A BOOK on Logic by a practising physician is not calculated to benefit its author, either as a physician or a logician. His professional brethren will look askance upon a physician who wastes, upon such a frivolous subject as Logic, time that might be devoted to increasing his knowledge of disease; and logicians will regard him with the contemptuous abhorrence that is bestowed, all the world over, by the professional upon the amateur.
In foro Medicinæ I have a valid defence, and need not throw myself upon the mercy of the Court. Engaged daily in reasoning on matters of vital, and more than vital importance, I find that valid conclusions can be reached only by strictly departing from the methods of Traditional Logic; and having studied the methods by which I arrive at results that are, upon the whole, successful, I am bound by the salutary rule of my profession, to give to the world the methods by which these results are attained. Candour will not allow me to ascribe the book wholly to compliance with this beneficent rule. Upon reading the works of logicians, and studying what has been said on the subject by them of old time, I am moved by the same spirit that animated long ago that sorry comforter of the man of Uz, when the words of his companions failed them. Great men, I found, are not always wise, nor do men of antiquity always understand judgement. ‘Therefore I said hearken to me; I also will show mine opinion; for I am full of matter, and the spirit within me constraineth me. Behold, my belly is as wine that hath no vent: it is ready to burst like new bottles.’ An enlarged knowledge of physiology would ascribe the fulness to another anatomical region, but broadly and generally the words express my motive.
But I have, in the Court of Medicine, a better defence than this, even. It is many years since I began to preach the doctrine that, in mental disorder as in bodily disorder, the study of order is an indispensable preliminary to the study of disorder; the study of the normal should always precede the study of the morbid. In this I have been so far successful that the subject of Psychology is now made a compulsory part of the curriculum for every diploma in Psychiatry. This, however, is only a beginning, and but stimulates me to further effort. Insanity is disorder of conduct, and my next endeavour is to obtain for the study of normal conduct the recognition that is now given to the study of normal mind. And the Psychological aspect of mind is not the only aspect of mind that is susceptible of disorder. The power of reasoning logically is very often impaired in mental disease; and in this respect again, a knowledge of the normal is an indispensable preliminary to a knowledge of the morbid. Until we have an adequate and correct Logic, we cannot duly appreciate or appraise the erroneous reasoning either of the normal or the morbid mind. It was as a prolegomenon to the study of Insanity that I was first moved to examine the Logic of Tradition, and to substitute for it the New Logic that is here propounded.
From the professional logician I can expect no mercy. I have attacked his most cherished opinions, disputed his most sacred dogmas, and have held up to derision his most revered authorities. To him I am that most noxious of all vermin, the irregular practitioner; and I expect him to deal with me faithfully, after the manner of the orthodox to the heterodox. If he would only restrict his choice of weapons to those that are in the arsenal of Traditional Logic, I should rest in the complacent security of a modern battleship attacked by bows and arrows; but no logician reasons syllogistically, except in the formal arguments with which he illustrates the syllogism, and the arrows that pierce me will be winged with feathers plucked from my own logical tail.
Two subjects of academic study have been pursued continuously, as far as academic study has been continuous, from the time of the great Greek philosophers of more than two thousand years ago down to the time of the present generation. One of those—Geometry—was taught, until yesterday, upon the lines and in the words of Euclid. The other—Logic—is taught to-day on the lines, and to a great extent in the words of Aristotle. A few years ago, Euclid was formally superseded as the authorised exponent of Geometry. His system was openly attacked, was defended, was attacked again; until it was formally abandoned, and it is taught no more. The fate of Logic has been different. Aristotle’s system of Logic has never, I believe, been openly attacked all along the line. It is true that, in the thirteenth century, his works were proscribed and burnt by the synod of Paris; but this was owing to no destructive criticism which found them fallacious. It was rather because their tendency was heretical, and because they fostered the use of reason, and so were subversive of authority. With this brief exception, there has been no whole-hearted condemnation of Aristotelian Logic; and Aristotle is still regarded with a reverence that almost savours of superstition. Aristotelian Logic is still the subject of formal teaching and examination in every University in the world. It still engages the learning of scholars and the subtlety of dialecticians in every Western nation. It is expounded in innumerable text books, that still continue to issue from the press, and run into edition after edition. But in spite of its immense prestige; in spite of the professed allegiance of innumerable eminent men; in spite of its prominence in every University; its position is undermined. Under the surface there exists a profound dissatisfaction and distrust. Its very exponents, in commending it to their readers, adopt an apologetic tone. Those who have been through the mill, and have taken their degrees in Arts, of which Logic is in some Universities, an important constituent, privately deride and contemn it. Its very professors, though they cherish the Organon of Aristotle as a sacred text, and contend that the errors and imperfections of Traditional Logic, as taught in the text books, are due to their departure from the pure teaching of Aristotle, yet, in so doing, admit the errors and imperfections. In short, Traditional Logic is now much in the position that was occupied, two hundred and fifty years ago, by witchcraft. Without being formally attacked, it is crumbling into ruin, and losing its hold upon the minds of men. Modern Logicians, indeed, profess that they disregard the old formulæ, and give us a Logic that purports to be new; but it is new more by reason of lacking the clearness and intelligibility of the old Logic than by any novelty of doctrine. It still clings to the syllogism, and tries to put the new wine of scientific discovery into the old syllogistic bottle. The exponents of Modern Logic represent, not so much the foundation of a new school of Logic, as the despairing effort of the old to defend the last ditch. In these circumstances, it seems that if left alone, Aristotelian Logic, and the whole fabric of Traditional Logic that is founded upon it, will speedily perish; and that it is scarcely worth while to stuff a pillow into its mouth, and suffocate the dying creature; or to deliver a coup de grâce to one that is already moribund. It seems, however, expedient to deliver a formal attack, and for these reasons:—
In the first place, however few defenders Traditional Logic may have in private, it yet occupies a very conspicuous and important public position, to which it is, in my opinion, not entitled. It is all very well to say that an attack on Traditional Logic is slaying the slain, or, as one distinguished adviser put it, that it is digging up a dead horse in order to flog it; but there stares us in the face the plain, indisputable fact, that Traditional Logic is still a compulsory subject of study and examination for many important and honourable degrees and distinctions; and that many innocent students, who have passed or failed in these examinations, still believe, with pathetic confidingness, that the syllogism is, as Whately called it, the Universal Principle of reasoning.
In the second place, it is impossible to tell, as matters stand, what the true position of Traditional Logic is, or how far those who profess and call themselves logicians, are, in fact, followers of Aristotle; who is for him, and who indifferent to him; how far his hold is slipping away, and how far he still retains his grip; whether the worship of Aristotle is already extinct, or whether there is still a remnant of true believers.
Lastly, my object is not solely, nor mainly, iconoclastic. I propose, not merely to demolish the system of Traditional Logic, but to substitute for it a new Logic, that shall supply the defects and correct the errors of the old; and it is not practicable to build upon a site, until the ramshackle structure that already cumbers the ground is cleared away.
For these reasons, I accompany my exposition of what I pretend are the true principles of reasoning, by a running commentary of criticism applied to Traditional Logic. I can scarcely suppose that anyone who is sufficiently interested in the subject to read this book, will not already be acquainted with the system now in vogue; and it would not be practicable to establish my claim to have formulated a new Logic, unless I compared it point by point with the old.
The central doctrine of Traditional Logic is that all reasoning is the bringing of particular cases under general rules: its insoluble difficulty was to determine the way in which general rules are discovered. The debates of the Schools raged for centuries about this subject. Three doctrines were held, and were discussed with acrimony and obstinacy that sometimes terminated in bloodshed. Are general rules, principles, or Universals, Universalia ante rem, Universalia in re, or Universalia post rem? In other words, is the Universal a noumenal Idea, having an hypostatised existence, not only apart from the mind that conceives it, but antecedent to the things in which it is manifested; or is it resident alone in the things that manifest it; or is it in the mind alone that conceives it? For generations these themes were debated, and on the view taken of the nature of the Universal depended doctrines of the most sacred and esoteric mysteries of the Church. At long length, the utter barrenness of these discussions, and the proved impossibility of arriving at any consensus by dialectic alone, led to the Baconian reaction, which repudiated altogether the à priori Universal, and so abhorred the very suggestion of such a thing, that it refused to allow the legitimacy of an hypothesis even; for in hypothesis it smelt a savour of the à priori Universal. The long severance of Logic from experience led to a reaction, in which experience was to supersede Logic. Facts were to be collected—this was the Baconian doctrine—and whatever agreements were observed among facts, were to be taken for the true Universals. The Baconian reaction was, in a sense, the triumph of the Universalis in re. Not until more generations had passed, was it discovered that agreement among facts will not be found, unless expectation of agreement is taken to the facts—that the Universal must first exist in the mind, before it can be found in experience.
This was the discovery of the Inductive School, whose apostles were Herschell, Whewell, and J.S. Mill. Of course, the practices as distinct from the teaching, existed as far back as the dawn of intelligence; and was no more discovered by the prophets of Induction, than grammatical speech was invented by the first grammarians; but the Inductive School first taught the use and value of hypothesis, and the function it performs in reasoning. The dominance of this school was the triumph of the Universalis post rem.
Of late years, a suspicion has arisen that the doctrines of the Inductive School, true though they may be, do not cover the whole ground. It is discerned, dimly, as I think, that there are other ways, or there is another way, of arriving at general rules, besides that direct appeal to experience by the erection and testing of hypotheses, which is the cardinal feature in the teaching of the Inductive School; moreover, there is an uneasy feeling abroad that the Aristotelian scheme of Deduction does not say the last word in its own department; and this has led to the formation of a fourth body of doctrine. Foreshadowed by Kant, founded by Hegel, and developed by Sigwart, Lotze, Green, Bradley, Hodgson, Bosanquet, and others, Modern Logic seeks to supersede both Traditional and Inductive Logic. Its teachings, however, like all the writings of its founder, are vague and nebulous. It expresses dissatisfaction with what is, rather than a statement of what should be. It is unable to emancipate itself from the tyranny of the syllogism, and it fails to make itself generally intelligible. When we find one of its exponents declaring that ‘as the fundamental form of knowledge the judgement tends to overcome change and to view phenomena sub specie æternitatis, and is in this respect at one with Platonic “forms,”’ it is evident that we are here in the presence of an attempt to rehabilitate the Universalis ante rem; so strangely does the whirligig of time bring in its revenges.
My own position may be thus explained :—From Traditional Logic I differ in every principle and in every detail. Its cardinal doctrine, that all reasoning is the subsumption of the particular under the Universal, was contested by Mill, who held that reasoning is from particular to particular, and I am not singular, therefore, in disputing that; but my quarrel with Traditional Logic is far wider and deeper than Mill’s. In my opinion, its concepts of the composition of the proposition, and of the constituent parts of the proposition, are erroneous; its doctrines of Quantity and Quality are wrong; its Immediate Inferences are but a poor few out of multitudes that may be obtained by an adequate Logic; the few Immediate Inferences it does obtain are faulty; its doctrine of the syllogism is artificial and mistaken; the rules of the syllogism are all wrong; there are multitudes of Mediate Inferences that cannot be reached by the syllogism ; Traditional Logic fails to distinguish the argumentum in materiâ from the argumentum ex postulato , and so involves itself in endless confusion; in short, its whole system is insufficient, defective, and erroneous, from beginning to end.
From the Inductive School—no one is now a pure Baconian*—I differ no less profoundly. This school accepts the Deductive scheme of Traditional Logic; and in this I cannot follow it. It supplements Deduction with Induction; but its scheme of Induction is, in my opinion, faulty. The Inductive logician recognises but one mode of appeal to experience—the direct appeal. The direct appeal, by which most of our arguments in materiâ are conducted, he confuses with syllogistic reasoning, and in this I hold that he is wrong.
Modern Logic I confess I do not understand. It is, by some of its votaries, couched in a language beyond my comprehension. They may emulate their master, Hegel, in the profundity of their speculations: they certainly follow him in the obscurity of their diction. When I am told that ‘the fundamental activity of thought’ is to be regarded ‘as the same throughout and as always consisting in the reproduction by a universal of a real identity, presented in a content, of contents distinguishable from the presented content, which also are differences of the same universal,’ the words convey no distinct notion to my mind, and I am unable even to discuss them. As far as I can understand it, Modern Logic seems to me to range far beyond the realm of Logic. In examining the nature of Judgement, Conception, and Perception, it invades the domain of Psychology. In discussing the Infinite, the Absolute, Abstract Quantity, and Necessity, it trenches on Metaphysics. In treating of the nature of Law, of Causation, and of à priori Truth, it encroaches on Philosophy. In investigating the nature of Truth, of Knowledge, and the relation of Knowledge to its postulates, it is in the realm of Epistemology. No doubt, Logic touches at various points on all these subjects, as every science touches on neighbouring sciences at various points; but Logic has its proper boundaries; and to obliterate the distinctions between it and its neighbours, incurs the objurgations justly applied to those who remove their neighbours’ landmarks.
Nothing is said in this book of the Symbolic Logic of Boole, Jevons, Venn and others. This is a kind of calculus. It rests upon a confusion between the province of Logic and the province of Mathematics. It is based upon the postulate, which seems to me completely erroneous, and far remote from fact, that every proposition can be expressed as an equation. It is mathematics gone mad. The utter illogicality of the whole scheme is put out of doubt by the fact that the operations of symbolic Logic can be conducted by machinery. This is materialism with a vengeance. In fact, of course, all the thinking is done before the data are put into the machine; and all the machine does, and all Symbolic Logic can do, is to add and subtract. Traditional Logic pretends that all reasoning is inclusion in classes and exclusion from classes. This is narrow enough, and shallow enough, goodness knows; but what is to be said of a Logic that reduces all reasoning to addition and subtraction? Poor as is my opinion of Traditional Logic yet if I had to choose between it and Symbolic Logic, I should plump for the Logic of Tradition, which at any rate does not pretend that cogwheels can reason.
In calling the system of Logic here propounded a New Logic, I do not pretend that it is in every part wholly novel. Parts of it have been anticipated, and parts have been adumbrated, by previous writers. Mill, for instance, made the distinction between the Logic of Consistency and the Logic of Truth; Spencer adumbrated the indirect appeal to experience that I call Mediate Induction; and perceived that the Aristotelian and Euclidean Analogy is a reasoning process; Hamilton adumbrated the doctrine that Deduction is but the explication of what is implicit in the premisses, and laid down, as others had done before him, the rule that nothing may be concluded that is not in the premisses; Jevons, in his doctrine of the Substitutions of Similars, anticipated one of the Minor Canons of Explication; and no doubt other instances of forestallment could be found. These, however, are but fragments. They are details scattered here and there. As an organised and coherent body of doctrine, covering the whole field of reasoning growing naturally from a single root, and forming an harmonious and interdependent whole, the system here propounded is so different from all previous expositions as to warrant the title I give to it, of A NEW LOGIC.
Though it is in principle new, I have of course incorporated such parts of the old Logic as seemed sound; and though my system is new, I do not pretend that it is complete. Completeness is not to be expected in a first essay, and I may adapt to it an apposite exhortation of the Father of Logic with respect to his first essay on another subject. ‘Let this then be taken for a rough sketch . . . since it is probably the right way to give first the outline, and fill it in afterwards. And it would seem that any man may improve and complete what is good in the sketch, and that time is a good discoverer and co-operator in such matters. It is thus in fact that all improvements in the various arts have been brought about, for any man may fill up a deficiency’ (Ethics: Book I., Chapter V.). By the time the New Logic has stood two thousand years of commentary, its details may have been filled in; and then, no doubt, like its predecessor, it will have had all the guts taken out of it, and will be ripe for supersession by a better.
