Part 22

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.

XXI

THE OUTLOOK FOR THE FLYING-MACHINE

Mr. Secretary Langley's trial of his flying-machine, which seems to have come to an abortive issue for the time, strikes a sympathetic chord in the constitution of our race. Are we not the lords of creation? Have we not girdled the earth with wires through which we speak to our antipodes? Do we not journey from continent to continent over oceans that no animal can cross, and with a speed of which our ancestors would never have dreamed? Is not all the rest of the animal creation so far inferior to us in every point that the best thing it can do is to become completely subservient to our needs, dying, if need be, that its flesh may become a toothsome dish on our tables? And yet here is an insignificant little bird, from whose mind, if mind it has, all conceptions of natural law are excluded, applying the rules of aerodynamics in an application of mechanical force to an end we have never been able to reach, and this with entire ease and absence of consciousness that it is doing an extraordinary thing. Surely our knowledge of natural laws, and that inventive genius which has enabled us to subordinate all nature to our needs, ought also to enable us to do anything that the bird can do. Therefore we must fly. If we cannot yet do it, it is only because we have not got to the bottom of the subject. Our successors of the not distant future will surely succeed.

This is at first sight a very natural and plausible view of the case. And yet there are a number of circumstances of which we should take account before attempting a confident forecast. Our hope for the future is based on what we have done in the past. But when we draw conclusions from past successes we should not lose sight of the conditions on which success has depended. There is no advantage which has not its attendant drawbacks; no strength which has not its concomitant weakness. Wealth has its trials and health its dangers. We must expect our great superiority to the bird to be associated with conditions which would give it an advantage at some point. A little study will make these conditions clear.

We may look on the bird as a sort of flying-machine complete in itself, of which a brain and nervous system are fundamentally necessary parts. No such machine can navigate the air unless guided by something having life. Apart from this, it could be of little use to us unless it carried human beings on its wings. We thus meet with a difficulty at the first step--we cannot give a brain and nervous system to our machine. These necessary adjuncts must be supplied by a man, who is no part of the machine, but something carried by it. The bird is a complete machine in itself. Our aerial ship must be machine plus man. Now, a man is, I believe, heavier than any bird that flies. The limit which the rarity of the air places upon its power of supporting wings, taken in connection with the combined weight of a man and a machine, make a drawback which we should not too hastily assume our ability to overcome. The example of the bird does not prove that man can fly. The hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight which the manager of the machine must add to it over and above that necessary in the bird may well prove an insurmountable obstacle to success.

I need hardly remark that the advantage possessed by the bird has its attendant drawbacks when we consider other movements than flying. Its wings are simply one pair of its legs, and the human race could not afford to abandon its arms for the most effective wings that nature or art could supply.

Another point to be considered is that the bird operates by the application of a kind of force which is peculiar to the animal creation, and no approach to which has ever been made in any mechanism. This force is that which gives rise to muscular action, of which the necessary condition is the direct action of a nervous system. We cannot have muscles or nerves for our flying-machine. We have to replace them by such crude and clumsy adjuncts as steam-engines and electric batteries. It may certainly seem singular if man is never to discover any combination of substances which, under the influence of some such agency as an electric current, shall expand and contract like a muscle. But, if he is ever to do so, the time is still in the future. We do not see the dawn of the age in which such a result will be brought forth.

Another consideration of a general character may be introduced. As a rule it is the unexpected that happens in invention as well as discovery. There are many problems which have fascinated mankind ever since civilization began which we have made little or no advance in solving. The only satisfaction we can feel in our treatment of the great geometrical problems of antiquity is that we have shown their solution to be impossible. The mathematician of to-day admits that he can neither square the circle, duplicate the cube or trisect the angle. May not our mechanicians, in like manner, be ultimately forced to admit that aerial flight is one of that great class of problems with which man can never cope, and give up all attempts to grapple with it?

The fact is that invention and discovery have, notwithstanding their seemingly wide extent, gone on in rather narrower lines than is commonly supposed. If, a hundred years ago, the most sagacious of mortals had been told that before the nineteenth century closed the face of the earth would be changed, time and space almost annihilated, and communication between continents made more rapid and easy than it was between cities in his time; and if he had been asked to exercise his wildest imagination in depicting what might come--the airship and the flying-machine would probably have had a prominent place in his scheme, but neither the steamship, the railway, the telegraph, nor the telephone would have been there. Probably not a single new agency which he could have imagined would have been one that has come to pass.

