have chosen. He would have thrown in his lot with the Sophists; for this party was at any rate awake and flexible with intellectual life and movement, whereas the other party was stiff and stolid, was sunk in a dogmatic slumber, was stationary if not retrograde. But Socrates was not compelled to choose between these two parties; another course was open to him, and on that other course he entered. He agreed with the Sophists in calling for free inquiry; but he demanded, further, that that inquiry should be thoroughgoing and complete, more thoroughgoing and complete than it had been under the management of the Sophists. This, then, was the preliminary ground on which Socrates opposed the Sophists; their inquiry into the nature of man he held had been partial, inadequate, and superficial; his professed to be more radical, more searching, and more comprehensive.
3. We have now to consider in what respect Socrates deemed the inquiry of the Sophists to be partial and incomplete, and how he endeavoured to supplement it; but, first of all, let me apprise you, that in attempting to work out the philosophy of Socrates, I shall be compelled, in the absence of full and accurate historical data, to draw considerably on my own reflections for materials, and to fill in details, which, though implied and hinted at, are not explicitly presented in any of the remains which are extant of the Socratic doctrines. In attempting to give a consistent and intelligible account of the Socratic system, both as it is in itself and as it stands opposed to the doctrines of the Sophists, I shall be obliged to attribute to him opinions which even Plato does not articulately vouch for as belonging to Socrates. I shall be under the necessity of showing that he virtually, although obscurely, raised and resolved questions which were not expressly or definitely propounded until after his time. This, therefore, has to be kept in view, that although all that I shall attribute to Socrates has, I conceive, a sufficient warrant in the general scope and spirit of his philosophy, there will be some things in my exposition for which no exact historical authority can be adduced. This course will, at any rate, conduce to intelligibility; and it is better, I conceive, to be intelligible by overstepping somewhat the literal historical record, than to be unintelligible, as we must be, if we confine ourselves slavishly within it. It is bad to violate the truth of history, but the truth of history is not violated, it is rather cleared up, when we evolve out of the opinions of an ancient philosopher more than the philosopher himself was conscious of these opinions containing. Such an evolution I propose to attempt in dealing with the philosophy of Socrates.
4. We have already seen that the psychology of the Sophists represented the natural man as centring entirely in sensation. Sensation, with its pleasures and its pains, was so prominent and importunate, the knowledge which it imparted, or appeared to impart, was so various and so assured— assured at least in so far as the individual affected by the sensations was concerned—that it threw all the other mental phenomena completely into the shade. The Sophists indeed held, as I have said, that there were no other mental phenomena, no phenomena which were not resolvable into one form or other of sensation, no phenomena which had not their origin in this all-comprehensive endowment. But the question may be raised, Is sensation thus exclusive and all-comprehensive? Is it the all in all of human nature? Is it the one and only endowment of man, viewed even in his most elementary condition as an isolated and unsocial individual? That was precisely the question which Socrates raised, and he answered it in the negative. Man is not a mere series of sensations. Even in his most primitive state, and as he comes from the hands of nature, there are elements within him entirely different from sensation. This position was equivalent to declaring, that the analysis or inquiry of the Sophists had been partial and incomplete. And such, I said, was the position taken up by Socrates at the outset.
5. I remarked on a former occasion, that thought or thinking was a phenomenon, was rather the phenomenon, which the Sophists had neglected to take into account. In prosecuting their inquiries they had, of course, made use of thought, for they could not have conducted their researches or their arguments without it; but they had employed it merely as the instrument, and not as the object of their researches. They did not turn a reflective eye upon the instrument or medium through which their observations were made. Just as the astronomer does not look at his telescope, but looks through it at the stars, so the Sophists overlooked thought itself, and attended merely to what was revealed to them through its means. But, in consequence of this oversight, their analysis was exceedingly defective; because, while it is quite proper that the astronomer should overlook his instrument, the telescope, inasmuch as some star, or whatever the object may be, is all that he is professing to examine, it is by no means proper that thought, the instrument of the philosopher, should be overlooked in the same way. Thought is not only the philosopher's instrument, it is also the object or part of the object which the philosopher is called upon to investigate and explain. He professes to examine human nature; if, therefore, he merely employs thought in the examination without making it part of the thing examined, he is not faithful to his calling, he is leaving out of the survey an element which the survey ought to embrace; his observations, accordingly, will be imperfect, and his report false and incomplete. This was what befell the investigations of the Sophists. Their report of human nature was defective, because it left out of account the element of thought, an element which, no less than sensation, although in a much less obtrusive degree than sensation, is a characteristic endowment even of the natural man. Thought was the element which Socrates found fault with the Sophists for having overlooked.
6. Here, perhaps, an objection might be raised. It might be said that thought has no place in the economy of the purely natural man, but that it owes its being entirely to the action and the influences of society. It might be argued, in the language of modern schools, that thought is a secondary and derivative, not a primary and original formation. It is not improbable that this was what the Sophists actually maintained. I said formerly that they either ignored thought or merged this phenomenon in the phenomena of sensation. Perhaps this assertion should be qualified by the statement that there was still another way in which some of them disposed of the phenomenon of thought, another point of view under which they regarded it, and that was, its conventional character and origin. They may have held that thought was due to the social circumstances in the midst of which man was placed, no less than the rules of morality were due to these same circumstances. And if this were the case, if this could be made out, it would leave sensation as the sole fundamental constituent of human nature; in which case, the contradiction between nature and convention, the opposition between what man was in himself and what he was through his contact with society, the discord or antagonism between the natural ethics of sensation and desire and the artificial ethics of social life, would remain unreconciled. In short, all the perplexities and doubts and difficulties called forth and set in motion by the speculations of the Sophists would continue uncounteracted, and would subsist in full activity and force. As part, therefore, of the Socratic dialectic, it was quite indispensable to show that thought was an indigenous endowment, a quality of human nature no less than sensation, appetite, and desire. This proof, accordingly, was the main part of the business which Socrates was called upon to perform. He had to prove that thought was man's by nature, and that it was entirely different from sensation, and its accompaniments, passion and desire. Here I shall have to introduce, as I said, some links of speculation which are not to be found in any extant record of the Socratic doctrines; but I believe that I shall deviate in no respect from the spirit of the Socratic procedure, and that I shall advance nothing which has not a basis and warrant in the principles of the philosopher himself.
7. To determine whether thought is natural or acquired, is primary or derivative, we must of course ascertain first of all what thought is, what it is in itself, and as distinguished from everything else. This can only be effected by self-reflection, by rigorous self-examination. Hence the maxim which Socrates assumed as the very watchword of his system, as the very condition on which alone any philosophy is possible, γνῶθι σεαυτόν, know thyself. That is very easily said, and to some extent, and in a superficial way, it is perhaps very easily done. But to do it really and effectually, to know ourselves truly, to get to the bottom of what we are as thinking beings; to know what thought is in itself, and as distinguished from sensation, to perceive that it is our very essence, and to make others perceive this also; this is indeed no easy matter, but, on the contrary, the hardest task in which a philosopher can be engaged. This precept, γνῶθι σεαυτόν, has usually been employed as the text or motto of an empty and commonplace morality. Know thyself, and thou shalt know how frail and fallible thou art. Thus interpreted, the maxim loses much of its vitality and significance: it becomes irrelevant, and indeed misleading: it turns the footsteps of inquirers off into a wrong path. For the proper question is not, What is the strength or the weakness, the extent or the limitations, of man's capacities? That is a subordinate question. The true question is, What is the nature of these capacities? what is thought itself? Tell us afterwards what you please about its weakness or its limitations; but tell us first of all what it is in itself. When we say, then, that γνῶθι σεαυτόν is the first injunction of philosophy, we are not to understand this precept as having any reference to the quantity, that is, to the strength or the weakness, the power or the impotence, of our capacities, but only to their quality, that is, to their nature and essence. This is by far the more profound and important of the two inquiries, although the maxim which inculcates it has been usually assumed by moral declaimers as a text from which they might expatiate on the other theme—the weakness, namely, and the fallibility of man.