Here I must express the deep obligations under which I lie to three friends who have assisted me with their criticisms. Mr. Cannan, who read the first two drafts of the book, condemned it unsparingly, and to his trenchant criticisms the book owes the elimination of many crudities. Sir Bryan Donkin, to whom the book is dedicated, suggested a re-arrangement of the matter and an important improvement in nomenclature, both of which I have adopted; and Professor Carveth Read has not only applied his profound learning to the correction of sundry errors that my more superficial acquaintance with the lore of Logic had allowed me to fall into, but when I was taken ill suddenly, on the very day on which the proofs began to issue from the press, he had the great kindness, and the equally great courage, to undertake their correction for me. It is difficult to express adequately a sense of obligation so deep, but here I express, as well as I can, my gratitude, heaped up, pressed down, and running over, for services so great and so timely.
*True at the time it was written, this is now not true. At the meeting of the British Association that is being held, as these proofs are being corrected, the President of the Mathematical Section advocated a return to the pure system of Bacon, though whether he mentioned Bacon by name, I don’t remember.
IT is scarcely too much to say that, of the innumerable writers on Logic, no two are agreed on what its subject-matter is, what its limits are, or even whether it is a Science or an Art. Aldrich regards it as the Art of Reasoning; Mansel, as the Science of Formal Reasoning; Whately, as the Art and Science of Reasoning; the Port Royal logicians, as the Science of the operations of the understanding in the pursuit of Truth; Hamilton, as the Science of the Necessary Laws of Thought; Mill, as the Art of Correct Thinking, and the Science of the conditions of Correct Thinking; Bain, as a Theoretical or abstract Science, the Practical Science of Proof, and a body of Method auxiliary to the search for Truth. Of recent writers on Deductive Logic, Prof. Carveth Read calls it the Science of Proof; Mr. Welton, the Science of the Principles that regulate valid thought; and Dr. Mellone says that it deals with the principles that regulate valid thought, and on which the validity of thought depends. Logicians of the Modern School do not formally define the scope or province of Logic. Mr. Bosanquet does say incidently, in his second volume, that ‘Logic is little more than an account of the forms and modes in which a universal does or does not affect the differences through which it persists,’ but I find no other indication of the province of Logic. Logicians are not agreed even about the subject-matter of Logic. Some say it is concerned with Propositions; others that it treats of Concepts; yet others that its subject is Real Existence. Some say that Logic is concerned with the process only of thought, and is regardless of results; others that it looks to results only, and is regardless of processes.
In spite of this immense diversity of opinion as to what Logic is, and what it treats of, all writers on Logic include much the same subjects, and all writers on Traditional Logic treat them in much the same way. The latter begin with a discussion on Names or Terms; consider the Proposition as the unit of Logical doctrine; pass on, after discussing the various forms of propositions, to their combination in the syllogism; deal exhaustively with the modes and figures of that venerable institution; and treat, as incidental or subsidiary subjects, of Classification, Definition, and Fallacies. Some logicians treat of Probability and Analogy also; others do not. Modern text books add, under the name of Induction, a consideration of the means of ascertaining Causation, which I regard as somewhat of an intruder into the domain of Logic. Writers on what is called Modern Logic do not exclude these topics, but they treat them as mere incidents in an examination of the fundamental nature of Judgement, Conception, Inference, and so forth, and pay but little attention to the Methodology of reasoning.
To write upon a subject without ascertaining the nature or extent of the subject-matter, does not appear to me a very reasonable or useful course; and before discussing logical doctrines, it seems best to settle what is meant by Logic, or, at any rate, what meaning is attached to it in this book.
As has been shown above, writers on Logic are not agreed on whether it is a Science or an Art, or both; and although some are of one opinion, and others of another, these opinions are not usually fortified by reasons; and Mill is, I think, the only writer who discusses the nature and limits of Science and Art, or the differences or relations between them. My own opinion on the matter is as follows.
At the root, and as the motive, of all human endeavour, are two fundamental, original, and consuming desires,—the desire to know, and the desire to do. Curiosity is the foundation of all Science; the desire to exercise Capacity is the origin of all the Arts. As soon as Curiosity and Capacity begin to be exerted, a further desire comes into play. We desire to find out, and to achieve other ends; but we desire also, to find out, and to achieve these other ends, with the least expenditure of exertion; and we soon find that, by acting, we assist Curiosity to attain knowledge; and by knowing, we assist Action to do things easily and well. As soon as anything attracts attention, we act in order to know it better. We look at it, we move towards it, we touch it, handle it, perhaps listen to it, smell it, and taste it. Thus, by the Art of Investigation, we assist Curiosity to attain Knowledge, and the knowledge thus gained enables us the better to utilise for our purposes the thing thus better known. So that knowledge depends much on action; and action depends much on knowledge. In practice, the two are inseparable; it is only by analysis that we are able to separate them.
Knowledge, however, is not Science until it is organised; and action is not Art until it is methodised. Organising is a mode, not of knowing, but of doing; and hence Science cannot come into existence without the practice of Art. Correspondingly, in order to do an act at all, we must know how to do it; and to do an elaborate act we must be assisted by that organised knowledge of the way to do it, that constitutes the methodology of the Art in question. Thus knowledge and action depend on each other, and grow up together into Sciences and Arts. Science cannot come into existence without the aid of the Arts of Investigation and Organisation; nor can Science become elaborate or extended without the aid of other Arts, such as Nomenclature, Description, analysis, and so forth; all of which may be called the Arts of Science.
Arts express purposes, and strive after results. To achieve these purposes and attain these results, the action, of which the Art consists, must be adapted to the circumstances in which it takes place, and which it modifies; and first among these circumstances is the subject-matter of the Art, or the material on which the Art is exercised. For action to be successful, the circumstances in which it takes place must be known; especially must the properties of the subject-matter be known; and when the Art is elaborate, it cannot treat its subject-matter to the best advantage unless the knowledge of this subject-matter is organised into Science. The art, for instance, of making objects of steel requires an organised knowledge of the properties of steel. Thus, Science becomes the more necessary to Arts, as Arts become more intricate.
But Science aids Arts in other ways than by furnishing an organised knowledge of their common subject-matter. Modes of action are themselves subjects of investigation; and the knowledge of them thus attained may be organised into a Science, which then raises the Technique of an Art into its Methodology; and without such an organised knowledge of technique, the more elaborate arts, such as that of working in steel, cannot he profitably pursued.
Lastly, the products of Art, no less than the subject-matter and the methods, may be investigated, and may form the subject- matter of a science; and in this way arise the sciences of Archæology, of Architecture, of flint implements, of Philology, of Numismatics, and so forth.
In several ways, therefore, Science is dependent on Art; in several ways Art is served by Science. Art and Science are distinct, but inseparable. They are a happily married pair; and their numerous and vigorous offspring are of both sexes—the products of arts, and extensions of knowledge. If Science is organised knowledge, Art is systematic action; and neither can be attained without the other.
Science and Art differ, moreover, in this:—that to science, a subject-matter is necessary; but an art can proceed without a subject-matter. There can be no knowledge without something known, as distinguished from the knower ; but there may be doing without a product, as distinguished from the doer.
The art of dancing, for instance, is not exercised upon any material; produces no change in anything but the dancer; leaves no result, except in him. Most arts, however, have their subject- matter, on which the skill of the doer is exercised; which is changed by his exertions; and whose changed form remains as a permanent result of the exercise of the art.
Science regards its subject matter in two aspects. It considers the nature of the subject-matter, its relations and its kinds; and analyses it into its constituent parts. This may be called the statical aspect. Further, Science regards its subject-matter in its time-relations. It investigates the ways and stages by which the subject-matter became what it is, and forecasts, if possible, what it will become. It treats of the history and future of its subject-matter, and thus regards it in its temporal aspect.
Those arts that have a subject-matter, alter this subject-matter for the purpose of attaining results, and the methodology of the art shows what alterations are best for the purpose, and how they can best be achieved. Methodology, therefore, treats its subject-matter in its dynamical aspect.
Applying these considerations to Logic, we are now in a position to decide how it stands. Is it a science or an art? If it is a science, what is its subject-matter? If it is an art, what does it do? What purpose does it serve, what results does it achieve, and how does it attain them?
In all modern text books, logic is divided into two separate parts—Deduction and Induction. Deductive Logic has for its subject-matter the proposition. It considers the nature of propositions and their kinds; it analyses propositions into their constituent parts, and describes them. Deductive Logic, as commonly understood, is the science of propositions.
But Deductive Logic is an art also. All the examination, description, and analysis of propositions is undertaken with a view to showing how syllogisms may be constructed and inferences deduced. The investigation of the structure and kinds of propositions is merely a preliminary to the Methodology of Deduction. Deductive Logic, besides being the pure science of the proposition, is the methodology of Deduction, and the art of drawing inferences, immediate and mediate. We have seen how close are the interconnections of Art and Science, and there is nothing improper or confusing, therefore, in treating of both Art and Science in the same book.
Inductive Logic, as expounded in the text books, treats of the methods by which causation may be ascertained; and of little or nothing else. Mill’s ‘Canons of Induction,’ which are the foundation on which all subsequent writers have built their treatment of Induction, are canons for the discovery of causation. Inductive Logic does not treat specifically of propositions, any more than Deductive Logic treats of causation. The two departments are entirely distinct; and are different in subject-matter, in purpose, and in treatment. The only connection between them is that Induction seeks to show how those universals are found, that are necessary to the process of Deduction. Inductive Logic is the art of discovering causation.
Interspersed among these topics, we find, in text books of Logic, chapters on Probability, on Classification, on Definition, on Nomenclature, on the Laws of Thought, on Hypothesis, and other matters. For the most part the connection of these topics with the science of the proposition and the art of propositionising on the one hand, and with the discovery of causation on the other, is not made clear. Probability would seem to belong to Epistemology, and the Laws of Thought to Psychology. The want of a definite understanding of the nature and limits of Logic, has led, so it seems, to the inclusion in it of topics foreign to the subject; and the fact that no two books take the topics in the same order, indicates that they are rather gathered together by somewhat haphazard aggregation than the result of organic growth from a single root.
Modern Logic discusses much the same topics, but discusses them from a different point of view, and rather psychologically than logically. The aim of Modern Logic seems to be to dive into the deepest recesses of the mind, to search out the ultimate nature of the processes concerned in judgement, and to do no more. It does not, as Traditional Logic does, expound a Methodology of the subject, or attempt to furnish rules by which reasoning may be conducted.
In common use, ‘logical’ means ‘consistent with reason’; and, in the practice of logicians, both Traditional and Modern, the main aim of the Art of Logic is undoubtedly to show how reasoning is, and should be, conducted. Whatever attention is given to other topics, such as Nomenclature, Probability, Classification, and so forth, is given to them because they are contributory or ancillary to the art of reasoning. For the purpose of this book, I divide Logic into two primary departments, both of which have the proposition for their subject-matter. The first department of Logic is the Science and Art of the proposition; it is an investigation of the nature, the kinds and the components of propositions, and it is the Art of propositionising, or of expressing in verbal propositions the thoughts we have in our minds. The second department of Logic is the Science and Art of reasoning; it is an investigation of the ways in which new propositions can be constructed out of old propositions already in our possession, and it is the Art of constructing propositions from these materials. The first Book is devoted to the Science and Art of the proposition, the remaining Books to the Science and Art of reasoning, and in both cases the Science and the Art are treated concurrently.
The Science of the proposition and the Art of propositionising have reached, in Logic as hitherto expounded, a very rudimentary stage only. I do not pretend that I have treated them exhaustively, but I have treated them fully; and I regard the first Book, in which these topics are dealt with, as equal in importance to all the rest. The most important effect of the study of an adequate and correct Logic may be expected to be the cultivation of precision of statement; which is more important even than a knowledge of the processes of reasoning, for it is not only a more desirable end in itself, but is also an indispensable preliminary to valid reasoning. Aristotle seems to have realised this when he included his fallacies in dictione among fallacies. Fallacies in dictione are not mistakes in reasoning; they are mistakes in statement—in the statements on which reasoning is founded, and which enter into reasoning. The prime value of the study of an adequate Logic is in the cultivation of precision in the expression of thought, by which thought is not only more clearly expressed, but in the process is itself clarified and made precise. It can never be too emphatically or too positively asserted that slovenly expression means slovenly thinking. It is nowadays assumed, as a matter of course, that obscurity of diction means profundity of thought, the truth being the very reverse; and the conspicuous success of a few writers, in attaining celebrity by confused and unintelligible utterance, has raised confusion of utterance into a cult. It is time that this bladder was pricked, and that obscurity of expression should stand exposed for what it is—the unpardonable literary sin. A writer whose meaning is not immediately apparent on a first reading, is either muddleheaded, and in that case is not worth reading; or he is too lazy and slovenly to put his meaning clearly, and in that case is offering his reader an insult; or he is trying to obtain a cheap reputation for profundity, and is then contemptible.
No nobler instrument of expression than the English language has ever been devised by the mind of man, which cannot conceive a thought that this language is incapable of expressing. It is eminently plastic, and not only takes readily to its ample bosom new formations that are legitimately born, but adopts, with almost regrettable facility, others that are marked with an ineffaceable bar sinister. He who pretends that his thoughts are too profound to be expressed intelligibly in the English language must not count on always finding readers sufficiently gullible to accept his pretension. Sooner or later he will be called upon to stand and deliver his meaning, and if his wallets are found to be empty, he will have no one but himself to thank for his humiliation.
A self-respecting potter does not put on the market cups and saucers that are out of shape, warped in the firing, or smudged in colour; a joiner would consider himself disgraced if he offered for sale a table or bench with gaping joints, or legs out of truth; authors alone among craftsmen hold that it is no disgrace to utter wares that proclaim aloud the unskilfulness, the carelessness, the ignorance, of their maker. Such authors are to be blamed; but their fault is venial beside that of him who foists upon us a stale loaf of bread, and gives us to understand that it is four-year-old mutton, or even manna direct from heaven. An adequate Logic is an Adulteration Act, that empowers us to take samples of literary wares, to test them, to analyse them, and to stamp them as what they are.
The remaining Books treat of the Science and Art of Reasoning in propositions; and this art is exercised in three several ways.
‘The book is on the table.’ By what means may I come into possession of this proposition? There are three ways. I may see the book there; I may get my proposition direct from experience, by the evidence of sense—by perception. When I perceive the book on the table, a relation is established in my mind between the two things, and is given direct in experience. This relation is expressed in the proposition ‘The book is on the table.’ It is true that perception is a rudimentary process of reasoning; but it is not a process of reasoning as reasoning is understood in Logic. I do not ‘reason the matter out.’ I do not arrive at the result by the rearrangement or combination of materials already present in my mind. It was presented to me ready made, and all I did was to adopt it. If a jug slips out of my hand, falls on the floor, and is smashed, I get, direct from experience, the proposition ‘The jug is broken.’ No process of reasoning is needed, and none is employed. I get my proposition direct from experience; and this is one mode of origin of propositions. It is the ultimate origin of all propositions, but it is outside the realm of Logic.
Another way of obtaining propositions ready made is to get them from experience second hand. I ask where the book is, and I am told it is on the table. I ask where the jug is, and I am told the cat broke it. In both cases a new relation is established in the mind, and is expressed in a proposition; but in neither case is it established by reasoning. I do not form the relation by the operation of my own mental exertion: I receive it ready made from without: I get it by hearsay. I may exert reasoning to decide whether to accept it or not; but if I accept it, I accept it ready made, and do not myself take any part in its establishment. The process of attaining it, is a process, not of reasoning, but of learning, and has no place in Logic.