It is quite clear to me that success must await progress of a different kind from that which the inventors of flying-machines are aiming at. We want a great discovery, not a great invention. It is an unfortunate fact that we do not always appreciate the distinction between progress in scientific discovery and ingenious application of discovery to the wants of civilization. The name of Marconi is familiar to every ear; the names of Maxwell and Herz, who made the discoveries which rendered wireless telegraphy possible, are rarely recalled. Modern progress is the result of two factors: Discoveries of the laws of nature and of actions or possibilities in nature, and the application of such discoveries to practical purposes. The first is the work of the scientific investigator, the second that of the inventor.

In view of the scientific discoveries of the past ten years, which, after bringing about results that would have seemed chimerical if predicted, leading on to the extraction of a substance which seems to set the laws and limits of nature at defiance by radiating a flood of heat, even when cooled to the lowest point that science can reach--a substance, a few specks of which contain power enough to start a railway train, and embody perpetual motion itself, almost--he would be a bold prophet who would set any limit to possible discoveries in the realm of nature. We are binding the universe together by agencies which pass from sun to planet and from star to star. We are determined to find out all we can about the mysterious ethereal medium supposed to fill all space, and which conveys light and heat from one heavenly body to another, but which yet evades all direct investigation. We are peering into the law of gravitation itself with the full hope of discovering something in its origin which may enable us to evade its action. From time to time philosophers fancy the road open to success, yet nothing that can be practically called success has yet been reached or even approached. When it is reached, when we are able to state exactly why matter gravitates, then will arise the question how this hitherto unchangeable force may be controlled and regulated. With this question answered the problem of the interaction between ether and matter may be solved. That interaction goes on between ethers and molecules is shown by the radiation of heat by all bodies. When the molecules are combined into a mass, this interaction ceases, so that the lightest objects fly through the ether without resistance. Why is this? Why does ether act on the molecule and not the mass? When we can produce the latter, and when the mutual action can be controlled, then may gravitation be overcome and then may men build, not merely airships, but ships which shall fly above the air, and transport their passengers from continent to continent with the speed of the celestial motions.

The first question suggested to the reader by these considerations is whether any such result is possible; whether it is within the power of man to discover the nature of luminiferous ether and the cause of gravitation. To this the profoundest philosopher can only answer, "I do not know." Quite possibly the gates at which he is beating are, in the very nature of things, incapable of being opened. It may be that the mind of man is incapable of grasping the secrets within them. The question has even occurred to me whether, if a being of such supernatural power as to understand the operations going on in a molecule of matter or in a current of electricity as we understand the operations of a steam-engine should essay to explain them to us, he would meet with any more success than we should in explaining to a fish the engines of a ship which so rudely invades its domain. As was remarked by William K. Clifford, perhaps the clearest spirit that has ever studied such problems, it is possible that the laws of geometry for spaces infinitely small may be so different from those of larger spaces that we must necessarily be unable to conceive them.

Still, considering mere possibilities, it is not impossible that the twentieth century may be destined to make known natural forces which will enable us to fly from continent to continent with a speed far exceeding that of the bird.

But when we inquire whether aerial flight is possible in the present state of our knowledge, whether, with such materials as we possess, a combination of steel, cloth, and wire can be made which, moved by the power of electricity or steam, shall form a successful flying-machine, the outlook may be altogether different. To judge it sanely, let us bear in mind the difficulties which are encountered in any flying-machine. The basic principle on which any such machine must be constructed is that of the aeroplane. This, by itself, would be the simplest of all flyers, and therefore the best if it could be put into operation. The principle involved may be readily comprehended by the accompanying figure. A M is the section of a flat plane surface, say a thin sheet of metal or a cloth supported by wires. It moves through the air, the latter being represented by the horizontal rows of dots. The direction of the motion is that of the horizontal line A P. The aeroplane has a slight inclination measured by the proportion between the perpendicular M P and the length A P. We may raise the edge M up or lower it at pleasure. Now the interesting point, and that on which the hopes of inventors are based, is that if we give the plane any given inclination, even one so small that the perpendicular M P is only two or three per cent of the length A M, we can also calculate a certain speed of motion through the air which, if given to the plane, will enable it to bear any required weight. A plane ten feet square, for example, would not need any great inclination, nor would it require a speed higher than a few hundred feet a second to bear a man. What is of yet more importance, the higher the speed the less the inclination required, and, if we leave out of consideration the friction of the air and the resistance arising from any object which the machine may carry, the less the horse-power expended in driving the plane.

Maxim exemplified this by experiment several years ago. He found that, with a small inclination, he could readily give his aeroplane, when it slid forward upon ways, such a speed that it would rise from the ways of itself. The whole problem of the successful flying-machine is, therefore, that of arranging an aeroplane that shall move through the air with the requisite speed.