8. We have, then, studiously to examine ourselves, with the view of ascertaining what thought is, and how it is distinguished from sensation. It is a common saying, both in ordinary discourse and in metaphysical disquisition, that thought is free and active, that sensation is necessitated and passive; in other words, that our mental freedom and activity consist in thought, while our mental receptivity or passivity consist in sensation. The mind is free and active when it thinks: it is compelled and passive when it feels. This statement is perfectly correct and true, but it does not carry us far. These words "free and active" throw no light whatever on the nature of thought, until after we have discovered what thought is; and then, but not till then, do we see that they are proper epithets to apply to it. To ascertain, then, what thought is, we are thrown entirely upon our own reflection. I must confess that I have found in books very little help towards clearing up the mystery. Books, indeed, lend us only the feeblest assistance. They tell us, as I have said, that thought is free and active; but there they leave us, to find out the meaning of these words for ourselves. To find out this meaning, to ascertain what that is to which these epithets apply, we are thrown on our own resources, on our own meditations; and to these accordingly I now propose to have recourse.
9. Suppose that I am pricked or scratched with a pin. I feel a sensation, a sensation of pain. I feel this whether I will or not. I cannot help myself. Here I am necessitated and passive. The sensation is imposed upon me, is given to me, without my having had any hand in bringing it on. Suppose, now, that, besides feeling this sensation, I think it. Now, can any of you tell me wherein the distinction here stated consists, the distinction, viz., between feeling the pain and thinking the pain? That there is some distinction is obvious. But what it precisely amounts to, or wherein it lies, is not so obvious. I know very well that you must experience great difficulty in conceiving what the distinction can be between feeling a sensation—the pain, for example, occasioned by the prick of a pin—and thinking that sensation. The two, the feeling and the thought of it, are so inseparably blended, that it seems as if no analysis could divide them. The sensation of the pain seems so closely incorporated with the thought of the pain, the sensation, at least, seems to bring the thought along with it so instantaneously as its necessary sequent or adjunct, that the two seem to be not two, but only one. Hence philosophers, while they have admitted some sort of distinction between the two, have at the same time treated the distinction as if it were no distinction at all. In their hands it has evaporated in mere empty phrases, and none of them, so far as I know, has ever told us distinctly what sensation is as distinguished from thought, or what thought is as distinguished from sensation. I can assure you, however, that the difference between them is most extreme and momentous. It is so extreme as to justify and bear out the doctrine that man is absolutely distinguished from the lower animals by the power of thought, that thinking is, in fact, his differentia—a doctrine frequently proclaimed, although even the philosophers who have proclaimed it most zealously have never themselves been able, so far as I know, to explain distinctly wherein the distinction consists, or to tell us precisely what thought is as distinguished from sensation.
10. This distinction I shall now attempt to explicate, tracing out what seem to me to be the lines, although they are very faint, of the Socratic design. But, as preparatory to my explication of the nature of thought, let me first try to explain what sensation precisely is. The nature of thought will be better understood when contrasted with the nature of sensation. First, then, of sensation. Each sensation, whatever it may be, is that sensation, and not more than that sensation. It is precisely it, and nothing less than it, nothing more than it. For example, the pain I feel from the prick or scratch of the pin is that particular pain only. It is not another case of pain either similar to or different from the pain which I am actually feeling. No, it is that pain alone, and nothing but that pain. Reflect carefully on this matter; examine your own sensations, and I think you will be convinced of the truth of what I say. When you feel a pain or a pleasure you do not feel any pain or any pleasure; but only that pain or that pleasure which occupies you at the time. You do not even feel any pain or any pleasure of some particular kind, but only that single pain or that single pleasure. Again: when you feel the prick or scratch of a pin, you do not feel it as my pain or as any other person's pain, but only as your own pain. Further, you do not feel it as taking place to-morrow or yesterday; but only as taking place in the present time. Further still you do not feel it as taking place in Edinburgh or in London, but only as taking place in St Andrews, and only in one spot in St Andrews, namely, in that particular part of your own body which is impinged upon. It is the character, then, of each sensation to be precisely the sensation which it is. When we feel merely, we are limited, strictly and literally limited, to the single feeling which engages us, to the single time and to the single place in which the feeling occurs. Feeling or sensation is, in the strictest sense of the word, a singular. That is its characteristic, and this we must suppose to be the condition in which the lower animals are placed. They are limited to sensations, and each sensation being only and exactly what it is, in other words, being what we call an absolute singular, the lower animals never rise above singulars. They are, in truth, a mere series of sensations, which we suppose to be united in their persons, but which they (the animals) do not suppose to be either united or disunited, because such a supposition would imply the presence of a power very different from sensation, a power of reducing these different impressions to the unity of one consciousness, which power the animals have not, and of which I am now about to speak.
11. Let us now, in the second place, consider what the nature of thought is. Secondly, then, of thought. The characteristic of thought is exactly the reverse of that which I have described to you as the characteristic of sensation. Thought is contradistinguished from sensation in this, that the thought of a particular thing is never the thought of that particular thing only, but is always the thought of something else as well, of something more than that particular thing. So that we may say with truth, although the expression is somewhat paradoxical, that each thought is never exactly what it is. It is never exactly and literally and exclusively what it is, in the same way as each sensation is always exactly and literally and exclusively what it is. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that the object of each thought is never that object exclusively; and thus that a sensation, when it is the object of thought, is never that sensation only, but that what is thought of is always that sensation, and something more. In explanation of this, let us revert to our former illustration. You should now be able to tell me what takes place in your minds when you feel the pain occasioned by the prick of the pin, and what takes place in your minds when you think of that pain. You should now be able to distinguish between thought and sensation. Consider the matter, and you will find that the distinction is this: When you feel the pain, you feel that pain merely, that particular pain, and no other; but when you think that pain, you do not think that pain merely, you think other pains as well; that is, you think any pain of that kind, and even, to some extent, other pain not exactly of that kind. The present pain is merely apprehended as a sample of what may occur again. It is thought of as an instance of pain, which, of course, implies the thought of something more than it. That is undoubtedly the process which your mind performs in thinking, and unless it goes through that process it does not think the pain at all; you merely continue to feel it, but you cannot be said to think it. In thinking the pain, then, your mind travels out of and beyond the particular pain which you are feeling. Your sensation never travels beyond that pain. For instance, in thinking the pain, you think it, or may think it, as affecting me or anybody else; but you do not and cannot, feel it as affecting me or any one except yourself. In thinking it you can think it as the pain of yesterday or to-morrow; but you do not, cannot, feel it except as the pain of the present time. Again, in thinking, you can think it as pain in Edinburgh or in London; but you cannot feel it except in the place where it is, namely, in your own organism. I have said that in thinking the pain you can think other cases of the same or similar pains. I now say that you not only can, but you must, do this if you really think the pain. The very essence of thinking consists in having more before the mind than the case more ostensibly present to it. The instant you think the pain, you do, and must, in that act, think other cases (potential cases they may be) of the same. Thought cannot, by any possibility, be held fast to one singular instance of a thing, whether that thing be a pain, a pleasure, a material object, or anything else. If it were or could be so bound, it would not be thought, but feeling. When you look at a chair, so long as you have merely a sensation of it, your sensation is a sensation of that particular chair, and of nothing else. Such a state of mind is scarcely conceivable; but we may conceive it to be the predicament in which our domestic animals are placed when they contemplate our household furniture. Such a state of the human mind, I say, is hardly conceivable, because in looking at a chair we instantly think it. But in thinking it what do we do? We think not only it, but much besides. We think it as one of a number of chairs, either actual or possible chairs, it does not matter which. It is a specimen of what may be before the mind again, and again, and again; and not only that—those things of which the present chair is a type or instance, and which I have denoted by the words again, and again, and again these things are, in some sort, actually present to the mind along with the chair which is before it, although it is very difficult to say in what way they are present to it. This at any rate is certain, that to regard the chair as a type of other chairs, to view it as one of a class, as a specimen of which more examples are possible, this is to think it. This is what the mind does, and must do, in thinking anything, whether its object be a material thing or a sensation of pleasure or pain, or anything else whatsoever. The mind is always occupied with more than that particular thing, and in this respect thinking is diametrically different from feeling, which is never occupied with more than the particular sensation present. To think is to have the mind occupied with a thing and a class.