It is the third mode of attaining propositions from experience that alone belongs to Logic. This mode is the formation or establishment of new propositions, by combining, dividing or otherwise altering, without fresh experience, propositions already present in the mind. I can get the proposition ‘The book is on table’ in this way, without seeing the book there, or being told that it is there; and there are three ways of constructing propositions by the activity of the mind working on materials that it already possesses.
By the first of these processes I ask myself the question ‘Is the book on the table?’ If I seek to answer this question by searching the table, I employ the direct appeal to experience, which is not, strictly speaking, among the operations of Logic, But I must have some experience ad hoc to go upon. I can never solve this problem by interrogating my own inner consciousness, and combining, dividing, and altering what I find there, unless what I find is the memory of some experience of the relation of the book to the table. But give me some experience bearing on the relation of the book to the table, and even though that experience may not directly give me the proposition ‘The book is on the table,’ I may be able to arrive at this proposition indirectly, by the help of remembered experiences present in my mind in the form of propositions. If, for instance, I see a parcel on the table, and remember that I tied the book up in that parcel, then, from the combination of that experienced proposition with this remembered proposition, I can get the result ‘The book is on the table.’ If I know, by experience or by hearsay, that the jug is made of glass, and has been dropped on the stones; then, combining this proposition with another, already present in my mind, that glass things break when so dropped, I can obtain, by logical process, the proposition ‘The jug is broken.’
In the foregoing cases, the logical process is tied to experience, and reasoning in which appeal to experience is an integral factor forms the most important domain of Logic. But it is not the only domain. We can, if we please, cut the string that ties us to the ground of experience, and soar into the air of imagination. The knowledge that we gain from experience may be severed from experience more or less completely. It must always remain, in a sense, bounded by the limits of experience, for we can never completely transcend experience, but in this sense the limits of experience are extremely elastic. Without appealing to experience at all, we may take components of propositions derived, as all such components must ultimately be, from experience, and treat them in various ways so as to form new propositions, that may or may not be consistent with experience. From ‘men’ and ‘immortal’ we can, if we choose, derive the proposition ‘Men are immortal,’ which is inconsistent with experience, it is true, but still is a proposition, constructed according to the rules of logical art, and susceptible of being modified in many ways in accordance with those rules, so as to form new propositions, such as ‘Men do not die,’ ‘Men live for ever.’ Or we can take a proposition and divide it into components, still without any appeal to experience. ‘Men are mortal’ can be divided into ‘Some men are mortal and the rest of men also are mortal.’ Here we get two propositions out of one. Or we can combine two or more propositions together, still without appealing to experience of their subject-matter. From ‘this man is English,’ ‘that man is English,’ and ‘the other man is English,’ we can get the single proposition ‘All three of these men are English.’ Or we can modify the construction of a proposition, still without appealing to any experience of its subject-matter, and still be proceeding according to the rules of logical art, as when we change ‘Men are mortal’ into ‘Men are not immortal.’ These are far from exhausting the modes in which new propositions may be constructed in the department of logic that ignores experience. As long as we are tied to the Logic of experience, we cannot reason except of the things that experience presents to us; but if we choose to leave this Logic behind us, we can reason of whatever things our imagination is capable of picturing, and even of any words we can form. We can reason about the gods and creatures of heathen mythology, about the characters of fiction, about infinity, eternity, and impossible quantities, and all other kinds of imaginary things.
In all these efforts of reasoning we are bound by one dominant rule. There is but one limit to our power and liberty of altering, combining, and dividing propositions so as to form new ones, and this is that the new must be consistent with the old. We may alter, combine, divide, transform, and transmogrify a proposition in any we we please as long as we preserve the consistency of the product with the original. Hence this field of Logic is sometimes called the Logic of Consistency.
There is yet a third method by which new propositions are constructed by the art of reasoning. Two relations may be compared, and may be discerned to be like or unlike; and this likeness or unlikeness may be stated in a proposition. It is evident that this method of forming propositions is, like the last, independent of any appeal to experience, and so differs from the first mode of reasoning. It differs also from the second mode, for it makes no alteration in the propositions it compares, nor does it pay any regard to their consistency or inconsistency. It looks to nothing but the likeness or unlikeness of the relations they express.
The first of these three modes of reasoning is Empirical Reasoning, so called because an appeal to experience is an integral and indispensable part of the process. It is the Logic of Discovery; of Truth; of Fact; of Matter. It is coterminous with Induction, as Induction ought to be understood; but the view that is here taken of the mode of discovering truth by Inductive reasoning, is not the same as the prevalent doctrine of Induction, though it is called by the same name. The true process of Induction seems to me very different from that which is usually so called, as is explained in the second Book, which is devoted to this mode Reasoning.
The second mode of reasoning includes the Immediate and Mediate Deduction, or Inference, of Traditional Logic, and it includes a great deal more. The inferences deduced in the text books from simple and compound propositions, are but a small fraction of those that can be deduced by proper methods, which are set forth in the third Book. The Logic expounded in that book is the Logic of Inference; of Consistency; of Proof and Disproof; of Form. Useless in the discovery of Fact; ignoring the truth or falsity of the matter of which it treats; its value is in testing Consistency; in argument; in explicating; convincing; refuting. This is the field of Traditional Logic.
The third mode of reasoning is the Logic of Analogy. As concerned with qualitative relations, it aids neither Discovery nor Proof. It is concerned neither with Fact nor with Consistency. Its sole value is in explaining, expounding and enforcing statements. But as applied to quantitative relations, Analogy is one of the most powerful engines in the hands of man. The largest and most important part of mathematical reasoning is analogical. Most of the operations of algebra and of geometry, and of their higher developments, are reasonings by analogy; and the higher and more abstruse calculi are founded entirely on analogy; which has been strangely neglected by logicians. The reasonings of Mathematics have always been excluded from Logic, and most illogically excluded; for, if Logic purports to be the Science and Art of reasoning, it must show how all reasoning is conducted, or confess its own inadequacy. The ground on which mathematical reasoning has been excluded from Logic is, apparently, that Logic does not include mathematics; nor does it. Nor does it include chemistry, or protozoology; but a Logic that pretends to be complete must find a place for the modes of reasoning by which the chemist and the protozoologist reach their conclusions; and so it must find a place for the modes of reasoning by which the mathematician reaches his conclusions. By excluding Analogical reasoning from its purview; or rather, by its incompetence to recognise Analogical reasoning, as a mode of reasoning distinct from Induction and Deduction, which alone it does recognise, Logic has shut out from its cognisance a large, important, and fertile field of reasoning, in which some of the greatest triumphs of the human intellect have been achieved. It is true that many logicians mention Analogy, and describe what they call analogical reasoning, but this is, in their mouths, but another name for Induction; and of Analogy in its proper sense, as defined by Aristotle and Euclid, they are profoundly ignorant.
In actual practice, these three modes of reasoning, or any two of them, are often combined, or rather alternated, in order to arrive at results; and a chapter is given to the modes of combination.
In order to reason correctly by any of these methods, certain Canons, or rules, appropriate to the method, must be observed; and the Canons appropriate to each method are stated in the book that investigates that method. Violation of any of these Canons results in fallacious reasoning; and fallacy cannot be committed in any other way than by violating or exceeding the provisions of a rule. All the fallacies are collected together, and set forth in separate chapters at the close of the volume.
This, then, is the scheme of the work. The first book is devoted to an examination of the Proposition; the second to Empirical Reasoning; the third to Inference or Explicatory Reasoning; and the fourth treats of Analogical Reasoning, Composite or Combined Reasoning, and Fallacies; and concludes with a summary of the main errors and defects of the Logic that is in vogue.
THE subject-matter of the science and art of Logic is the proposition; and the proposition is the verbal expression of the formation or establishment of a mental relation.
Words are not necessary to reasoning, and in fact an immense number, perhaps the majority of our reasonings. are conducted without the use of words, even of unspoken words. Without formally expressing the judgements in words, we judge that the book-case is too heavy to lift; that the tea is too hot to drink; that the cab will come if whistled for; that the door will be opened if we ring the bell; that if we go out in the rain we shall get wet; that the wind is too strong to put up the umbrella; that it is too far to walk in the time at our disposal; that it is dangerous to cross the street till the traffic thins; and innumerable others. But reasonings on abstract subjects usually require the use of words, for the abstract is embodied in the word, and until so embodied, it often exists vaguely only, and but half formed in the mind. And reasoning that is not expressed in words must remain for ever locked up in the mind of the reasoner. Logic, as the science and methodology of reasoning, must be expressed in words; and the subject-matter of Logic is, as aforesaid, the verbal expression of a mental relation; that is to say, the proposition.
Logicians distinguish between what they call ‘verbal’ propositions, and what they call ‘real’ propositions. The nomenclature is inappropriate in several ways, for ‘real’ as applied to propositions, is used in several senses by logicians; and ‘verbal,’ as a distinction between some propositions and others, is clearly a misnomer, for all propositions are expressed in words, and are therefore verbal. Here, therefore, at the very outset of our logical studies, we meet with a striking instance, the first of very many, of the inaccuracy, looseness, and ambiguity with which words, the material of their craft, are used by logicians.
‘Verbal propositions,’ like other terms of their art, are differently defined by different logicians. Some call them ‘Propositions that appear to convey knowledge, but in reality do not.’ Others define them as ‘Propositions from which we learn nothing.’ ‘Propositions only by satisfying the forms of language, not by conveying a knowledge of facts,’ and so forth. The instances usually given are ‘A triangle is a rectilinear figure with three sides.’ ‘The functions of an archdeacon are archi-diaconal functions.’ It may be admitted that such sentences as these convey little knowledge; that we learn little from them; that they are propositions only by satisfying the forms of language, and not by conveying a knowledge of facts; all this may be true, but a proposition may be ‘real’ in the logical sense, and yet we may learn nothing from it, and it may convey no knowledge of fact; a proposition may be ‘verbal’ in the logical sense, and yet convey new and useful information; and, in any case, the objection to ‘verbal’ propositions that they convey no information, that we learn nothing from them, and that they convey no knowledge of facts, comes strangely from logicians, who unanimously and strenuously assert that the primary and fundamental law of all thought is ‘Whatever is, is,’ or ‘A thing is identical with itself.’
That ‘Rain falls from above’ and ‘A bird has feathers’ are ‘real’ propositions in the logical sense, no logician would dispute; yet neither of these conveys any knowledge to anyone who has ever been in the rain and seen a bird. We learn nothing from them; and they convey to us no information. But they do satisfy the third definition or description of the ‘real’ proposition. They do convey a knowledge of fact. Yes, these particular ‘real’ propositions happen to do so, but let us take another, that no logician will have the hardihood to deny is ‘real’—‘Julius Cæsar is still alive.’ Does this convey knowledge of fact? ‘Oh, but,’ says the logician, ‘I don’t mean fact in the same sense that you mean it.’ ‘My good friend,’ is my answer, ‘when people say things, they are bound by what they say, not by what they mean. If you meant something different from what you said, you should learn to express your meaning accurately. If you use a word in a sense different from its customary use, you must define the sense in which you use it, or you must suffer the consequences of having its customary meaning attached to it.’
On the other hand, ‘A quadruped is a four-footed animal’ would be acknowledged by every logician to be, in the logical sense, a ‘verbal’ proposition; and yet every child who does not know the meaning of ‘quadruped’ learns something from this proposition. To him it conveys information, and a knowledge of fact.
It seems clear that to say that a triangle is a three-angled figure or that the functions of an archdeacon are archi-diaconal functions, is to use propositions that are ‘verbal’ in quite another sense than that in which ‘A quadruped is a four-footed animal’ is ‘verbal’ and in my view, propositions may be classified, with respect their their significance, in the following way.
A proposition may express a relation between words alone without regard to their meaning. Such propositions may be termed Insignificant.
Or it may express a relation between the meanings of words as words, without more reference to the things to which the words refer than is inseparable from the use of the words. Such a proposition may be termed Definitive, or Defining.
Or it may refer primarily, not to the words, but to the things named by the words; and is then a Substantial proposition.
These are propositions in which a relation is predicated between words alone, without regard to the meanings of the words. Strictly speaking, such propositions are not true propositions, but bastard, pseudo, or quasi-propositions, since the relation such a proposition purports to express has no answering relation in the mind. Since, however, such propositions are occasionally used either legitimately, with full knowledge of their emptiness; or illegitimately, without appreciation by the user that they are but empty forms of words, it is necessary to include them in an enumeration of propositions. Insignificant propositions are of three kinds,—the Synonymous proposition, the Unintelligible proposition, and the Contradiction in terms.
This forms one kind of the propositions that are called verbal by logicians. It is a proposition whose terms are synonymous on the face of them, such as ‘The functions of an archdeacon are archi-diaconal’; ‘Opium causes sleep by means of its soporific virtue’; ‘A quadruped is a four-footed animal’; ‘A brighter light implies increased luminosity.’ In each of these quasi-propositions, there are two verbal terms, connected by a verbal indication of relationship; but as each of the verbal terms expresses the same concept, there are not two mental terms, but one only; and a relation cannot be established with one term only. A man cannot be a father who has never had a child. A thing cannot be below if there is nothing above it; nor before, if nothing comes after. The Synonymous proposition resembles the fraction 1/1, which is no fraction, or the equation 1 = 1, which is no equation, but means, after all, no more than one.
A synonymous proposition is not insignificant if it is not synonymous. That is to say, a proposition which is synonymous and therefore insignificant, to one person, who knows that the terms are synonymous, is significant to another person, to whom the terms were not synonymous until they were declared to be so by the very proposition in question. To a child who does not know the meaning of the term quadruped, the proposition, ‘A quadruped is a four-footed animal’ is a significant proposition, because to him the terms are not synonymous until they are made so by the proposition. So the dictionary meaning of any word is a significant proposition when it first becomes known, and thereafter is insignificant.
In this proposition or quasi-proposition, the terms are verbally different, but as one or both of them have no answering concept in the mind, the proposition resembles the fraction 0/0, or the equation 0 = 0, ‘Brillig is a slithy tove’ is an unintelligible proposition. It has the form and appearance of a proposition, but it is a pseudo-proposition only, for its terms represent no mental concepts. The form is empty. So, ‘A seafaring man is a matross’ is, to most Englishmen, an unintelligible proposition. One term is significant, but the insignificance of the object-term reduces the whole proposition to insignificance.
The Unintelligible proposition is insignificant so long only as its terms remain without meaning, and to those only to whom the meaning of its terms are unknown. ‘Ponos is Kala-azar’ is to you, reader, if you do not happen to know the meanings of both the terms, an unintelligible proposition; but to me it is significant because I happen to know the meanings of the terms. ‘Brillig is a slithy tove’ is unintelligible, I expect, to both of us.
This is another form of meaningless proposition which should be enumerated among insignificant propositions. To say that matter is immaterial, or that it can be sublimated until its materiality is extracted; or that we have a subliminal consciousness of which we are not conscious; or that lying is a distorted way of speaking the truth; or that there is a reality that is not really real, but is a sham reality; or to speak of the contents of an empty vessel; or of an irresistible force being applied to an immoveable body; are all contradictions in terms. These quasi-propositions might be compared with the mathematical expression 1 — 1, which = 0. They take away with one hand what they have just given with the other. Subject and Object cancel one another, and leave us with nothing.
This is the Synonymous proposition whose terms are not known to be synonymous until the proposition is stated. The Synonymous proposition of one person is therefore the Defining proposition of another, and the Defining proposition becomes synonymous as soon as it is known. The Defining proposition is the verbal proposition of logicians. It defines the meaning of a word. The subject of it is a word considered as a word, and not as the name of a thing; and it is the only form of proposition in which words as words, and not as names of things, can stand as Subjects. It is, therefore, as we shall find hereafter, the only form of proposition in which the Attributive term can stand as Subject.
In the great majority of propositions, the subject is not a mere word, standing as a word only, and merely defined as to its meaning by the proposition, but is a word standing as the name of a thing to which the word refers. With respect to this thing two questions must be answered. First, what is the nature of the reference that is made to it in and by the proposition? And second, what is the nature of the predication that may be made with regard to it?
The different predications that may be made of the subject of a proposition when that subject is Substantial, will be considered in their proper place when we come to examine the Ratio. But this is the place to consider the reference of the proposition and of its terms.
Every proposition expresses in words a mental relation, and is treated in Logic, not as a form of words, but as the expression of a thought; but this statement does not clear up all the difficulties connected with the meaning of the proposition. Granting that the proposition expresses a mental relation, we have yet to determine whether this is all that it expresses. Does the proposition express a relation in the mind alone, and does the reference of the proposition end here; or does it not also express a relation between things having an existence outside of and independent of the mind, which are represented in the mental relation? When I state the proposition ‘Brutus killed Cæsar,’ this verbal proposition expresses a relation in my mind—the imagination or idea of the killing of Cæsar by Brutus. All will agree to this: but there is a further question. When I think of the killing of Cæsar by Brutus, and express this thought in the proposition, am I expressing merely the thought in my mind, or am I not also expressing an historical fact—that a real man, who had an actual existence outside and independent of my mind, and was known to other real men as Brutus, did actually kill another really existing man named Cæsar? So stated, the problem admits of but one answer. The proposition expresses, not the idea of the killing of one mental idea by another, but the real killing of a real man named Cæsar by a real man named Brutus. The answer is prompt, decisive, and clear, and is given in favour of the Realists. But there is something to be said for the Conceptualists, which seems to me to be insufficiently appreciated by the exponents of Modern Logic, who are, to a man, uncompromising Realists. In the judgement, ‘Gold is yellow,’ says Lotze, ‘the logical subject is not the idea of gold, but gold . . . the one idea is not predicated of the other.’ ‘Judgement proper,’ says Mr. Bradley, ‘is the act which refers an ideal content, recognised as such, to a Reality beyond the act.’ ‘Judgement,’ says Professor Bosanquet, ‘is the reference of a significant idea to a subject in Reality by means of an identity of content between them.’ ‘Our judgements express,’ says Professor Minto, ‘beliefs about things and relations among things in rerum naturâ; when anyone understands them, and gives his assent to them, he never stops to think of the speaker’s state of mind, but of what the words represent.’ These doctrines must be admitted to be accurate, as far as they are intelligible—and I must confess some difficulty in clearly apprehending the meaning of some of them—as long as the subjects of the judgement are such known and admitted realities as Brutus and gold. But suppose my proposition is, not ‘Brutus killed Cæsar,’ but ‘A centaur killed a phœnix.’ How now? Does the proposition now refer to reality? Does it mean that a real centaur, really existing in the real world that we know, really killed a real phœnix? Mr. Bradley, if I understand him aught, says that it does; and so does Mr. Bosanquet; but as to the latter, I cannot be sure, for in another place he speaks of what is really real, as distinguished from sham reality. Such expressions seem to me to darken counsel; but it is clear, or I think it would be considered clear by anyone but a Modern logician, that the word ‘real,’ as applied to centaurs and phœnixes, must be used in some sense very different from that in which it is applied to Brutus, and Cæsar, and gold.
There are here two distinct and different questions, which seem to me to have been confused together by logicians of the Modern School. The first question is Do we understand a proposition as the expression of a relation in the mind alone, or do we not understand it as having a further reference to things outside and beyond the mind? Do we understand the proposition ‘Brutus killed Cæsar,’ or ‘A centaur killed a phœnix,’ to express an imaginary killing of the ideas of Cæsar and the phœnix by the ideas of Brutus and the centaur respectively, or do we not rather represent the action of killing as taking place in the world outside the mind, between the agents Brutus and the centaur, and the sufferers, Cæsar and the phœnix? To my mind it seems that it is the last question that must be answered in the affirmative; and that Professor Minto is right in saying that we never stop to think of the speaker’s state of mind, but think only of what the words represent.
The other question is a very different one. It is this:—Is the reference to externality, which is admittedly contained in every proposition, necessarily a reference to the real world of experience; or may it not be to an imaginary world, existing in the mind alone, but referred to as if it were real? It seems to me that the second instance, of the death of the phœnix at the hands of the centaur, conclusively answers this question in the latter sense. I do not see how it is possible to contend that the centaur and the phœnix are real, in any known, understood, or admissible sense of the word real; and when logicians of the Modern School speak of the judgement as referring a ‘content,’ or a ‘significant idea, to a ‘Reality beyond the act,’ it seems to me that they are either mistaken, or they are using the term Reality in some new and special sense, which unfortunately they never define, and which includes unreality. The want of any definition of this, the most important term in their most fundamental doctrine, renders their system unintelligible to the uninitiated. I can scarcely suppose that the exponents of Modern Logic mean, by their reference to Reality, that real centaurs or real phœnixes ever really existed in the real world in which we live, though the expressions used by these logicians may certainly be understood to imply that this is what they do mean. If by reality they mean merely that reference to externality or objectivity, which I agree and maintain is inherent in every proposition and in every judgement, then I respectfully agree with them, and regret that they do not express themselves more clearly.
In my view, the position is this:—With respect to their external or objective reference, there are two distinct kinds of propositions; or perhaps more accurately, propositions are understood in two different senses. There is the material proposition, that is understood and accepted as referring to real existence, to fact, to an external world which is the world of experience; and these propositions are the basis of Empirical or Material reasoning. This is the reasoning on which Conduct is founded. This is the reasoning that determines our action. This is the reasoning by which we solve the problems that confront us daily, hourly, and momentarily in the world of experience in which we live. This is the reasoning by which truths are discovered. The unit of such reasoning is the ‘real’ proposition—the statement of fact, of truth—and, without such propositions, Empirical reasoning cannot be conducted. To attain truth, we must start from truth. To reach fact, we must base our reasoning on fact. Material reasoning is based on material propositions, and, to the validity of the conclusions of this mode of reasoning, the truth of its premisses is vital.
But Empirical reasoning is not the only mode of reasoning. Besides the vast field of material reasoning, which is based solely on fact, or on what we believe to be fact, there is another field of reasoning of even greater extent; with which fact is in no way concerned; whose conclusions are unaffected by the truth or falsity of their premisses; in which any appeal to reality or to experience is out of place and irrelevant; in which the propositions do not refer to real existence, or to the world of experience, but to postulated existence, and to a world which is objectified, it is true, but may be wholly imaginary. This is the Logic of Postulation, of Consistency, of Form, of Proof. In this mode of reasoning, the proposition is postulated for the purpose of the argument. It may be true or false; it may be true of the world of experience, or it may be wildly impossible or absurd; but it is postulated for the purpose of the argument; and, being postulated, we may argue from it as if it were true, and maintain the postulate of its reality or truth in spite of experience, and as long as we please, so that we remain detached from experience. But the argument must be conducted throughout on the understanding that the propositions are postulated only. They may or may not be true in fact, but if they are, their truth adds nothing to the force, cogency, or validity of the argument. They may be manifestly false, impossible, inconceivable even; but their falsity, impossibility, or inconceivability detracts nothing from the validity of the arguments that rest upon them. They are postulated for the purpose of the argument, and for this purpose, postulation is sufficient.
A proposition has been defined, by a recent writer, as ‘the verbal expression of a truth or falsity’; and it is added that a logical proposition implies belief in the statement made, and claims assent. My concept of the proposition is the direct contradictory of this. In my view there is an immense class of propositions that are false, and are known and understood to be false, both by those who utter and those who receive them, and yet are strictly within the domain of Logic. There is another immense range of propositions, whose truth or falsity is unknown to and disregarded by the utterer, and whose truth or falsity is utterly irrelevant to the arguments into which they may enter; but yet they may be the subjects of strict, valid, and useful logical reasoning.
‘The earth is larger than the sun’ is a proposition having a definite meaning, and capable of entering into logical argument; but it does not, to me at least, imply belief in the statement made; nor do I, in making it, claim the assent of the hearer. Yet I can argue from it, and deduce perfectly valid conclusions. If the earth is larger than the sun, then the sun is smaller than the earth; then the relative movements of the earth and the sun cannot be what they are supposed to be. These arguments are valid. They are irrefragable; but their validity does not rest on the truth of the premiss. They are equally valid whether the premiss is true or false.
Mill also denies that a proposition must necessarily be either true or false. He says that between and beyond the true and the false, there is a third possibility—the Unmeaning; and he gives as an example ‘Abracadabra is a second intention.’ Mill seems to have thought that unmeaning propositions are not susceptible of logical treatment, but if he did think so, he was mistaken. We can argue as easily, and as cogently, and with as complete validity, from ‘Abracadabra is a second intention’ as from ‘All men are mortal.’ If Abracadabra is a second intention—I don’t say whether it is or not, nor do I care, but if it is—then one second intention at least is Abracadabra; then Abracadabra is not a first intention, nor a third intention; then it is not possible to deny that Abracadabra is a second intention. All these are logical arguments; all are valid; all follow of strict logical necessity from the postulate; none of them pays any regard to the meaning of the postulate, or is in any way vitiated if the meaning of the postulate is unknown.
Logic must pay regard to the objective reference of the propositions it employs; but it need not pay regard to their truth or falsity, unless the argument is a material argument. If the argument belongs to the Logic of Consistency, this Logic must not pay regard to the truth of its propositions. Chalk is harmonious; Whatever is harmonious is black; \Chalk is black. This argument is nonsense. It is perfectly good in form, but it is nonsensical on account of its matter. A logical argument must be stated in propositions, and these are not propositions, for they have no answering relations in the mind. The argument is stated, however, as a material argument, and as a material argument it is absurd and nonsensical; but if stated as a formal argument, it is perfectly sound. Chalk is not, in fact, harmonious, nor, in fact, is what is harmonious black; but we may, for the purpose of argument, postulate or pretend that chalk is harmonious, and that what is harmonious is black; and then, on these postulates, we may build an argument of consistency that is perfectly sound. If chalk is harmonious, and if what is harmonious is black, then chalk is indisputably black, and the inference is unescapable and irrefragable. The postulates are false, indeed; in fact, they are nonsensical; but of this falsity and nonsensicality the Logic of Consistency takes no heed. As a material argument, the reasoning is silly, and worse than silly. As an argument from postulates, or a formal argument, it is perfectly sound. In the argument of consistency, our postulates may be false, or nonsensical, or merely symbolic. We can reason, in this Logic, as readily and as validly from ‘If the earth is larger than the sun,’ or ‘If chalk is harmonious,’ or ‘If S is M,’ as from ‘If men are mortal.’ In either case, Formal Logic will show you what is implied and involved in your postulates, what are the consequences of postulation, and to what you committed yourself when you made your assumptions. If your postulates are false, that is your affair. In that case, you must not act upon the conclusions that formal Logic attains; or if you do so, you do so at your peril. Formal Logic is a mill that will grind whatever you give it to grind, and will turn out the grist in a form different from that in which it was put into the mill. If you give it sound wheat, it will grind it up into wholesome flour; but if you give it canary seed, or linseed, or hemlock seed, or even flints and broken glass, it will grind them all impartially into flour; and if you are foolish enough to eat the grist, the consequences are on your own head. You must not blame the mill.
Some adumbration of this doctrine seems to have been present in the minds of those logicians who say that every categorical argument may be stated hypothetically. This is an imperfect half-truth. To state an Empirical or Material argument hypothetically would be destructive of its nature. Hypotheses often result from Empirical reasoning, and this mode of reasoning is often undertaken for the very purpose of obtaining an hypothesis; but the premise of an Empirical argument cannot and must not be hypothetical. So to state the premise would take the argument out of the range of Empirical reasoning, and remove it into the realm of reasoning from postulation. But in the Logic of consistency, the argument must be stated hypothetically; or, if not actually so stated, it must be understood that the premisses are, in fact, hypothetical or postulated. The hypothetical form is not, as Traditional Logic supposes, a mere alternative, that may be adopted or not at pleasure; and that, if adopted, merely fails to vitiate the argument. It is vital to the mode of reasoning; and, if omitted, is productive of one of the worst forms of fallacy—the fallacy of confusion of the mode of argument, which will be described in the chapter on fallacies.
Postulation of premisses, in the Logic of Consistency, is not merely a duty; it is not only a necessity; it is also a very valuable privilege. Postulation places at our command an immense realm of reasoning that, without it, would be inaccessible. It gives us control of that powerful engine, the reductio ad absurdum. It enables us to reason about things whose real existence is not only doubtful, but impossible; not only impossible, but inconceivable. It enables us to reason, not only of the Regent’s canal, but of possible canals in Mars; not only of the mounting of the forty-foot telescope, but of the mounting of a forty-mile telescope; not only of the square root of four, but of the square root of minus one. It enables us argue what would happen if two straight lines should enclose a space; if space were of four or of forty dimensions; if matter were imponderable, and the ether impenetrable; of frictionless machines, rigid rods, perfect circles, infinitesimal quantities, infinite series, and a thousand other things that are outside, or inconsistent with experience. For the purpose of argument, there is but one limit to the privilege of postulation; and, for the purpose of argument, the truth or falsity of our postulates is utterly beside the question, and of no account.
THE kinds of propositions distinguished by logicians are numerous, including the Categorical, the Inferential, and the Disjunctive; the Affirmative and the Negative; the Universal and the Particular; the Discretive, the Remotive, and the Exponible; the Analytic and the Synthetic; and several others. Those who are curious in the matter may be referred to the text books for explanations of these terms, which appear especially adapted for the purposes of examinations. Here I will confine myself to a less complete enumeration, believing that those who are interested in the subject, and are in the habit of paying attention to modes of expressing thoughts, can easily work out for themselves the varieties usually described.
For logical purposes, the most important distinction between different propositions is that between the Incomplete and the Complete. This is a distinction new to Logic, but it is one of the greatest importance. An Incomplete proposition is, as its title implies, a proposition of which an element is missing. Every proposition expresses a relation; and, as we shall find further on, a relation consists of three elements—two related terms, and the ratio which expresses the relation between them. Any one of these elements may be missing. Taking as the type the generalised proposition ‘A is B,’ there may be missing from this proposition the term A, the term B, or the ratio ‘is.’ But if a proposition necessarily contains three elements, and if from a proposition one element is missing, the two remaining elements are not a proposition, but two incoherent and unrelated elements? Not necessarily. We may retain the form of the proposition, even if one element is missing, by introducing in its place a dummy element, that may serve to keep the proposition together, as a proposition, until the missing element can be supplied, and substituted for the dummy. Thus, in the proposition ‘A is B,’ the term A may be missing; but we can keep the proposition in form until the missing element can be supplied, and at the same time introduce a reminder that the term is missing, and needs to be supplied, by putting in place of the missing term the relative ‘what.’ By this means we obtain the incomplete proposition What is B. Similarly, if B is missing, we can throw the incomplete proposition into the form, A is what. These are manifestly questions, and should he characterised as questions by the addition of the interrogation sign; and we then get the incomplete propositions, What is B?, A is what?, which at once preserve the form of the proposition, and remind us that the proposition is incomplete and clamours for completion. If the missing element is the relational link that connects the terms together in a relation we cannot thus supply a dummy for it. A what B? is not English and though no logician is ever deterred, by the hideousness of an expression, from adopting it into his scheme, it behoves A New Logic to show a better way, and aspire to better things. Remembering, however, that the incomplete proposition may be put in the form of a question, we can, when the link of the relation is missing, throw the incomplete proposition into the form ‘Is A, B?’ or ‘What is the relation between A and B?’