12. We are very apt in ordinary discourse to use the words thought and feeling as synonymous, and thus to confound the processes which each respectively expresses. For example, a man says, I feel a pain to-day similar to one which I felt yesterday; and in speaking thus he seems to himself to feel a resemblance between the two pains. But in that supposition he is completely mistaken. It is impossible for him to feel this resemblance, he can only think it; and in thinking it he must have viewed the pain of yesterday as one of a number of possible cases of pain; that is to say, he must have taken into account something over and above the mere pain itself, and in thinking it (viz., the resemblance) he must also have viewed the pain of to-day as a case of which other instances were possible, and of which another instance had occurred yesterday; that is to say, he must have actually taken into account something over and above the mere present pain itself. It is thus not the mere feeling of the two pains which enables him to make the comparison, and to pronounce that they resemble each other, for in neither case is it possible for the mere feeling to indicate anything beyond itself. It is the thought of each sensation, that is, it is the thought of each sensation, and of something more than each sensation, which enables the man to make the comparison, and to pronounce on the similarity of the pains.
13. The preceding remarks, gathered up into a short statement, will amount to this. In answer to the question, What is sensation? I answer, A sensation is always particular; it is not possible for a sensation to be more than a particular sensation; and if we suppose sensation to have an object, it is always a sensation of a particular object, and of this merely. In answer to the question, What is thought? I answer, A thought is never particular; it is not possible for thought to be merely particular. A thought is never the thought merely of a particular object, but is always the thought of something more than this. The question, you will remember, with which we are at present engaged, is this: What is thought? what is it in itself? The answer is as I have given it to you, Thought is always the thought of something more than that, whatever it may be, which ostensibly occupies the mind. And further, the true and exact distinction between sensation and thought I conceive to be this. In feeling a sensation, what is really and truly felt is always that sensation merely, and is nothing more than that sensation. In thinking a sensation (or anything else, but at present I limit the statement to sensation), what is really and truly thought is never that sensation merely, but is always something more than that sensation. Such, in the briefest and clearest expression which I can give to it, is what I hold to be the fact in regard to the difference between sensation and thought.
14. I have said that in thinking the mind is always occupied with something more than that which is apparently and obviously before it. For example, in thinking a present sensation (keep, if you choose, to the pain occasioned by the scratch of a pin), in thinking this present sensation, the mind always thinks, and must think, something more than this sensation. Unless it does this, it does not think the sensation, it merely feels it. I conceive, then, that after careful reflection—and to understand what I am saying, you must reflect carefully on the operation of your own minds—after careful reflection you will be ready to concede that in thinking, the mind is, in point of fact, always really occupied with something more than that which is obtrusively and manifestly before it. Such you will admit to be the fact. But you will naturally raise the question, What is that "something more" by which we allege that the mind is possessed in all cases in which it thinks? What precisely is this "something more" which, we say, characterises all thought, this something which is always present to thought, over and above the object obviously thought of? What is it precisely? Now, gentlemen, that question is not so easily answered as it is asked. It is indeed the question which has tasked to the uttermost the powers of all great philosophers from Socrates, and more particularly from Plato, downwards. Plato elaborated and propounded his theory of ideas as a solution of that question. We shall consider this theory more particularly hereafter. Meanwhile, without troubling ourselves with that or any other theory or solution of the question, what I wish you at present to have a clear and vital apprehension of is, the fact which such theories are designed to explain. Are you satisfied that in thinking a thing, the scratch of a pin, or a book, or a walking-stick, a tree or a stone, you always think something more than that particular thing? Are you satisfied or not that this is the fact? If you are not satisfied that this is the fact, then, any attempt to explain what this something more is, would of course be thrown away; for you do not admit there is anything more to your thought than the object manifestly before you. But if you are satisfied that this is the fact, then, although you may be altogether in the dark as to what this something more is, still, you now know what the fact is, in the clearing up of which every generation of philosophers has been sedulously occupied from the days of Socrates until now. And such knowledge, knowledge of fact, whether we can explain it or not, this is, I conceive, no inconsiderable acquisition; for before we can understand, or even approach, the solution of any problem, we must know what the fact is in which that problem has originated. This you now know; you now know what the fact is, that in all thinking there is "something more" than the thing directly thought, and that this fact has given rise to the problem, What is that "something more"? and that the Platonic theory of ideas, and all the modifications which that theory has undergone, are so many attempts to compass a solution of that question.
15. Without going at present at all deep into the discussion as to what this "something more" is, this something over and above the particular which is involved in all thought, I may just remark that this "something more" has been designated by the names of class, genus, general conception or concept, or universals, terms with which your logical studies must have rendered you more or less familiar. Now, these terms, according to the meaning which we attach to them, are either very misleading, or they throw much light on the subject, viz., the nature of thought, which we are at present considering. These expressions, as usually understood, are held to express merely one of the modes in which thought manifests itself, its other mode of manifestation being its apprehension of particular things or singulars. Having apprehended these, in the first instance, thought is then supposed to fabricate classes or general conceptions, or universals, by means of abstraction and generalisation, that is, by separating the qualities which things have in common from the peculiar or differential qualities which they have, and by giving names to these common qualities, which names (names such as man, animal, and so forth) are significant of the classes to which the things belong. That doctrine I regard as exceedingly misleading. It is the doctrine taught in all our logics and psychologies. But I regard it, nevertheless, as erroneous in the extreme; erroneous for this reason, that it deceives us as to what thought is in itself, blinds us as to its true nature.
16. It seems to me that thought begins absolutely with classes, general conceptions, or universals, and that it cannot begin otherwise. Thinking is, in its very essence, the apprehension of something more than the particular; and, therefore, to represent it as dealing, in the first instance, with the particular merely, is to represent it as being what it is not its nature to be. To think is precisely not to think of any singular thing exclusively, but to think it as an instance of what may be again, and again, and again. Every thought transcends the particular object thought of; and that transcendence is not one mode in which thought operates, it is the only mode; it is thought itself in its very essence. To take our former illustration. When I feel the prick of the pin, I either do not think it at all, or, if I think it, I do not think it only, I think as one of other possible cases of the same. I think as one of a class, I think it under something wider than itself, under a class, a conception, a universal. I do this, I say at once, in the very first act and first instant of thought. I do not think first of the pain as an absolute singular, and then place it under a class by thinking of what it has in common with other pains. That is not what I do, although this is usually said to be what I do. I am convinced that thought begins by regarding the pain as one of a class; begins by thinking something more than the particular pain itself, and that that something more is a class, a genus, a conception, a universal, or, in the language of Plato, an idea.