These are ways in which the missing element of a problem may be supplied by a dummy, so that the form of the proposition may be preserved; but these are not the only ways. We may substitute for the missing element the sign of the unknown; and may express the incomplete proposition X is B; A x B, or A is X, which are the three forms that a Problem may assume.
The incomplete proposition is, in Logic, a Problem, and should be known as a problem; and the Problem is the foundation of Material or Empirical Reasoning. The whole and only function of Empirical reasoning, or Induction, is to solve problems by discovering the element in them that is missing, and substituting the discovered element for the dummy element. Induction, as commonly understood in logical text books, is the discovery of causation, and the discovery of causation by the direct appeal to experience. Induction, as I understand it, is the supply of the missing element in a Problem, whatever the missing element may be; and whether it refers to causation, or to any other of the thousand and one relations that we may desire to discover; and whether this element is supplied by the direct or by the indirect appeal to experience, the logical process is still a process of Induction.
The first division of Complete propositions is made according to the nature of their terms. The terms of a relation may be simple, or they may themselves be relations. The generalised form or type of the relation with simple terms is ‘A is B,’ or more generally, A : B. This form of proposition we will call P. Instead of bringing an indivisible term B into relation with an indivisible term A, we may, however, bring into relation two terms, each of which is itself a relation, as when we say ‘the relation between a parson and his parishioners is like the relation between a shepherd and his flock’; or ‘the relation between three and six is unlike the relation between seven and twelve.’ The generalised form, or type, of this kind of relation is ‘a : b is like (or unlike) c : d,’ or ‘(a : b) is like (or unlike) (c : d),’ or ‘(a : b) : (c : d).’ Let us call this form of proposition Q.
It is manifest that if, in Q, we replace the term (a : b) by A, and the term (c : d) by B, we get the proposition A : B, which is identical with P. P and Q are therefore identical in form in material respects, and differ only in the character of their terms, which are simple or indivisible in P, and in Q are themselves relations. In P, the terms are indivisible wholes; in Q, they are wholes discriminable into the three elements of which every relation consists. Propositions of the type P are the propositions of Deductive reasoning; those of the type Q are the propositions of Analogical reasoning. We thus find that each of the three modes of reasoning employs its own form of proposition. The Problem is the foundation of Inductive reasoning, and is used in Induction alone. It has no place in Deduction or in Analogy. Propositions of the type Q are analogical propositions, or analogies, and are used in Analogical reasoning only. Propositions of the type P are used in Deductive reasoning, and no other form of proposition is employed in Deduction. Since, however, propositions of this type are utilised in Induction also, it would be misleading to call them Deductive propositions. They are known in Logic as Categorical propositions.
Many forms of the Categorical proposition are distinguished in Traditional Logic, some of the distinctions being important both in that Logic and in this; some of them important in Traditional Logic only; and some of no importance at all.
In Traditional Logic, the utmost importance is attached to the division of propositions according to their Quantity, into the Universal and the Particular. In the Logic here propounded, the division on this ground has no place. I do not agree that quantity inheres in the proposition at all. In my view, quantity resides, not in the proposition as a whole, but in its terms, and may be in either term, in both, or in neither. I do not agree that quantity is limited to the Universal and the Particular; I think the quantities of terms are many; but my views on quantities are set forth in the subsequent chapter on that subject, and need not be given here.
Another of the great divisions of propositions made by Traditional Logic is that according to Quality; and as this also has a chapter devoted to it, I need not consider it here. All that need be said now is that I differ in toto from the doctrines of quality held by Traditional Logic.
The next great division of propositions made by Traditional Logic is the division into Pure propositions and Modal propositions. Pure propositions alone are wittingly admitted into Traditional Logic. For reasons that I am utterly unable to appreciate, the Modal proposition is ejected and excluded from Traditional Logic, which thereby condemns itself to inefficiency and practical uselessness.
The Modal proposition is that in which an assertion or denial is made, not simply, but cum modo—with a qualification. Originally, the mode of a proposition meant the degree of certainty with which the proposition was stated. Aristotle distinguished four such modes,—Necessary, Contingent, Possible, and Impossible. The logicians of the Schools extended the scope of modality, until it included every conceivable form of proposition with the exception of an insignificant remnant; and thus reduced Logic to practical impotence, and went far to bring upon it the contempt that it now enjoys. Mediæval logicians regarded every modification or qualification of the copula, however insignificant, as a ‘mode’; and no modal proposition is susceptible of logical treatment. To such lengths was this ridiculous formality carried, that even the past and future tenses of the copula were excluded, as modals, from logical argument. ‘Caius is not truthful,’ was, according to Scholastic Logic, an admissible proposition. It could form the ground of Inference; it could enter into a syllogism; it could be converted, denied, contraposited, and subjected to all the operations of logical art; but ‘Ananias was a liar’ was extra-logical. It could not form a ground of Inference. Nothing could be inferred from it, not even the useful and elegant deduction that some liar was Ananias. It could not be subjected to any of the operations that logicians performed upon propositions. Such absurdities go far to account for the neglect with which Traditional Logic is treated by practical reasoners, and for the contempt into which it is fallen; and although even Traditional Logic does not now countenance such nonsense,* its scope and range are still artificially, and most unnecessarily restricted. The withered hand of the Schools still stretches over it, numbing and paralysing its usefulness. To be admitted within the sacred precincts of Logic, to form the basis of any process of logical inference, a proposition must still be purged of all suspicion of ‘modality.’ It must be either apodeictic or assertory. It must affirm that A is necessarily B, or deny without qualification that A is B. If the certainty and assurance of the affirmation or denial is in any way impaired or qualified, the proposition is cast out and rejected, and forbidden the joys of the logical heaven. Things are seldom what they seem; You cannot often catch an old bird with chaff; He will probably burn his fingers; It looks very likely to rain; They are almost certain to win ;—all these are extra-logical. Traditional Logic will have nothing to do with them. It is incapable of treating them. It rejects them as impracticable and refractory; and can draw no conclusion from them, nor admit them as the ground of any inference. Yet how continually, throughout life, have we not to act upon inferences drawn from uncertainties! If we could limit our conduct to the guidance of certainty, how simple, and how uninteresting would life not be? ‘Probability,’ says Butler, ‘is the guide of life’; and of what earthly use is Logic if it does not assist us in the guidance of life? What else is reason for?
The exclusion of Modals is but one of the ways in which Traditional Logic has whittled away its subject-matter, till all the flesh and blood are taken from it, and nothing is left but dry bones: but it is perhaps the most comprehensive, the most important, and the most vital omission. More than any other of the futilities of Traditional Logic, it reduces an important an useful machine to the dimensions of a useless toy.
*This is premature. I find that one authoritative text book still maintains this doctrine.
I assert, and assert without fear of contradiction, that we can argue, and do constantly argue, and what is more, we found our conduct on the arguments, on grounds of all degrees of certainty and likelihood, from ‘A is necessarily B,’ through ‘A is almost certainly B,’ to ‘A is not likely to be B,’ and ‘It is scarcely possible that A can be B.’ On reasonings from such grounds we act daily in the most important affairs of life. We buy and sell, work and rest, travel and remain at home, marry and are given in marriage, on the faith and on the strength of reasonings founded on such propositions. To every one but a logician, it is undeniable and indefeasible that as long as the qualification or mode runs through the argument, and appears unweakened in the conclusion, it does not affect the validity of the argument in the least. If he is probably travelling abroad, he is probably not at home. If it is very unlikely that he can walk a mile, it is very unlikely that be can walk two. If he may or may not come this way, we may or may not meet him. If he can scarcely get his breath, he can scarcely be expected to sing. If it is almost certain that he started too late, it is almost certain that he missed his train. What is wrong with these arguments? Not logical? I know they are not. That is my grievance. That is what I complain of. What is the use of a logic that cannot compass such elementary inferences as these? If it is frankly admitted that Traditional Logic does not profess to be of any use or value, I have no more to say, except that it is high time we had one that is; but if Traditional Logic claims, as by the mouths of some of its votaries it does claim, to furnish the Universal Principle of reasoning, then I say that these instances are enough to demolish that claim at once and for ever.
So far from Logic excluding from its purview the Modal proposition, I maintain that a competent Logic must include all forms and varieties of the Modal; and even Traditional Logic, which professes to exclude the Modal, cannot get on without it; and does, in fact, admit some forms of the Modal proposition, and discusses them freely, and formally, and at length, without in the least recognising their true nature, or appreciating that they are, in fact, Modals.
‘A cannot possibly be B’ is, in Traditional Logic, an apodeictic proposition, and as such, is admissible into Logic. ‘A may possibly be B’ is a Modal, and as such is inadmissible. ‘A cannot under any circumstances be B’ is apodeictic, and logical. ‘A is under some circumstances B’ is Modal, and extra-logical. Every logician will, I think, agree to these statements. If, however, ‘A is under some circumstances B’ is modal and extra-logical, can it be contended that it ceases to be modal if we alter ‘some circumstances’ to ‘these circumstances’? If ‘A is in some circumstances B’ is Modal, does it cease to be modal if it is altered into ‘A is in these circumstances B’? If in the one case, the assertion made in the proposition is qualified, and made cum modo, is it not qualified in the other, and made cum modo, in that other also? I can hardly suppose that even a logician would make the distinction when the two cases are thus placed before him. But if we are using a Modal proposition when we say ‘A is under these circumstances B,’ is this proposition any the less modal if we particularise the circumstances, and say ‘A, provided it is C, is B,’ or ‘A, whenever C is D, is B’? If these are not Modals, if these propositions are not stated with a qualification, and cum modo, then it seems to me that the distinction between the Modal and the Pure proposition disappears, and there is no longer any such thing as a Modal.
But ‘A, provided it is C, is B’ may be written ‘If A is C, it is B,’ and ‘A, whenever C is D, is B,’ may be written ‘If C is D, A is B,’ and these are the ordinary stock examples of the Hypothetical proposition, given in every text book of Traditional Logic. It is not true, therefore, that Traditional Logic excludes all Modal propositions from its purview. It excludes those Models that it recognises as Modals, but it freely admits others that it fails to recognise. If Traditional Logic chose to say that the hypothetical proposition is a Modal sufficiently distinct in construction from other Models to deserve separate treatment, I should have no quarrel with it on this ground, and no objection to make; but this is not what it says. It says, ‘Under no circumstances will I admit a Modal within my sacred precincts’ and then, when a Modal presents itself under a disguise so thin that any one but a logician can see through it in an instant, Traditional Logic welcomes the impostor with open arms.
Otherwise put, the Modal is a proposition stated cum modo—with a qualification. Very well. To what element in the proposition is the qualification attached? Which element does it qualify? It certainly does not qualify the subject. If it did, ‘All A is B,’ and ‘some A is B’ would be Modal propositions; and no logician would admit this. Nor does it qualify the Predicate; for if it did, ‘Some men are moderately honest,’ ‘All cornflowers are a particular shade of blue’ would be Modal propositions, which no logician would contend. The qualification that converts a Pure proposition into a Modal, is a qualification of the copula. This is shown by the practice of considering those propositions Modal in which the copula is in the past or future tense, or in the first or second person. Any qualification of the copula, therefore, changes the Pure proposition into a Modal. Now the protasis of a hypothetical proposition is a qualification of the copula. ‘A (provided C is D) is B,’ is qualified in the copula, and in no other element. The qualification does not attach to the subject A, nor to the predicate B. It attaches to the copula, and qualifies the copula; and any qualification of the copula constitutes the proposition a Modal proposition.
The Hypothetical proposition is, therefore, a Modal proposition, a conclusion that must carry consternation to the votary of Traditional Logic, who has fondly thought that he had excluded all Modals from his scheme of logical doctrine. To the Logic here expounded, the admission, not only of the Conditional proposition, but of every other Modal, is not only legitimate, but also necessary. This Logic professes to treat of every mode of reasoning that is employed by the mind, and to pretend that we cannot, or do not, reason except on grounds of apodeictic certainty; or that reasonings from certainties are conducted in a manner in any respect different from that employed in reasoning from likelihood or unlikelihood; is a contention that cannot be admitted until it is proved. The onus of proof lies on those who make the assertion. Logicians have excluded Modal propositions from their scheme without rhyme or reason; or rather, they have professed and believed that Modals were excluded from Logic, and yet have admitted one form of Modal, not knowing that it is a Modal; and have arbitrarily excluded the remainder, because they would not fit in to the artificial and unnatural scheme of reasoning that Traditional Logic supplies. In the inductive portion of their scheme, logicians tell us that when it is found that an hypothesis does not cover all the facts, that hypothesis must be discarded. They admit, nay, they proclaim, that their hypothesis of the mode in which reasoning is conducted, does not cover all the facts; but do they on that account discard their hypothesis? They cling to it all the more tenaciously. Inconsistency is, to other reasoners, a vice to be condemned and avoided. To logicians, it is a guiding principle.
Whether the Hypothetical or Conditional proposition is or is not a Modal, is of great importance to Traditional Logic. To the New Logic here expounded, it does not matter at all. What does matter to both schemes is that the Conditional proposition is sufficiently distinct from the ordinary Categorical to demand separate treatment, and to be regarded as a distinct variety.
A third variety of the Categorical proposition, sufficiently distinct to require separate treatment, is the combined or Compound proposition, in which two or more propositions, having a common element, are combined, and expressed as one; as ‘A and B are both C,’ ‘A has been, will be, and is B,’ ‘A is both B and C.’ In each of these cases, more than one relation is expressed, and there is more than one proposition. The first contains the two propositions, ‘A is C and B is C’; the second contains three propositions, ‘A has been B,’ ‘A will be B,’ and ‘A is B’; the third contains the two propositions, ‘A is B’ and ‘A is C.’ In each case more than one proposition is expressed in what purports to be a single, if a compound proposition; and the combination is more than a mere artifice of language. It corresponds with a combination of the relations in the mind, through and by means of the element common to both. If there is no common element, no Compound proposition can be constructed. ‘A is B, and B is C’ is a Compound proposition, by virtue of the common element B; But ‘A is B and C is D’ is not a Compound proposition, and cannot be combined into a Compound proposition.
According to the scheme of Traditional Logic, there are two primary kinds of proposition, the Categorical and the Hypothetical; but as it is admitted by all logicians that the Categorical proposition may be expressed as an hypothetical, the distinction breaks down in practice; and, for practical purposes, there are, in Traditional Logic, but four kinds of proposition, distinguished by variations of quantity and quality in the Categorical proposition. These kinds are as follows:—
The Universal Affirmative or A proposition—All A is B.
The Universal Negative or E proposition—No A is B.
The Particular Affirmative or I proposition—Some A is B.
The Particular Negative or O proposition—Some A is not B.
THE constituents of propositions are to be discovered by analysis; and propositions may be analysed in three ways, of which the way of Traditional Logic is incomparably the worst.
Aristotle analysed the proposition into Subject and Predicate; or the Subject, and that which is predicated concerning the Subject. According to him, the propositions Man—is mortal, A—is unequal to B, were thus divided. The division is a reasonable and defensible division; but it is not well adapted to logical purposes, for it does not reveal the true structure of a proposition, as the expression of a relation; nor does it lend itself readily to the operations of Inference. For instance, a proposition so divided cannot be reciprocated or converted. If we attempt these operations we get Is mortal—man, and Is unequal to B—A; which are useless and nonsensical.