17. The main points contained in our discussion from p. 197 and onwards, may be recapitulated as follows:—1st, According to the psychology of the Sophists, man is by nature a mere sensational creature. 2d, Out of such a psychology arises a code of natural ethics which is at variance with the conventional ethics of society; hence arose perplexity of mind, if not licentiousness in conduct, and practical embroilment in the affairs of life. 3d, Socrates maintained, in opposition to the Sophists, and as the groundwork of his argument against them, that man is not a mere sensational creature by nature, that he is more than this, that by nature he has thought as well as sensation. 4th, This may be redargued on the part of the Sophists by the assertion that thought (if it be not ultimately resolvable into sensation, which they generally held it to be; but if it be not that,) is at any rate not original, but acquired; is not due to nature, but is due to our contact with society. 5th, This, then, is the question to be discussed, Is thought original or is it derivative, is it a primary or is it a secondary formation? 6th, To settle this question we must first settle what thought is in itself, and what it is as distinguished from sensation. 7th, We have settled that thought differs from sensation in this, that sensation is always occupied with the particular only, while thought, on the contrary, is always occupied with "something more" than the particular, is always occupied with the universal. 8th, Now, then, we have settled the question as to what thought is in itself. Thought is, in its very essence, the apprehension, not of the particular or singular, but of something more than this. 9th, What this " something more" is has been a subject of interminable inquiry and discussion among philosophers. Whatever this "something more" may be explained to be, one important point is gained in our being made conscious of the fact, that in thought there always is and must be something more than the particular thing which obtrusively occupies the mind. The fact is the main thing; how it is to be explained, and what terms are to be used in the explanation, this is of less consequence. 10th, The terms employed to express and to explain this "something more" are the words class, genus, general conception, universal, idea. 11th, These terms, according as they are understood, denote a right theory of thought or a wrong one. If these words be understood to mean that thought begins absolutely with classes, genus, general conceptions, or universals, in other words, that thought begins absolutely with "something more" than the particular thing before us, they express a right theory of thought. If, on the other hand, these words be understood to mean that thought begins with singulars, and passes on to the fabrication of classes, genus, general conceptions, or universals, in that case they imply a wrong theory of thought; and although it is useful to know how logic explains the origin of these classes or genera, or general conceptions, and although we may admit that there is some ingenuity, and even some degree of truth, in the explanation, and that there may be cases in which conceptions are formed by abstraction and generalisation, as our common books on logic teach, still we must be on our guard against accepting this logical explanation of conceptions as a true theory of what thought is in its absolute nature. The other doctrine, which holds that thought does not construct universals out of singulars, conceptions out of particulars, but begins absolutely and at once with universals or general conceptions, this, I conceive, is by far the truer doctrine of the two; although, on account of its profundity, it is more difficult to drag it into light, and present it in an intelligible form. This may be said to be the ancient or Platonic doctrine in regard to the nature of thought; the other doctrine is more modern.
18. In the present Lectures I am engaged, as you are aware, in expounding the drift of the Socratic speculations; and consequently I must, of course, be of opinion that the explanation I have given you as to the nature of thought is virtually one of the Socratic doctrines. Here, however, you may ask what ground I have for this opinion. What warrant have I for attributing to Socrates the doctrine in regard to thought which I have laid before you? I answer that I have no very direct warrant for this, but that I find in the Platonic doctrine of ideas sufficient data to bear me out. The Platonic doctrine of ideas has its origin, I conceive, in the opinion that thought is of the nature which I have endeavoured to expound. But if Plato entertained this opinion in regard to thought, it is in the highest degree probable that Socrates did the same; for the philosophy of Plato is founded, for the most part, on principles laid down by Socrates, and is, in fact, little more than a development of these principles. My warrant therefore, for holding that Socrates entertained the opinion in question is the undoubted fact that Plato, his immediate disciple and follower, entertained that opinion.
19. In entering on a further stage of our inquiry, I may remind you that the point towards which we are tending, the conclusion at which we are aiming, is this, that thought is quite distinct from sensation, is man's by nature, is original and primary, not secondary and derivative. It was either by resolving thought into sensation, or it was by representing it as conventional and acquired, that the Sophists had been enabled to throw into confusion both the theory and the practice of morals. In order to confute them, it was therefore necessary, above all things, to show that thought was not resolvable into sensation, but was altogether distinct therefrom, and also to show that it was original to man, and not due merely to the influences of society. To establish these two points was, I conceive, the special aim of the Socratic inquiry, which I now proceed to carry forward. We have now, then, to consider how far the conclusion which we have reached as to the nature of thought will assist us to the further conclusion which we wish to reach as to the originality of thought. This further conclusion cannot be reached at once. We must reach it through an intermediate conclusion, through the conclusion, namely, that thought is free. This, then, is our proximate aim. Out of the data which we have reached as to the nature of thought I shall endeavour to prove to you that thought is necessarily free.
20. Facts are, in general, more intelligible than speculations, and also, in general, more satisfactory. I shall therefore endeavour to show you what the facts are in virtue of which I pronounce thought to be free. These facts will show you what we mean by saying that thought is free. We have seen that when a man feels a sensation, and that when, moreover, he thinks this sensation, he thinks not only it, but something more than it. He thinks it as one of which there are or may be other instances. He thinks it as one of a class of sensations. He places it under a general notion, under a category or universal. He does this as a matter of fact. Now, what is implied in this fact? In that fact there is implied this further fact, that the man's thought frees or disengages itself from the particular sensation which is felt, and takes into account other sensations as well. It thinks the present impression as an instance which may occur again, as an example, a specimen, a type which may be repeated; and thinking it as such, it of course thinks virtually of other cases. But in thinking other cases, it necessarily travels out of and beyond the particular case before it. But in travelling beyond this particular case, it of course frees itself from it. Thought is not tied down to this or to any particular case; if it were, there would be no thought, there would be mere sensation. What is meant, then, by our saying that thought is free is simply this: we thereby express the fact that thought is not restricted and bound down to the particular sensation felt, but frees itself from it in the very act of taking into account something more, that is to say, other impressions which are not felt, but which are virtually thought of, in addition to the one which actually engages the mind. The two facts, then, in virtue of which we pronounce thought to be free, are, first, the fact that thought always travels beyond the particular sensation or impression which engages it, and takes in something more; and, second, the fact that, in doing so, thought is necessarily free, that is to say, it frees itself from the particular sensation or impression referred to, it is not engaged by it exclusively.
21. It is of the utmost consequence that you should verify in your own consciousness the truths in regard to thought and sensation which I have laid before you, and which I have yet to lay before you. You must practise the γνῶθι σεαυτόν, otherwise all that I am saying will go for nothing. There is one thing, however, which I must impress upon you by way of caution; you must not expect to be able to verify the fact of sensation and the fact of thought apart from each other; you must not expect to be able to study the phenomenon of sensation by itself and prescinded from all thought. That is impossible: because, in the very act of studying the sensation, you must think it; so that it is impossible to lay hold of it by itself. The two cannot be separated in such a way as may enable you to report upon sensation without taking thought into account as well. But still, although the two must be taken together, this need not prevent us from obtaining a distinct conception of each, or from perceiving that the one element is quite different from the other, that each is, indeed, the opposite of the other.
22. Having thus put you on your guard against encouraging an expectation which cannot possibly be fulfilled, I go on to stimulate your own reflections with the view of assisting you to reach a still clearer understanding of the distinction between thought and sensation, the bondage of the latter and the liberty of the former. Let us consider the contrast between the two. When a man feels a sensation (say the scratch of a pin), the sensation never disengages itself from itself in such a way as to make the man feel other sensations. The feeling of a sensation is never the feeling of that sensation and of other sensations besides; it is the feeling of that sensation only. Hence sensation, each sensation, is bond, not free; each of them has no range beyond itself. It is quite otherwise with the thought of a sensation. The thought of a sensation is not limited to that sensation. I mean that the very first time, and in the very first instant, in which a sensation is thought, the thought is not limited to that sensation; if it were limited to it, it would be mere sensation, not thought. It takes in something more, it has a range, it extends to other sensations as well. Thought thus disengages itself from the particular sensation, it puts a negative upon it, it in a manner denies that the sensation is it, the thought; it starts away from the sensation, and brings down upon it a universal, a conception which embraces other possible sensations as well. Instead of saying that thought disengages itself, from the particular sensation, it would be more correct to say that this disengagement is itself thought. There is not, first of all, the thought of the sensation and then the disengagement of the thought from the sensation, and its extension to other instances of the same. No; the process is better described by saying that the disengagement, the disenthralment from the sensation, is itself the thought of the sensation. The two are identical. The thought does not precede the disengagement, nor does the disengagement precede the thought: but the thought is the disengagement and the disengagement is the thought. So that we may say of thought that it is a mental disengagement from every particular sensation, a mental refusal to be limited to any particular sensation, and a liberation from the same; while we may say of this mental disengagement, refusal, and liberation, that it is no other than thought. On the other hand, sensation is no disengagement from a particular sensation, no mental refusal to be limited to a particular sensation; it is no liberation from a particular sensation, but is, on the contrary, an absolute acquiescence in the limitation and thraldom by which each sensation is characterised.
23. After what I have just said, you should have no difficulty in perceiving that thought must be active as well as free. These two words, indeed, signify the same thing. If the freedom of thought consist in its disengaging itself from the particularity of sensation, it must, of course, be active in effecting this disengagement. This disengagement is manifestly an act, and in putting forth this act the mind is in a condition quite different from its passive state when recipient of sensation. But I need not dwell on this point. I may just remark that you should now be able to attach some meaning to the words free and active when applied to thought—a more distinct meaning, perhaps, than you have been accustomed to apply to them when used in that connection.
24. We have now reached the conclusion at which we have been aiming, and which must be made out if we would plead with effect the cause which Socrates advocated against the Sophists. That conclusion is, that thought is not only quite distinct from sensation, but that, in virtue of its freedom and self-origination, it is, moreover, a primary and indigenous product of the mind. The Sophists held that sensation, appetite, and desire, that these alone, were our primary attributes, were the only indefeasible principles of our nature. But we have seen that thought is more original and primary, if I may say so, is ours by a more indefeasible title, than sensation, appetite, or desire. Thought, in fact, is our self, our essential self, inasmuch as it is originated by the free activity of the mind. The other endowments referred to are the mere accidents or accompaniments of our self. Thus the tables are turned upon the Sophists. So far is it from being true that man is originally by nature a mere sensational creature, that it would be more correct to say that man in his true nature is a mere thinking creature. Thought, and not sensation is his peculiar characteristic. Thought is his essential property. It is that which makes him what he is. It constitutes his being more truly than sensation, appetite, and desire. For these are necessitated, are forced upon him from without. But thought is free and active. It is originated by the mind itself from within, and therefore belongs to it more closely and essentially than any other endowment.
25. I have not yet spoken directly of self-consciousness, but in the foregoing remarks I have given you what I conceive is the true speculative history of the rise and manifestation of that mental act. To complete my explanation of self-consciousness I have still a few observations to make, and then we shall proceed to consider what bearings the conclusions we have established have on the doctrines of the Sophists. Man alone is characterised by self-consciousness. This endowment certainly does not belong, and is not to be attributed to, the lower animals. They have feeling, sensation, appetite, passion, desire; but they certainly have no thought or consciousness of themselves, no self-consciousness, in the proper sense of that word. There is, however, an improper sense in which every sentient creature, as well as men, may be said to be self-conscious. What is that sense? By pointing out that sense we shall be better able to apprehend and explain what true self-consciousness is. When a sentient being experiences a sensation, it may be said to feel itself, as well as the sensation. (Observe, I do not say that it thinks itself; that is a very different matter.) But it feels itself as that which is experiencing the sensation. It shuns or endeavours to get rid of painful sensations: it courts and endeavours to procure pleasurable ones. When a cat lies by the fire or in the sun, it enjoys an agreeable warmth. We cannot doubt that it feels itself doing so. When a dog is hungry, or has got his foot hurt, we cannot doubt that he feels himself in a painful predicament. But in neither of these cases, nor in any cases of a like kind, is any approach made to the thought of themselves by these animals. They have the feeling of themselves, but no conception of themselves. And if we choose to call this feeling of themselves by the name of self-consciousness, we may attribute to them self-consciousness; but if by self-consciousness we mean having a conception of themselves, we must deny that animals have any self-consciousness, for we cannot allow that they have any conception of themselves. I think that the term ought to be used in this latter acceptation only, and that although we may speak of animals having a feeling of themselves, we should never say that they have self-consciousness or a conception of themselves.
26. But perhaps you may imagine that there is no very great difference between the feeling of oneself and of one's own pains and pleasures, on the one hand, and self-consciousness, or the thought of oneself and of one's own pains and pleasures, on the other hand. The following remarks, then, may help to convince you that the difference, both in itself and in its consequences, is momentous and extreme. When an animal feels itself and its own sensations, it does not, and it cannot, feel another animal and another animal's sensations. For example, when a dog feels itself hungry or suffering from a sore foot, it does not feel the hunger of another dog or the pain in another dog's foot. It feels only its own hunger and its own pain. It can feel only itself and its own sensations, whatever these may be, and no augmentation of these will enable it to go beyond itself: indeed, we might say the more it feels its own sensations, the more these are intensified, the more these occupy it, the less does it feel the sensations of any other animal. Hence animals have no sympathy for each other. This want of sympathy is a necessary consequence of their being tied down to the feeling of themselves and of their own sensations. Under this limitation it is impossible for them to take others into account, and the pains and pleasures which others may be experiencing. For, as I have said, one sentient being can never feel the sensations of another sentient being; and therefore, if it be limited, as animals are, to mere feeling, it must be utterly indifferent to others and to their pains and pleasures. This indifference characterises all animals, many children, and some men, in whom the sensational element is unduly preponderant. What civilisation and society would be without sympathy, it is difficult, or rather it is not difficult, to imagine. Neither society nor civilisation could exist. Such would be the consequence if people had merely the feeling of themselves and of their own sensations, appetites, and desires.