It may have been this insusceptibility to conversion, of the Aristotelianly divided proposition, that led the Schoolmen to devise another mode of analysing the proposition; a mode that has endured to the present day, and is taught in every text book of Logic, although it is manifestly, radically, and incurably vicious. The logicians of the Schools detached the copula from the predicate, and divided the proposition into three elements, still retaining for the third element the title of predicate, although, as a predicate, it is destroyed by the mutilation. According to the Scholastic analysis, the proposition consists of Subject, Copula, and Predicate; and is in the form Man—is—mortal, A—is—unequal to B. It is manifest that, in this division, the so-called predicates ‘mortal,’ and ‘unequal to B,’ are not predicates at all. They do not predicate anything of their subjects. A predicate is no more a predicate after its copula is torn away, than a man is a man after he has been beheaded. The so-called predicate predicates nothing. ‘Mortal and ‘unequal to B,’ tell us nothing about ‘man’ and ‘A’ respectively, until the copula is added to them. Not until the copula is explicitly stated do we know even whether it is affirmative or negative. Mr. Bosanquet, as an exponent of Modern Logic, speaks of the copula as a fiction, and declares that the proposition consists of Subject and Predicate only; but whether he understands the predicate in the Aristotelian sense, as incorporating the copula, and so expressing all that is predicated of the Subject, or whether he uses the word in the Scholastic sense, is not clear. In another place he declares that Subject, Copula, and Predicate, are all of them mere fictions. To this I do not agree. The division of the Aristotelian predicate into copula and pseudo-predicate, is, unfortunately, not a fiction. It is a patent and deplorable fact. The fiction is that the division is a natural or logical division; and if this is what Mr. Bosanquet means when he says that Subject, Copula, and Predicate are all mere fictions, I should agree with him; but as I scarcely ever know what he does mean, I always hesitate to agree or disagree.
The Scholastic analysis of the proposition, into Subject, Copula, and pseudo-predicate, does not even effect that convertibility of the proposition that may be conjectured to have been its purpose. Mortal—is—man is no converse of Man—is—mortal; nor is Unequal to B—is—A, an intelligible converse or reciprocal of A—is—unequal to B. In order to obtain an intelligible converse of a proposition so divided, it must be further manipulated and transmogrified, and then all we can obtain is ‘Some mortal is man’ and ‘Something unequal to B is A,’ propositions which no one but a logician would ever dream of devising, and which not even a logician could find any use for, outside of his text book, or the examination room. If it is permissible to make the Scholastic division of ‘A is equal to B’ into A—is—equal to B, I see no reason why it may not be divided into A—is equal—to B. The Scholastic division yields a converse, Equal to B—is—A, which is nonsense; but it yields no reciprocal. The other division yields not only a nonsensical converse, ‘To B is equal A,’ but a nonsensical reciprocal also—‘To B equals A,’—and is therefore, presumably, superior.
One merit, however, the Scholastic division of the proposition does possess. It does indicate, erroneously and imperfectly it is true, but it does indicate the structure and nature of the proposition, as the expression of a relation. A relation must contain three elements; and the Scholastic division of the proposition does yield three elements, in place of the two of the Aristotelian division. The two elements of the Aristotelian division, do, however, correspond with a real division in the sense and meaning of the proposition. The three-fold division of the Schools does not correspond with any partition in the meaning.
Every relation must contain three elements. It must contain two related terms, and must contain also the link that relates them. Take away any one of these three elements, and the relation vanishes. Master and servant are united in the relation of service. Take away the master and there is neither service nor servant. Take away the service, and there is neither master nor servant. Take away the servant, and there is no longer master or service. Slayer and slain are united by the relation of slaying. Without the slayer, there is neither slaying nor slain: without the slaying, there is neither slayer nor slain: without the slain, there is neither slayer nor slaying. Every logician is, I suppose, agreed that the proposition expresses a relation; and if it expresses a relation, then it must contain the three elements of which every relation consists—the two terms, and the link that binds them together.
The first term, that about which the predication of the proposition is made, is called the Subject; and as the name is appropriate, I propose to retain it. But, for reasons already given, Predicate is a very inappropriate title for the second term of the proposition; and I propose in future to call it the Object-term; a name that expresses and emphasises the fact that it is complementary to the Subject, and balances the Subject in the proposition. The link that binds Subject and Object in the proposition, is the relation between them; but as the name ‘relation’ is often given to the completed whole, consisting of Subject, link, and Object, it is inappropriate to apply it to one of the parts of this whole. Traditional Logic calls the link the Copula; but the Copula of Traditional Logic, even when it includes, which it usually does not, the whole of the link between the terms, is but one form of this link, and moreover, is an ambiguous and misleading word. I propose, therefore, in future, to call the link of the proposition the Ratio, a name that is already given to quantitative relations, and that undergoes, therefore, but little diversion in being applied, in the same sense, to the qualitative relations that are the subject-matter of Logic.
According to this mode of division, the proposition ‘A is unequal to B’ is analysed into the terms A and B, and the Ratio of inequality that subsists between them. A is the Subject: B is the Object: and the Ratio is the expression ‘is unequal to.’ The proposition is A—is unequal to—B. The superiority of this mode of division to the division of Traditional Logic, A—is—unequal to B, is apparent and great. The terms ‘A’ and ‘B’ are complementary elements in the proposition, and balance each other. The terms ‘A’ and ‘unequal to B’ are incongruous, and not in pari materiâ. A—is unequal to—B, admits of conversion into B—is unequal to—A, a rational converse, obtained without distortion or manipulation of the convertend. ‘A—is—unequal to B’ cannot be so converted. The one mode of division represents, and expresses accurately, the judgement; which contemplates A and B, and discerns inequality between them. The other pretends that the thought is concerned with ‘A’ and ‘unequal to B,’ and discerns between them a relation of existence. I know not what may be in the minds of logicians when they form the judgement ‘A is unequal to B,’ but I am very sure that I do not myself mean that A stands in a relation of existence towards ‘unequal to B,’ and I doubt very much whether that is the meaning in the mind of anyone but a logician.
Every proposition and every judgement consists, then, according to the doctrine here advanced, of Subject and Object related by a certain Ratio, and then forming, with the Ratio, a Relation. In many propositions, however, but two elements are apparent; and in many other Simple propositions there appear to be more than three elements. It is very important in reasoning to be sure that all three elements are present in any proposition we use, and to be able to identify them all; and it is not less important to distinguish between propositions that are complicated, but Simple in the sense that they are neither Compound nor Conditional; those that consist of more than one proposition expressed as one; and those which are Modal, or qualified in the Ratio. Not less important is it to identify and discriminate each of the elements in a proposition. None of these tasks is always easy.
In many propositions, two elements only are apparent. Babylon fell; James II. abdicated; William III. died; It rains; The ether exists. All these are good sound propositions; each expresses a definite notion, a complete thought, and therefore a relation; and yet each appears to consist of two elements only; and the same is true of every proposition expressed by an intransitive verb. Of course, if a proposition consists of Subject and Predicate only, there is nothing in these propositions to explain; but if a proposition expresses a relation, it must contain the three elements that are present in every relation; and our task is to find what is become of the element that, in these propositions is missing.
To say that James II. abdicated, seems, on the face of it, an incomplete expression. The full sentence would be ‘James II. abdicated the throne’; and the intransitive verb seems to be, and perhaps is, in this case, formed by merely omitting the Object-term, and leaving it to be understood. But ‘William III. died’ is a different case. Here, no such Object-term is missing; and the sentence is complete as it stands. If we look at the sense, however, we see that the relation the proposition expresses is a relation of change, or of suffering change; and would be more completely expressed by saying ‘William III. changed from living to dead,’ or better, ‘William III. underwent the experience of dying.’ These are not expressions to be used in ordinary discourse; but they expand the proposition to its proper dimensions, and reveal the whole of the three elements it does, in fact, contain.
Such expressions as ‘The plant grew,’ ‘Babylon fell,’ ‘Carthage perished,’ may all be expanded in the same way; but other cases are less easy. ‘He walked,’ ‘She danced,’ ‘The tiger sprang,’ ‘The snake struck’ cannot be expanded on this plan. We cannot say, or it would be incorrect to say ‘He underwent the experience of walking’; ‘She underwent the experience of dancing’; and so forth. The expressions are inappropriate, translating, as they do, a relation of action into a relation of passion. But we can very well expand them into ‘He performed the act of walking,’ ‘She performed the act of dancing,’ and so forth. These express the meaning accurately, and display all the three elements that exist in the relation.
‘It rains’ may be correctly expanded into ‘Rain is falling,’ but ‘The Pyramids endure’ is a more difficult case. We cannot say that the Pyramids perform the act of enduring, nor that they undergo the experience of enduring. To get at the true relation we must violate the practice of Traditional Logic, and go behind the words, to the sense they express. The judgement is, in fact, a negative judgement in an affirmative form. Its meaning is that the Pyramids do not change, or at any rate do not perish. It denies a relation between the Pyramids and change, or perishing.
‘The ether exists’ is more difficult still. The proposition expresses a relation between the ether and existence, but what relation? A relation, it seems, of existence. Here, then, Ratio and Object seem to be one; and the three elements necessary to every relation appear to be reduced to two. The only way to express it as a relation, with the three elements complete, is to say ‘The ether is in a state of existence,’ and this is a tautological expression. But ‘The ether exists’ also is tautologous; for, implied in every proposition is the postulate that its subject exists for the purpose of the argument. What the proposition gives us is that the ether exists, not only for the purpose of the argument, but over and above this purpose it has a real existence.
At the other end of the scale are propositions that evidently contain their full complement of elements, and appear to contain a good deal more. ‘It would have made my story much better to have begun with telling you that at the time my mother’s arms were added to the Shandys’, when the coach was repainted on my father’s marriage, it had so fallen out that the painter, whether by performing all his works with his left hand, like Turpilius the Roman, or Hans Holbein of Basel,—or whether it was more from blunder of his head than hand—or whether, lastly, it was the sinister turn which everything relating to our family was apt to take,—it so fell out, however, to our reproach, that instead of the bend dexter, which, since Henry the Eighth’s reign, was honestly our due,—a bend sinister by some of these fatalities had been drawn quite across the field of the Shandy arms.’ In this and other long and complex propositions, how are we to distinguish and separate the several elements? The discovery is not difficult if certain rules are observed, and the rules are as follows:—
1. First find the Ratio. The Ratio is what the proposition asserts or denies. It is what constitutes the proposition; and it is expressed by the principal verb. But the Ratio is not confined to the principal verb. It may be more—much more. The proposition may be modal. The postulate may be granted with qualifications or conditions or consequences; and all such modifications of the postulate are part of the Ratio. In ‘He took it,’ the Ratio is simple, and unqualified. In ‘He took it quickly,’ the Ratio is qualified as to manner. In ‘He took it at once,’ the Ratio is qualified as to time. In ‘He took it then and there,’ it is qualified as to both time and place. In ‘He took it from your hands,’ it is qualified as to circumstance. In ‘He took it to throw suspicion on you,’ it is qualified as to motive; in ‘He took it because he was greedy,’ it is qualified as to cause; and in ‘He took it with the result that suspicion fell on you,’ it is qualified as to effect; but in every one of these cases it is the Ratio that is qualified. Any expression which answers any of the questions How, When, Where, In what circumstances, Owing to what cause, With what motive, or With what result, the fundamental relation which is asserted in the judgement existed or took place, is a part of the Ratio; and may be known by its quality, as an adverb or adverbial phrase, qualifying the principal verb, which is the gist of the Ratio.
2. Next find the Terms. The Subject is that part of the proposition which expresses the person or thing about which the assertion or denial is primarily made. It may always be discovered by asking Who? or What? of the Ratio. The Subject is always, therefore, a substantive or a substantival phrase. To find the Subject in ‘He took it,’ we ask, Who took it? and the answer is He. ‘He’ is the Subject of the proposition. In this case, the Subject is unqualified, but it may be qualified to any extent. ‘The man who had been born and brought up amid the refinements of luxury; who had never had a want unsupplied; who had been nourished amid the influences of religion and morality, and enjoyed all the advantages of a University education; who owned land and houses, stocks and shares, wealth in every form, and luxury unlimited; stole a penny from a blind man’s hat.’ In this proposition, the whole of the clauses preceding the principal verb ‘stole’ are qualifications of the Subject.
3. The Subject and the Ratio being identified, the Object is, of course, the remainder of the proposition. It expresses that which is asserted, by the Ratio, of the Subject—that which stands to the Subject in the relation expressed by the Ratio,—and is ascertained by following the Ratio by Whom? or What?
Now apply these rules to the sample proposition given above. First find the Ratio, which is expressed by the principal verb. What does the proposition assert? We have not far to seek. What is asserted is ‘It would have made’; ‘Would have made’ is therefore the Ratio, or the principal part of the Ratio. Is the Ratio qualified in any way? Yes. A little further along we find the words ‘much better,’ which answer the question, How would it have made? This, therefore, belongs to the Ratio, which is, in full, ‘Would have made much better.’
Now to find the Object. The Ratio expresses a relation of making: to find the Object, we are to ask making what? You say it would have made much better. It would have made what much better? The answer is, ‘My story.’ This, then, is the Object. We have now identified two out of the three elements; it remains only to find the Subject. This is found by asking who or what of the Ratio. Who or what would have made my story much better? The answer stares us in the face. It would have made my story much better. There is a whole complete proposition. Then what in the world is all the rest, from ‘to have begun’ down to ‘Shandy arms’ at the end of the sentence? If we have already found all three of the necessary elements, what is all this superfluous matter? It is the Subject, placed in apposition. The proposition says, It would have made my story much better. What would have made my story much better? Why, ‘to have begun with telling you’ all the rest of the sentence. If, however, this long Subject had been placed in its natural position, in front of the Ratio, it would have been necessary to suspend the expectation during the whole utterance of the Subject, and to keep it suspended until the Ratio was reached. Few people are capable of so long a suspension without falling into confusion; and, in any case, it is an immense saving of fatigue to have the necessity for such a suspension abolished. Therefore the sentence is rearranged. The Subject is at first represented by ‘It’ until we have the Ratio clear in our minds; and then, having apprehended the general relation of the elements in the proposition, we have attention to spare for the long elaborate qualification of the Subject that follows.
Further, we learn from this example, that the qualification of the Ratio need not be immediately attached to the Ratio, but may be separated from it by the interposition of the Object.
‘When the scintillations of vanity betake themselves for aid to the flippancy of frolicsome levity, and would question the sage conclusions of the philosopher, and the moral inculcations of the divine; they must expect to meet with that grave reprobation, which can only be properly awarded by the asperity of virtuous indignation.’ In this proposition, the Ratio is manifestly ‘must expect to meet with.’ To find the Object, we ask, Must expect to meet with what? and the answer is ‘that grave reprobation’ &c. To find the Subject, we ask who or what must expect? and the answer is ‘They.’ But who are they? For an explanation we look to the previous clause, and we find ‘they’ refers to ‘the scintillations of vanity.’ The rest of this clause is not, however, a qualification of the Subject. It states when the action takes place, and is therefore a qualification of the Ratio. In logical order, the proposition should run ‘The scintillations of vanity must, when they betake themselves &c., expect to meet with’ the dire consequences predicted.
It is clear that, in this proposition, ‘When’ might be replaced by ‘If,’ and then it would be in the regular form of a conditional proposition,—If A is B, it is C. We learn, therefore, that the condition of a Conditional proposition is a qualification of the Ratio.