27. If we now turn to the consideration of self-consciousness, or the conception of oneself and of one's own pains and pleasures, a conception which I supposed you might be inclined to confound with the mere feeling of oneself; if we turn to the consideration of this conception of oneself, we shall perceive how completely it is distinguished from the feeling, both in itself and in its consequences. It has been already explained to you that thought in all cases embraces something more than is directly and obtrusively thought of; that it extends beyond the particular to the universal; that when a sensation is felt and thought of, other sensations are thought of as well. In the same way the thought of me extends to other mes. When I have the conception of myself, this conception is the conception of all mes, and not merely of me in particular. When I feel myself and my own sensations, I do not, cannot, feel another man and his sensations; but when I think myself and my own sensations, I think other men as well, virtually all other men and their sensations. I think myself and my pains and pleasures as an instance of which there are or may be myriads of other instances. Mere feeling, the mere feeling of myself and my sensations, would never enable me to do this. But thought enables me, indeed thought compels me, to do it. Thought clears the bounds of mere feeling: thought, in the very act of being what it is, necessarily overleaps the limitations of feeling. Hence thought, the thought of oneself and of one's sensation, is the ground and the condition of sympathy. Without this thought there can be no sympathy; but along with this thought, sympathy more or less arises. Sympathy lies at the root of civilisation and of society. Hence all that is good in man's condition is founded ultimately on the power of thought, in that act in which the mind disengages itself from its own particular self, and from its own particular sensations, appetites, and desires, and takes into account other people and the interests of other people as well. Society, with all its beneficial institutions, thus arose out of thought, out of self-consciousness, out of the conception of oneself; whereas the mere feeling of self would for ever prevent society from being established among men, would for ever envelop the world in the darkness of barbarism, and keep away the dawn of civilisation.
28. The whole social edifice rests ultimately upon the freedom of thought, and arises out of it. First, there is freedom, that original and uncaused act by which the mind thinks itself, its own sensations, appetites, and desires, and in doing so frees or disengages itself from them; or, stated with equal truth in the converse way, that original and uncaused act by which the mind disengages itself from itself, from its own sensations, appetites, and desires, and in doing so thinks them: for, as I formerly said, the disengagement and the thought, the freedom and the conception, are identical; and we cannot say which comes first and which second; they are simultaneous in their operation. Secondly, there is self-consciousness, the consciousness or conception of oneself and of one's own sensations. But inasmuch as all thought is a disengagement from that, whatever it may be, which more obtrusively occupies the mind, and is thus a getting beyond and away from the particular, so, in the conception of self, I am not tied down to my own individual self: my conception extends beyond this, it embraces, in fact, the whole human race. It is not possible for me to think myself merely. In thinking myself, I think all other selves. Note here the very marked antithesis between feeling and thought. In feeling myself, I must feel only my particular self, and I cannot possibly feel others as well. In thinking myself, I cannot think only my particular self; I must of necessity think others as well. Thirdly, there is sympathy. This arises out of self-consciousness. The conception of myself being the conception of other selves as well as of me, not only enables, but compels me to take some interest, more or less, in them as well as in myself Thus sympathy has self-consciousness for its foundation. Self-consciousness is the condition of sympathy, and not only that; wherever self-consciousness is manifested, there some degree of sympathy must be put forth. In virtue of self-consciousness, sympathy is not only possible, it is also actual and imperative. Fourthly, there is society. This arises out of sympathy. Without a fellow-feeling, mutual goodwill, and a community of sentiment, society could not subsist for a day, social intercourse would be impossible; so that freedom of thought is ultimately, and at bottom, the lever which raises man up into the position in which we now find him existing. It is the root out of which spring all the blessings of civilisation. Take this away, and it would resolve human society into a commonwealth, or, I should rather say, an anarchy, of kangaroos or ourang-outangs.
29. The doctrine which I have just propounded in regard to the relation between self-consciousness and sympathy may enable us to modify Adam Smith's theory of moral sentiments, which has been already under our review; and to render that theory, if not impregnable, at any rate more complete than it now is. Adam Smith, as you are aware, explains our moral sentiments by means of the principle of sympathy. Our faculty of moral estimation, our power of passing moral judgments either on ourselves or on others, is resolved by him into our power of sympathy, and is indeed nothing but the operation of this principle. But in working out this system Adam Smith seems to have thought that sympathy is a native and original affection of the human heart, just as hunger and thirst are natural affections of the human organism. He seems to have thought that people felt sympathy for others just as naturally as they felt their own pleasures and their own pains. This opinion I regard as incorrect. I hold that we have originally, or in the first instance, no sympathies with other people in the way in which we have originally, and from the very first, a sense of our own weal or woe. I conceive that we become sympathetic only after the idea of self has been called forth, and this is an idea which does not show itself in our very early years. But until it does declare itself, our sympathy has no existence. In proof of this you have only to observe how little sympathy very young children have in the sufferings or enjoyments of each other. In them the idea of self is either not developed at all, or it is but feebly developed; the mere feeling of self is predominant or all-absorbing, and hence they are wrapped up in their own sensational and emotional world, and take little or no interest in the happiness or misery of their companions. But gradually as this idea unfolds itself, the emotion of sympathy begins to dawn. In the light of this conception they see that others are just themselves over again; and, taking an interest in themselves, they come to take an interest also in all those whom the idea reveals to them as fashioned after the same model with themselves. The idea of self is no exclusive or egotistic principle; the feeling of self is egotistic and exclusive; but the idea of self is universal and comprehensive. It is the true equaliser of the human race. It is the principle which enables us to understand and, so far as the mere individual feeling will permit, to act according to the Divine precept of doing to others as we would that they should do unto us. Thus self-consciousness, as was formerly explained to you, is essential to the existence of sympathy, and sympathy is thus a passion which, unlike our more elementary appetites and desires, has its roots in thought, and is brought about through the intermediation of an idea. This circumstance has, I think, been overlooked by Adam Smith.
30. If Adam Smith erred in regarding sympathy as an affection of as original and elementary a character as our appetites and some of our desires, Hobbes erred, on the other side, in regarding it as forming no part of man's original nature at all, but as a secondary and derivative formation springing out of fear, which made men combine into societies for mutual aid and protection against other societies which might be disposed to do them harm. Hobbes denies that man has by nature any sympathy with his fellows. He holds that all our original passions and instincts are unsocial, or, indeed, antisocial; and in entertaining this opinion, Hobbes, I think, is so far right. He is right thus far, that prior to the dawn of self-consciousness, all our principles of action, our appetites, affections, and desires, are unsocial; they aim merely at the attainment of our own personal pleasure, and at the avoidance of our own personal pain. But after the dawn of self-consciousness, the social affections are developed, sympathy comes into existence, and this sympathy is as truly a part of our nature as any of our other affections are; the only difference between it and those which are more primitive being this, that it (sympathy, namely) exists only after self-consciousness has declared itself, whereas the others exist before that idea has been called forth. And hence Hobbes, although, as I said, to some extent right, is also so far wrong, inasmuch as he scarcely seems to admit that sympathy is in any sense natural to the human heart, or a natural attribute of man. He is, however, right in his opinion that sympathy is not so original, so natural to man, or at least so immediately manifested, as those appetites and desires which show themselves in the earliest period of his existence, and spring up without the intermediation of thought, or of any idea being required for the manifestation.
31. But these latter remarks are somewhat digressive. I return to the subject with which we are more properly engaged. You should now perceive how directly the results which we have reached strike at the root of Sophistical argumentation. Socrates meets the Sophists on their own grounds, and foils them with their own weapons. Assenting to their leading principle, he may be supposed to address himself to them thus, "Whatever is natural, you say, is more authoritative than anything which is conventional; νόμος must always give way to φύσις. I grant it; but what is φύσις? What is man's nature? You say it is sensation; and if that be true, all your deductions follow in a sequence, the logic of which, I admit, is irresistible. But that is not true. It is not true that man is merely a sensational being; he is, moreover, a thinking being, and thought is more properly the man himself than sensation. This is his φύσις, and this φύσις, I admit, is more authoritative than any νόμος, than any convention or agreement among men. But what does this nature enjoin? What are the ethics of nature now when thought is taken into account as forming the principal part of man's nature? They must be very different from the ethics evolved out of a psychology which either takes no notice of thought, or resolves it into a mere form or product of sensation. They must enjoin something very different from what is enjoined by the code of Sophistical or sensational morality, and they do enjoin something very different. The ethics of sensation say, Follow out your sensations, gratify them to the full, and at all hazards please your appetites and your desires to the uttermost, for sensation and its adjuncts, appetite and desire, constitute the true nature of man. But my code of ethics (I still suppose Socrates speaking), my code of ethics say no. Thought is the true nature of man. Therefore you must follow out what thought involves and what thought prescribes, for then alone will you be obeying that φύσις which, on your own showing, is the most obligatory and authoritative of all things. But if thought be the essence of man, the essence of thought, as has been already sufficiently explained, is freedom, is a liberation from sensation, appetite, and desire. Thought is itself, as we have seen, a disengagement from these, not that man in thinking is ever without sensation of one kind or another; but man in thinking is always free from their dominion. Self-preservation is the first of duties; but the preservation of our thinking, that is of our true, selves, can be effected only by laying a restraint on our sensations, appetites and desires, and by refusing to be their slaves. Thus alone is that self preserved which consciousness or conception reveals to us as our true self. It exists and maintains itself only through an antagonism perpetually waged against those otherwise enslaving and monopolising forces, our sensations, passions, and desires. Our nature is, as you say, the most authoritative of all things, and we are under the most stringent obligation to obey its commands. But we obey these commands not when we yield to the dictates of sensation, appetite, and desire, but when we antagonise these forces, and hold them at bay by means of that freedom of thought which is our birthright and our essence." So far we may suppose Socrates to speak.
32. I now remark, in my own name, that the ethics of nature, as expounded by Socrates, are shown to be in harmony, for the most part at least, with the ethics of society. Φύσις and νόμος are reconciled. Society merely enforces what nature has already prescribed. Thus the contradiction between the natural man and the conventional man, on which the Sophists were wont to lay so much stress, is overcome and appeased. The social man is merely the development of what man is in himself. The citizen is merely the perfection of the individual. The state itself is nothing but the individual in a brighter form, and in more enlarged proportions.
33. The foregoing details may perhaps have enabled you to form a tolerably adequate conception of the groundwork of the moral philosophy of Socrates, both in its polemical character as a refutation of the Sophists, and in its positive character as a body of sound and scientific ethical doctrine. I have gone into the controversy between Socrates and the Sophists at considerable length, because I conceive that in this controversy are to be found all those elements of dispute which again and again have divided the philosophical world both in ancient and in modern times. We shall see hereafter, in particular, that the controversy between Hobbes and his opponents—at the head of whom stands Butler as one of the most conspicuous, although other moralists (Cudworth, for example) had entered the lists before Butler appeared—we shall see, I say, that this controversy bears a close resemblance in some of its features to the polemic carried on two thousand years before between Socrates and the Sophists. Hobbes took up the ground of sensationalism as the basis of his philosophy very much as the Sophists had done before him, and he found no principle of pacification among men, no curb for their unruly appetites and passions, except the strong and armed hand of a supreme and irresponsible dictator. Butler attempted to show that principles of pacification existed in the nature of man himself in his social instincts and benevolent affections. In this attempt Butler was merely treading in the footsteps of Socrates, although with a feebler and less scientific step. Socrates had, I conceive, a deeper insight into the nature of man than Bishop Butler. Instead of regarding, as Butler did, our social and benevolent affections as original parts of our nature, in the same sense in which hunger and thirst are original parts of our nature, Socrates regarded them as brought about through the intervention of thought. So, at least, I am inclined to interpret his philosophy. He regarded these social affections as having no place in the economy of man until after his self-consciousness had been called forth; and in this opinion Socrates seems to me to be unquestionably right. Butler, however, regards the social affections as standing on the same footing with hunger and thirst, affections which certainly declare themselves prior to any manifestation of self-consciousness. So far, therefore, I am of opinion that the Athenian sage was superior to the English bishop both in speculative depth and in scientific precision. But, without insisting on that point, what I wish you to observe is, that my reason for going at such length into the moral philosophy of Socrates is because I conceive that by laying down thought, or, more strictly, the free act of self-consciousness, as the groundwork of ethics, it supplies the truest of all foundations for a system of absolute morality, and contains the germ of all the ethical speculations, whether polemical or positive, which have been unfolded since his time.
34. I shall make no further attempt at present to reduce the philosophy of Socrates to greater precision than has been done in the foregoing exposition. I go on to call your attention to a few points connected with Socrates and his philosophy, with which you should be made acquainted before we dismiss this subject. The first point is, that all rational knowledge must be elicited from within the mind, and cannot be imparted to it from without. The Socratic art of education, therefore, consists rather in a skilful method by which the mind is made to evolve truth out of itself, than in a method by which truth is communicated to the mind by another person. The second point is the somewhat paradoxical assertion, that all virtue is knowledge and all vice ignorance. The third point is the assertion that no man is voluntarily vicious. The fourth point for consideration is, What, according to Socrates, is the supreme good the chief end, of man? The fifth consideration is, What, in the system of Socrates, is the ground of moral obligation? The sixth point for consideration is, How virtue and happiness are reconciled and united in the system of Socrates. On some of these points it may be difficult, perhaps impossible, to come to any very satisfactory conclusion; but I shall do what I can to throw light upon them, by saying a few words upon each.