‘In later English, the infinitive, the imperative, and the plural and first person singular of the present indicative of the derived verb, have the same form as the primary noun, so that what takes place seems to be not the making of a new word but the using of a noun as a verb.’ Reading this sentence, we come to the principal verb ‘have,’ and, following the rules already exemplified, we find that the Subject is ‘the infinitive, the imperative,’ and the rest of it down to ‘derived verb.’ These are what have, and these are, therefore, the Subject. The Object is clearly ‘the same form as the primary noun’; for this is what they have. The opening clause ‘In later English’ shows in what circumstances they have, and therefore is a qualification of the Ratio; but what is the rest of the sentence, from ‘so that’ down to ‘verb’? This has the appearance of a separate proposition. It has a separate and independent principal verb,—‘seems to be.’ The whole sentence is not a simple proposition, but an argument, consisting of two propositions. It could be equally well expressed by ‘Because the infinitive and the rest of them have the same form as the primary noun, therefore what takes place &c.’ It could be expressed in Conditional form,—If the infinitive &c. have the same form, then what takes place &c. But we have already seen that the condition under which a postulate is granted forms a qualification of the Ratio. We may, therefore, regard the first proposition as a qualification of the Ratio of the second, and in strict logical order the proposition would run:—The using of a noun as a verb, not the making of a new word, seems (since the infinitive &c. have the form of the primary noun) to be what takes place. Here the Subject is in its natural place, heading the sentence; the Ratio, with the whole of its qualification, intervenes between Subject and Object; and the Object terminates the proposition. This form, however, unless the proposition is skeletonised in the manner just shown, would be too cumbrous, and would require too long a suspension of attention during the consideration of the part in brackets, to be easily intelligible in practice.
In this example, we are introduced to a new modification of the proposition, which does not seem to have received attention in books on Logic,—the form ‘not this, but that.’ This is evidently a compound proposition of the form A is both B and C, with the modification that one of the constituent propositions is negative—A is not B, and is C. The form, ‘A is not B but C,’ means more than this, however. It implies that the hearer would have expected A to be B, and that this expectation is disappointed. It implies that the statement ‘A is C’ is paradoxical. The distinction of these nice shades of meaning belongs, however, more to composition than to Logic.
In the analysis of the last sentence, we found that the Subject and Object had been transposed, the order being ‘what takes place seems to be the using of a noun as a verb,’ whereas the logical order is ‘the using of a noun as a verb seems to be what takes place.’ This is rhetorical inversion. That is to say, the inversion is made in order to transfer the emphasis from the Subject to the Object. The emphatic portion of the proposition is the beginning, and whatever part of a proposition we wish to emphasise, we may place at the opening if we choose. The whole sentence opens, in the example, with ‘In modern English.’ This is the condition that it is desired to emphasise, and for this reason it is placed at the beginning; and this transfer of emphasis is one reason for the operation of conversion of propositions which will be explained in the next Book. In spoken language, emphasis can be conveyed by inflections of the voice; and a poor attempt to convey these inflections is made, in writing by underlining, and in print by italicising, the words we desire to emphasise; but these are poor and inefficient expedients. The proper way to indicate emphasis, and to balance the sentence, is by the arrangement of its constituent parts. When the constituents are in their natural order of Subject, Ratio and Object, the Subject is not much emphasised, for it is in the place in which we expect to find it; but if either of the others is transferred to this place, it gains emphasis, not merely by position, but by the surprise we feel at its unusual position. ‘He robbed me’ states, but does not emphasise, that it was he who robbed me; but ‘Me he robbed’ states emphatically that I was the person robbed; and ‘Rob me he did’ throws dominant emphasis on the action of robbing. The means of of conveying emphasis belongs, of course, to Rhetoric rather than to Logic, but it is desirable here to show one of the reasons for altering the natural order of the elements in a proposition.
So far, we find that the logical analysis of propositions into their three elements demands a little care, but presents no great difficulty, and ought not to be a stumbling block to a careful person. So far, however, we have been at some pains to avoid the really difficult cases; and difficulties cannot be put off for ever, and should not be put off longer than is necessary to prepare against them, in spite of the practice of Traditional Logic, which has succeeded in evading for two thousand years some of the main difficulties by which it is confronted.
The logical proposition is the grammatical sentence; that is to say, the same form of words that is regarded in grammar as a sentence, is regarded in Logic as a proposition. But although the form of words is the same, the different mode of contemplation introduces differences into the contemplate, and the logical proposition has certain differences from the grammatical sentence which need explanation.
A grammatical sentence may have more than one verb, but a logical proposition cannot have more than one Ratio. When Grammar presents to the consideration of Logic a sentence containing more than one verb, how is Logic to understand the sentence? The proposition ‘Brutus killed Cæsar’ presents no difficulty, and no ambiguity. There is but one possible Subject, but one possible Ratio, and but one possible Object-term. But the sentence ‘Brutus tried to kill Cæsar’ contains two verbs, and therefore two possible Ratios. It is only one sentence, but it contains two propositions; yet it is not a compound proposition, for the two propositions it contains are contained, not simultaneously, but alternatively. Logic may accept the sentence as meaning Brutus—tried—to kill Cæsar, which is one of the alternative propositions; or may accept it as meaning Brutus —tried to kill—Cæsar, which is the other alternative. Logic has the right to make its selection between these alternatives; and more, Logic is not only possessed of the right, but charged with the duty of selecting; and until the selection is made, Logic is debarred from accepting the sentence as a proposition. The intention in the mind of the proposer may have been to assert either what it was that Brutus tried to do, or whom it was that Brutus tried to kill. In the one case, the verb ‘to kill’ belongs to the Object-term; in the other case, it belongs to the Ratio. It may belong to either, at discretion; but it cannot belong to both at once.
A grammatical sentence may have more than one Object, but a logical proposition cannot have more than one Object. In Grammar, ‘She gave him beans’ has two Objects,—the direct Object, ‘beans,’ what she gave; and the indirect Object, him, to whom she gave them. The Logical proposition, however, which expresses a relation, cannot have more than the three elements common to all relations, and cannot, therefore, have two Object-terms simultaneously. But as it may have more than one alternative Ratio, so it may have more than one alternative Object, and Logic may regard the proposition ‘She—gave him—beans’ as stating what it was she gave him, or may accept the proposition as meaning ‘She-gave beans to—him,’ that is to say, as stating to whom the beans were given. Logic may select either alternative for the purpose in view; but Logic may not read into the sentence both propositions simultaneously. It is bound to make its selection, and until the selection is made, we have before us no logical proposition, but only a grammatical sentence.
It is evident that with more than one alternative Ratio, and more than one alternative Object, the possible alternative propositions that may be contained in a grammatical sentence may become quite numerous, and it may become an academic exercise requiring some ingenuity to state all the possible logical propositions that are contained in such a sentence as ‘He tried to persuade some of them to seek to prevail upon the others to attempt to scale the cliff.’ The prospect of devising such elaborate traps to catch the unwary ought to go far towards consoling professional logicians for the loss of the flat-traps constituted by the Figures and Moods of the Syllogism.
BY this title is denominated the link that binds the two terms together in the relation. We have seen that in Scholastic Logic, the link was the third person of the present tense of the indicative mood of the verb ‘to be,’ and that no other link was admissible. ‘S is P’ was the only admissible form of proposition. ‘S was P’ and ‘S will be P’ were as much outside the realm of Logic as ‘S is probably P’ or ‘S may be P for anything I know to the contrary.’ Some logicians now formally permit a relaxation of these absurd restrictions, and all logicians relax them in practice; but nothing in logical doctrine is more settled than that the copula must be some person in some tense of the indicative mood of the verb ‘to be’; and, in Logic, the meaning of the copula is as follows:—
The Copula expresses either inclusion in a class or attribution of a quality (or their negations).
The Copula never expresses anything but inclusion, attribution, or their negations.
Which of these meanings it expresses in any given case, is doubtful; but
It ought always to be understood as expressing attribution, not inclusion; and
In fact it always is understood to express inclusion, and not attribution.
According to Traditional Logic, the proposition ‘A is B’—for instance, ‘Logicians are mistaken,’—may have any one of four, and cannot have any but one of these four meanings. It may mean:—
1. Members of the class of logicians are included in the class of mistaken persons.
2. Members of the class of logicians possess the attribute of being mistaken.
3. Persons possessing the qualities of logicians are included in the class of mistaken persons.
4. Persons possessing the qualities of logicians possess the attribute of being mistaken.
These are the meanings the proposition may express. According to the precepts of most logicians, it ought to be understood always in the second sense. According to the practice of all, it is always understood in the first.
Though these are respectively the accepted doctrine and the universal practice of logicians, it is not quite correct to say that the possibility that other relations can be conceived by the mind, and expressed in propositions, has been completely ignored by Traditional Logic. Mill admitted that the proposition may express any of the five relations of Existence, Coexistence, Sequence, Causation, and Resemblance; and sixty years ago, Martineau pointed out that there are other relations that are not attributive, and cannot without much artificial manipulation be put into a form that expresses attribution. Moreover, most text books give a corner of a page to the mention of such relations as ‘A is before B,’ ‘George I. succeeded Anne,’ ‘England is north of Spain,’ and a few others. Even Martineau, however, adds relations of time and space only, and whatever other relations are allowed by logicians, such as those of father and child, king and subject, master and servant, are considered with reference to their terms only; are assumed to be the expressible only in terms; and are ignored when propositions are treated of. It is assumed that these relations can be conveyed only by appropriate terms, and cannot be conveyed by the Copula.
Of late years, still further latitude has crept into the interpretation of the copula. It may, according to some logicians, express coexists with, coinheres with, is like, is identical with, and may have certain other meanings. But though these interpretations are formally allowed, they have no leavening influence on logical doctrine or practice. They exercise no influence on the interpretation of the syllogism; they are allowed grudgingly, and not by all logicians.
For all practical purposes, the doctrine of the Copula as applied by Traditional Logic, is as follows :—
1. The only relations conceivable by the mind are class inclusion and attribution.
2. If there are any other mental relations, they can be reduced to, or expressed as, those of class inclusion or attribution.
3. Whatever other relations, if any, are conceivable, must be reduced to either class-inclusion or attribution before they can enter into argument, form the basis of reasoning, or the ground of inference.
4. The relations of class-inclusion and attribution are expressed by the copula, and cannot be properly or logically expressed in any other way.
5. These two relations alone can be expressed by the copula.
6. One of them, but not both, is expressed in every proposition.
I do not say that these doctrines are explicitly stated in any book on Traditional Logic; but I affirm that they are implied in the manner in which propositions are understood and treated in the text books; and that, unless it is assumed that these are the doctrines applicable to the Copula, the whole treatment of propositions by logicians is unintelligible. It is necessary, therefore, to examine the validity of these doctrines.
1. Are relations of class-inclusion and attribution the only relations that can be conceived by the mind? The question carries its own answer. ‘Relations can be conceived by the mind’ itself expresses a relation of conception between relations on the one hand, and the mind on the other. Relations may be a class; but the mind is certainly not a class; nor is it, nor is it in this proposition affirmed to be, an attribute of relations; nor does the proposition declare that relations are included in the class of mental things, or that the mind is attributed to relations.
If logicians do not recognise any relation other than these two, grammarians have recognised others. Mental states and mental processes are expressed in words, and words have originated in response to the need that has been felt for expressing mental states and processes. We may be sure, therefore, that the different kinds of words are a safe guide to the different kinds of mental states and processes. What class of words express relations? Verbs. Verbs express relations; and every sort and kind of relation is expressed by a verb. Hence there is primâ facie likelihood that, if there are different kinds of verbs, they will express different kinds of mental relations. Are there different kinds of verbs? Grammarians say there are. They say there are three kinds of verbs, expressing, respectively, relations of Being, of Doing, and of Suffering; or Existence, Action, and Passion. For the purposes of Grammar, these are doubtless enough; but Logic demands a recognition of other relations, not all of which can be reduced to any of these three, or brought under them.
The fundamental relation of Logic, as of Psychology, the relation on which all reasoning depends, and out of which all reasoning develops, is the primary relation of Likeness, which, with its complement, Unlikeness, is the foundation of all thought. Materially, existence precedes likeness, for things must exist before they can be compared; but mentally, likeness precedes existence, for things cannot be known as existing, except by their likeness and unlikeness to other things.
Appreciation of likeness and unlikeness gives us knowledge and discrimination of things as existing, and of the respects in which they are alike and unlike, and thus we come to know of Existence and of the relation of Substance to Attribute.
The processes of mind are in their nature serial, and therefore temporal; and unlikeness in series gives us the relation of Change, as well as of Sequence, or Time.
Experiences of our own activity, together with the changes that accompany it, give us, in well-known ways, knowledge of the relations of Space, of Action, of Passion, and of Causation. Finally, in a way that will be explained hereafter in treating of the origin of terms, we attain the conception of classes, with the corresponding relations of Inclusion and Exclusion. Thus the several kinds of relations that may subsist between terms, and are predicable of them are
Of these twelve classes of predicable relations, and of the infinite multitude contained under them, Logic recognises four only, viz:—Attribution, Class-inclusion, and their negatives. It is indisputable and manifest, and needs no insistence, argument, or proof, that the mind can and does entertain, and can and does express in words, relations of all these orders. Logic denies that we can express in propositions, or modify by argument, any relation whatever but those of attribution and class-inclusion; and whatever other relation a proposition may purport to express, must, so Logic asserts, be reduced to one of these before any inference can be deduced from it.
The reason of this strange contention, manifestly untrue as it is, is utterly incomprehensible until we remember that the relation of class-inclusion is the relation on which the syllogism rests, and with which alone the syllogism is competent to deal. Without the relation of class-inclusion, there can be no syllogism; and as the syllogism is the only mode of reasoning known to Traditional Logic, this Logic, without the relation of class-inclusion, is a fish with its fins and tail chopped off. It cannot move. But this explanation takes no account of the relation of attribution, which is very different from class-inclusion, and is admitted into Traditional Logic. If Logic admits the relation of attribution, it does not restrict itself to class-inclusion, and my account of its narrowness is exaggerated. The answer is that though Logic professes to admit attribution as a possible relation, yet this relation is not in fact admitted by Logic into argument. Every ‘attributive’ term admitted into Logic is instantly invested with ‘distributed’ or ‘undistributed’ quantity, which means that it is instantly turned into a class, or part of a class. Once admit that any other relation than class-inclusion exists, or at least, that any other relation can be reasoned about, and the whole time-honoured structure of Traditional Logic comes crashing to the ground. Is it any wonder that Logicians guard the meaning of the copula so carefully, and restrict it so narrowly?
Unless we keep in view the necessity that Traditional Logic is under of bolstering up the syllogism, the restrictions, and artificialities, and futilities of this Logic are unintelligible. Why should we be allowed to argue from the, proposition ‘Cæsar possesses ambition,’ and forbidden to argue from the proposition ‘Cæsar possesses land’? Why should we be forbidden to argue from ‘Cæsar possesses land’ and allowed to argue from ‘Caesar is a landowner’? Why should we be permitted to draw from ‘Cæsar is a landowner’ the astonishing inference that ‘some landowner is Cæsar,’ and be forbidden to draw, from the proposition ‘Cæsar possesses land,’ the very natural and obvious inference ‘Some land is possessed by Cæsar’? Simply and solely because the one set of propositions can enter into the syllogism, while the other can not. But for the necessity of bolstering up the syllogism, the logical doctrine of the copula could not stand for an hour. In fact it has stood for hundreds of years.