35. First.—In several parts of the Dialogues of Plato, Socrates announces himself, with considerable humour, as a person devoted to the same calling as his mother Phænarete, who practised the obstetric art; the only difference between them being that, whereas she assisted women with her skill, he helped to deliver the minds of men of the ideas of which they were in labour. The analogy between his mother's profession and his own was referred to by Socrates in order to show that he could no more impart, and that it was no more his business to impart truth and knowledge to the minds of his hearers, than it was her business to bear the child, and impart it to those whom she was called upon to deliver. In both cases it was their business to elicit something from within, and not to communicate anything from without. More particularly was this true in regard to the birth of intellectual knowledge; for, according to Socrates, the mind contained within it truths which external experience or communication with others might call forth, but which no external experience and no communication with others could instil or impart. The mind must originate them within itself. As an example of this kind of truth, the whole science of mathematics may be adduced. In the dialogue of Plato entitled Meno, Socrates is represented as educing from the mind of a young slave, by means of judicious questioning, some of the more elementary truths of geometry. As a very simple illustration, I may take a geometrical axiom, and I ask a person quite unskilled in mathematics, whether, if equals be added to equals, the wholes will be equal or unequal. If he understands the question, he will at once answer that the wholes will be equal. But I did not teach him that truth; no one imparted it to him. I merely put the question to him, and he found out for himself the right answer for himself at once. It sprang up within him; and if it had not sprung up within him, he never could have received it from without. If a student of geometry were to say, My reason for assenting to the axioms is because Euclid or my teacher has assured me that they are true, and I take their word for it—if a student, I say, were to speak thus, he would show that he had no understanding of the simplest elements of geometry. But what you have to observe is, that the whole science of mathematics is truly of the character which Socrates describes. The just inference is, that the entire science is properly, even in its most complicated demonstration, called forth from within the mind, and not communicated to the mind from without. In Plato's hands this doctrine passed into the assertion that all knowledge is reminiscence; is the recollection of what the mind knows, and actually knew in some former state of existence, and still potentially knows. Such a doctrine must be limited to what may be called rational knowledge, the knowledge of necessary truths, as distinguished from historical knowledge, which certainly cannot be elicited from the mind by any process of manipulation, however skilful. But it is only of rational knowledge, knowledge which depends altogether on thinking, that Socrates and Plato speak. In subsequent times this opinion—all rational knowledge is reminiscence—has reappeared in the doctrine of innate ideas; a doctrine which Locke was supposed at one time to have completely overthrown and extirpated, but which has so much vitality that it has shown itself again and again since his time, and flourishes even now with renovated youth and vigour. The ultimate ground of this opinion is to be found in the doctrine I formerly explained to you, the doctrine of thought as a free and self-originated act. No external power, no force brought to bear upon him ab extra, can make a man think; because thinking is in fact a freedom from all external compulsion, and a rejection thereof; therefore a man must think, if he thinks at all, for and from himself. He cannot be made to think at the bidding and under the compulsion of others, as he may be made to feel at the bidding and under the compulsion of others. Hence every science, the truths of which are truths of thought, must be called forth from within the mind of the learner, and cannot be impressed upon him from without.
36. The second point is the assertion that all virtue is knowledge, and all vice ignorance. This apparently paradoxical assertion may perhaps be interpreted in this way: If a man only knew and kept constantly in view what his true nature was, he would aim only at that which conduced to the wellbeing of that nature; and aiming only at this, he would be unwavering in the practice of virtue, for it is by virtue alone that the wellbeing of his true nature is secured. For example, if a man knew and never lost sight of the knowledge that thought is his true nature, that freedom is the essence of thought, that thought is the antagonist of sensation, passion, and desire, that it is by thought that man is disengaged from these, the enslaving forces of his being, and established in this true personality ;—if a man knew, and kept constantly in view, that such was his true nature, he would aim at the preservation and well-being of that nature by laying a suitable restraint on those lower impulses and propensities which at all times threaten to invade and impair it, and thus he would continue steadfast in the pursuit and practice of virtue; for virtue is nothing but a restraint laid upon the natural lusts and passions of the soul. Hence, if man's knowledge of himself was perfect, his virtue too would be perfect; and in proportion as his knowledge approaches to perfection, so too would his virtue approach to perfection. But man's knowledge of himself is, for the most part, not only imperfect, it is absolutely null. His ignorance of his true nature is such, that he mistakes for his true nature that which is not his true nature at all. He thinks that his true nature centres in his sensations, appetites, and desires; hence he conceives that his true wellbeing will be promoted by an indulgence in these as unlimited as can be procured. Hence he falls into vicious courses. But this happens in consequence of his ignorance; of his ignorance of what constitutes his true nature, and of his consequent ignorance as to the means by which the wellbeing of that nature should be promoted. Thus, as all virtue has its origin in knowledge, in a knowledge of what our true nature is, so all vice has its origin in ignorance, in an ignorance of what the nature of ourselves really and truly is. This farther may be said: whatever man pursues, he pursues in the idea that it is good for him. When he pursues evil, therefore, he does so because he mistakes it for good; in other words, he does so in ignorance of its true nature. Had he distinctly known what this, its true nature, was, he would have avoided the evil after which he is running. More shortly stated, no man runs after evil viewed as evil, but viewed as good: he embraces evil under the disguise of good; that is to say, he embraces it unwillingly. This doctrine is in keeping with the Socratic position, that all vice is a sort of madness, and that the perfection of virtue is the perfection of sanity, or reason, or wisdom. Aristotle has objected to Socrates, that, in reducing virtue to knowledge, he has emptied our virtuous affections of that warmth and heartiness by which they are characterized. His objection is not without force, and it shows that the Socratic doctrine is not altogether complete. So far as it goes, however—and I think it goes a long way in rendering virtue intelligible—it seems to me to be a sound and rational speculation.
37. The third point is, that no man is voluntarily vicious. This conclusion follows as an immediate corollary from what was said in the preceding paragraph. No man wills to do that which is adverse to his true interests. But a man may mistake his false for his true interests; hence he may enter on a course of action which is at variance with his true interests, and thus he may fall into vice. But he cannot be said to will this vice; for all the while he is willing to promote his own true interests, only, through ignorance as to what these are, he has fallen on a course of conduct which secures only his false interests and promotes only his false happiness; and this is the way of vice, and not the way of virtue. Hence it is only through ignorance of his own true interests that a man is vicious, and not because he wills to be so, for a man wills only his true interests; and if he always knew what these were, he would continue in the practice of virtue, for virtue alone can secure them.
38. The fourth point for consideration is, what, according to Socrates, is the supreme good, the chief end of man? I conceive that Socrates agreed with all the ancient moralists in holding that his own happiness is the supreme good, the chief end of man. But then this happiness must be his true, and not his apparent or illusory, happiness; but man's true happiness must centre in his obedience to the law of his true Being, and not in his obedience to the dictates of his unessential Being. But the law of man's true being is freedom; freedom from the yoke of sensation, passion, and desire. Therefore man’s proper happiness, his supreme good or chief end, is to be found in a due subjugation of our appetites and desires, and not in their unqualified indulgence, as is inculcated by those moralists who, not knowing themselves, do not know what the true and essential nature of man is.
39. The fifth point for consideration is, what, in the system of Socrates, is the ground of moral obligation? I conceive that, in the system of Socrates, the ground of man's moral obligation is to be found, where we have already found his happiness or chief end; is to be found, that is, in his true nature itself. Freedom from the dominion of his lower affections, his sensations, appetites, and desires, is the true nature of man. He is, therefore, under an obligation to maintain this nature, for self-preservation is the most indefeasible law of the universe; but he can only maintain it by keeping up that disengagement from sensation, appetite, and desire which thought, his true Being, had already effected even in bringing itself into existence. In his own nature, therefore, there is a law, the law of freedom, which calls upon him to restrain his lower impulses, his greed and his injustice, when these threaten to be-come inordinate; and this law of freedom is no other than the law of moral obligation, and it has its ground in the true nature of man.
40. These points having been explained, it is not difficult to see how happiness and virtue, the sixth point under consideration, are reconciled and united in the system of Socrates. The true nature of man consists in thought, but the essence of thought is freedom; freedom, or disengagement from the bondage of his lower principles and propensities, such as sensation, appetite, and desire. Thus the law of man's true nature is freedom, freedom from thraldom of his lower propensities. But the happiness of every creature is promoted when it obeys the law of its true nature; its happiness is thwarted when it disobeys that law, therefore man's happiness is promoted when he keeps himself disengaged from the sensational affections of his nature, and does not allow them to overmaster him. But this resistance to the promptings of our passions is itself virtue. Therefore the same law, the law of freedom, which determines a man to happiness, to his true and solid happiness, through the subjugation of his animal propensities,—this same law determines him also to virtue, for virtue is nothing but the subjugation of these same animal propensities; and thus happiness and virtue are shown to be coincident.