Not being infatuated with the syllogism; not regarding it as a necessary, or even a very useful, mode of reasoning; I am free to admit into propositions all the relations that the mind can conceive and that words can express. My view is that relations are expressed by verbs; that a proposition may contain any verb; and that any proposition, no matter what verb it contains, no matter what relation it expresses, can as well form the basis of argument, and the ground of valid inference, as the proposition with the copula. To reduce the proposition to ‘logical form’ by twisting it about and garbling its meaning until it can be expressed by the copula, seems to me like loading oneself with fetters as a preparation for marching. It appears to me that arguments as valid can be formed from ‘Logicians make mistakes’ as from ‘Logicians are mistaken.’
Thus, the first three questions are answered in the negative. Relations of class-inclusion and attribution are not the only relations conceivable. That abundance of other relations are conceivable is proved by the abundance of verbs that have been devised in order to express them. Relations of class-inclusion and attribution are not the only relations that can be expressed in words, for we can use any verb we please to form a proposition. These two are not the only relations that can form the subject of argument, for we find it is as easy to argue from one relation as from another. There is no need, therefore, except the need of dry-nursing the syllogism, to express relations in the form that alone is regarded by Traditional Logic as the legitimate form. Reduction to this form is an unnecessary exercise of perverted ingenuity. It cannot often be done without garbling the meaning of the proposition; it may result in linguistic monstrosities from which the mind revolts; and it effectually deters practical reasoners from seeking the aid or adopting the formulæ of logic, since they cannot do so without distorting the propositions concerned into forms that are difficult to reach, and are abhorrent to common sense when attained.
To keep on perfectly safe ground, I will not make any translation of my own, but will take an example from a popular text book. ‘Democracy ends in despotism.’ To reduce this to logical form, so that it can enter into logical argument, and perhaps attain the supreme distinction of a place in the syllogism, it must be translated into ‘all democratic governments are things ending in despotism.’ We will pass the cumbrous and inelegant form of the paraphrase, since Logic is not bound to consider elegance; but we cannot pass that it materially alters the sense of the original. The two propositions do not mean the same thing. Not only the Ratio, but the terms are altered. ‘Democracy’ is not the same as ‘All democratic governments.’ ‘Ends in despotism’ has not the same meaning as ‘are things ending in despotism.’ ‘Democracy’ is as different from ‘all democratic governments’ as the abstract is different from the concrete. The original asserts something of Democracy,—of a form of government—of an abstract. The logical substitute affirms something else of all democratic governments,—of a group of concrete things. The original asserts what Democracy ends in, or becomes. It affirms a relation of Change. The substitute asserts what democratic governments are. It affirms a relation of Existence. The two things are as different as existing and changing. The original asserts the ending of democracy in despotism—an abstract. The substitute asserts that all democratic governments are things ending in despotism—concrete things that are clearly different from the state in which they end. Would the ingenious logician who made this substitution be satisfied to exchange a contract, giving him the right to receive ‘value’ for a thing, for a contract giving him the right to receive ‘a valuable thing’ in lieu of it? Would he be content to exchange an obligation that ‘value’ is due from him into an obligation that ‘All valuable things’ are due from him? The original answers the question What does democracy end in? The substitute answers the question What are democratic governments? The first is a prophecy: the second is a definition or a description.
And this translation into a cumbrous, awkward proposition, having a different meaning, is not in the least necessary to enable the proposition to enter into an argument. It is necessary, indeed, to make it express class-inclusion, and thus to fit it for entrance into the syllogism; and on this I shall have something to say when the syllogism comes under review; but it is not in the least necessary for the purpose of reasoning. If Democracy ends in despotism, then Despotism terminates democracy. The conversion is manifestly sound and valid. It commands itself to the reason just as completely, just as effectually, just as conclusively as ‘some things ending in despotism are democratic governments’ follows from ‘All democratic governments are things ending in despotism.’ If, indeed, the mind could conceive no relation other than those of class-inclusion and attribution, there would be some reason for retaining the copula with its restricted meaning; but in that case, no proposition expressing any other meaning would ever have come into existence; there would be no other verbs, and no reduction to logical form would be needed. But in fact, the mind does constantly form relations of all orders—likeness and unlikeness, existence and change, sequence, causation, action, passion and the rest; and is as competent to draw inferences from any one as from any other. If democracy ends in despotism; then it does not end in freedom; then despotism terminates democracy; then democracy ends in autocracy; then democracy leads to despotism and autocracy; then democracy has a termination; it does not last indefinitely; and so forth, and so on. These arguments are manifestly valid. They commend themselves to the reason. Supposing the premiss to be true, we could safely found our conduct on them; and if arguments conduct us to this result, what more do we want? The answer of Traditional Logic would probably be somewhat as follows:—‘These arguments may be sound; but they have this inherent vice, that not being in syllogistic form, they cannot be tested. We cannot be sure that there may not be lurking somewhere an undistributed middle, or an illicit major or minor.’ This objection may be left over until we come to the consideration of the syllogism. At present we are dealing with the copula only; and we are arrived at this conclusion—that the relation of sequence cannot be correctly expressed by means of the copula.
Nor can a relation of action be so expressed. ‘Brutus killed Cæsar.’ According to the precepts and practice of logicians, this must be reduced to logical form, and then becomes ‘Brutus was a person who killed Cæsar.’ Again the sense and meaning of the proposition are seriously altered. The original expresses a relation of action. The substitute expresses a relation or mode of existence. The one asserts what Brutus did to Cæsar, the other asserts what kind of a person Brutus was. The meanings are widely different, and cannot, by any artifice, be identified. The Subjects alone are the same. The Ratio. and Object-terms are widely different. The one proposition answers the three questions —What did Brutus do to Cæsar? Who killed Cæsar? and Whom did Brutus kill? The other does not answer either question directly, but answers instead the question What sort of a person was Brutus?
The third assumption of Traditional Logic is that if any other relations than class-inclusion and attribution, are conceivable, such relations must be reduced to those of class-inclusion or attribution before they can enter into argument. The onus of proving such an assertion is on those who make it; and it is easily refuted by adducing an instance to the contrary. Such instances are abundant in the experience of everyday life. If John went out, it is a safe inference that he did not remain at home; if he gave away his dinner, he did not eat it himself; if he lost money, he became poorer; if he lost his temper, he did something foolish; if he drank too much, he became intoxicated; if the bank breaks, it will ruin many people; if the tide rises high enough, the ship will float. So far from the copula being necessary for argument, the vast majority of arguments are carried on in propositions from which the copula is absent.
The fourth assumption of Traditional Logic is that relations of class-inclusion and attribution can be expressed in no other way than by the copula. An assumption more manifestly false was never made. The copula, so far from being the only way, is not even the correct way of expressing these relations. The copula is an abbreviation. It is an approximate expression. It is an inefficient substitute for the proper expression. It is ambiguous. Not even a logician can tell, when he meets with the copula, whether it expresses class-inclusion, or attribution, or something else. On his own showing, it may mean either class-inclusion or attribution; and many pages of text books on logic are filled with discussions as to which meaning is to be read into it. But it is easy to express either relation without ambiguity, and with certainty. If, by ‘Camels are ruminants,’ I mean ‘Camels are included in the class of ruminants,’ what is easier than to say so in those words? If I mean ‘Camels possess the faculty or quality of rumination,’ what is easier than so to express my meaning? Why, if I have a definite meaning, should I be compelled to adopt a form of expression which leaves my meaning in doubt, and be prohibited from expressing it in a form which leaves no room for doubt? Approximate expressions, ambiguous expressions, slipshod expressions, are frequent enough in the spoken communications, even of educated and careful persons, in the hurry and worry of daily life; and are then pardonable. In deliberate compositions, written down and sent to press, corrected in the proof, and revised with the care that is inspired by respect for the reader and regard for the reputation of the writer, they are excusable with difficulty; but what is to be said of the practice of choosing an ambiguous expression, as the very foundation of reasoning, in works on Logic?
Nor is the confusion between class-inclusion and attribution the only ambiguity that lurks in the copula. Traditional logic makes no discrimination between the verb ‘to be’ as an independent verb, and the same verb as an auxiliary. ‘The calf will be slaughtered’ is in the form of the conventional logical proposition, with subject, copula, and predicate, all complete. But it has not the meaning of the conventional logical proposition. It means neither that the calf will be included in slaughtered animals, nor that the calf will have the attribute of having been slaughtered. It means that the calf will undergo the experience of being slaughtered. It means that slaughter is what will happen to the calf. The proposition has the same form as ‘The calf will be dead,’ but the meaning of the verb is totally different. In the last proposition, the verb ‘will be’ is the copula, and expresses the state of existence in which the calf will be. In ‘The calf will be slaughtered,’ the verb ‘will be’ is auxiliary to ‘slaughtered,’ and expresses, not existence in the future, but passion, or being acted on, or undergoing. The meanings are as distinct as existence and suffering, and yet, in every text book on Logic that has ever been written in English, they are confused.
The fifth assumption of Traditional Logic with respect to the copula is that no relation can be expressed by it except those of class-inclusion and attribution. One additional meaning has just been given, and this is not the only one. The copula, in its strict meaning, expresses existence, not solely existence in a class. There are many modes of existence besides existence in or out of a class, and all these may be expressed by the copula. When it is asserted that Britons never shall be slaves, what is meant is not that they shall never be included in the class of slaves, nor that they shall never have the attributes of slaves. No one who ever made the declaration ever had in his mind any thought of classes or attributes. What he has in his mind, what he intends to convey, and what he is understood by every one of his hearers to convey, is that Britons shall never stand in the relation of slavery towards a tyrant or a despot. If I hear that they were all drowned, I do not understand that they were all included in the class of the drowned, or that they all possessed the attribute of drownedness. What I understand, and what my informant meant me to understand, is that they all underwent the experience of drowning. When I say ‘mules are barren,’ I do, indeed, predicate of mules the attribute of barrenness; but when I say ‘a mule is the product of an ass and a mare,’ I do not assert that it is included in the class of things produced by an ass and a mare, nor assert of it the attribute of being so produced. What I mean, and what I am understood by everyone but a logician to mean, is to assert a relation of parenthood. That, I say, is the parentage of a mule.
Lastly, it is assumed by Traditional Logic that every proposition expresses either class-inclusion or attribution, but not both. I meet this assumption with five different negatives. In the first place, as already shown, the copula need not express either class-inclusion or attribution. In the second, multitudes of other relations besides class-inclusion and attribution are expressed in propositions. In the third, a proposition may express class-inclusion and attribution alternately. In the fourth, it may express them simultaneously; and in the fifth, the universal practice of Traditional Logic itself is to understand the proposition as expressing class-inclusion alone, and to reject attribution altogether.
When it is said’ Logicians are mistaken,’ what is meant? What is the relation that the proposition asserts, conveys, and expresses? The four meanings that logicians read into it have already been given. It may mean that all persons in the class of logicians have the attribute of being mistaken, or that they are included in the class of mistaken persons; or it may mean the same of persons having the attributes of logicians. These are what logicians say it may mean, but what does it actually convey? I assert that it may mean logicians both in intention and in extension; that it may mean the class of persons who have the attributes of logicians. In any given case, the utterer or the receiver may be thinking more in intention than to extension, or vice versâ; but in that case he should express himself without ambiguity. He should say, in the one case, ‘the class of logicians’ and in the other ‘men having the qualities of logicians.’ If he means the Object in extension, he should be careful so to express himself by saying ‘mistaken persons.’
But the exponents of Traditional Logic, though they pay lip-service to the intensive meaning of the proposition, do not, in practice, allow that a term is ever to be understood in intention. So long as they are discussing the import of propositions, they allow and assert that a proposition may be and ought to be understood attributively, but the moment the last page of the chapter on import is turned, they seem to obliterate the assertion from their minds, and never refer to it again. According to traditional Logic, the Subject should usually be understood in intention, the Predicate in extension. The Subject is a thing, or class of things, the Predicate an attribute of the Subject. Yet, when they convert a proposition, they invariably drop the intensive character of the Predicate, and regard it solely in extension. In vain shall we search the books to find ‘Logicians are inconsistent’ converted into ‘Inconsistence is a quality of logicians.’ It is always converted into ‘Some inconsistent persons are logicians.’ The reason for this strange volte-face is evident enough. Syllogistic reasoning is reasoning about class-inclusion, and nothing else; said unless a proposition expresses class-inclusion, it cannot enter into a syllogism. Since the syllogism is the only form of reasoning, it follows that no proposition can enter into reasoning unless it expresses class-inclusion.
In contradistinction to Traditional Logic, I assert, and have given reasons to show, that a proposition may express any relation whatever; that relations are expressed by verbs; that any proposition containing any verb whatever can be reasoned from, and argued about, as readily as any other; that the copula is an ambiguous form of expression, which should be employed as seldom as possible; that, so far from every proposition being translated into one containing the verb ‘to be,’ every proposition containing this verb should, if possible, be translated into a more accurate form; that, so far from every proposition being translatable into one containing the copula, none, except those expressing existence, can be so translated without perverting its meaning; while, contrarily, most propositions containing the copula can be expressed more accurately by some other verb.
If the Ratio must be the verb ‘to be’; and if the verb ‘to be’ in a proposition is always the copula; and if, in construing a proposition, we are to look always at the verbal form and never at the sense, then observe the consequence in the proposition ‘He is certain to fall.’ This has the form of the conventional logical proposition, with Subject, Copula and Predicate all complete. He—is—certain to fall. That is the construction according to Traditional Logic. But what is the sense the proposition expresses? Does it predicate certainty of him? Manifestly it does not. The relation expressed is not one of certainty, but one of happening. The correct construction is, He—will certainly—fall, or, in strict logical correctness, He—will certainly undergo—the experience of falling. It is a modal proposition; and, if Traditional Logic were consistent, would be inadmissible on this account, but as the mode is apodeictic, it would be allowed to come in, though not in the form that expresses accurately what is in the mind of the proposer. The converse, in Traditional Logic, is ‘A person who is certain to fall is he,’ which, as Pepys says, is a pretty strange expression. In common sense, the converse is, ‘Falling is the experience he is certain to undergo,’ or ‘Falling is what will certainly happen to him.’
Such being, in my view, the nature of the Ratio, the question presents itself, What are the relations that the Ratio may express? This question asks, in effect, What can be predicated of a Subject, or What are the Predicables? It also asks What are the Categories? for these also are predicable of a Subject. It is true that logicians regard the Categories or Predicaments as possible terms, and the Predicables as possible Predicates; but as the predicate is, in Logic, a term, it is difficult to understand what the distinction is that Logic makes between them. The discussion as to what Aristotle’s purpose may have been in enumerating the Categories, and what value is to be attached to them, has been a favourite battle ground for logicians, and a volume might easily be filled with an account of these discussions. They remind me irresistibly of the controversy that raged between the Big-endians and the Little-endians; and the questions at issue seem to me equally important. What the soldier said is not evidence; and what Aristotle had in his mind when he formulated his scheme of Categories really does not matter to anyone who does not regard Aristotle as an inspired writer, whose lightest words are to be treasured as precious possessions, and whose opinions are to be received with unquestioning reverence. At first sight, the Aristotelian Categories appear to be a hodge-podge of irrelevant and disconnected words, thrown together anyhow; but on examination it is found that they relate to the various parts or constituents of the proposition, and are best left over, therefore, until these constituents have all been examined.
THE proposition expresses a relation, and in every relation there are two related things. These things, between which the relation exists, are called the terms of the relation. The proposition expresses the formation, in and by the mind, of a relation; and the verbal terms of a proposition express mental terms, which are images, ideas, or concepts, all of which may be included in the term thoughts. When we inquire into the origin of terms, we are inquiring, therefore, into the origin of thoughts.
All thoughts are derived from experience. They may be derived directly and immediately, and are then images of things and events that have been presented to sense; or they may be derived indirectly or mediately from experience, by the operation of the mind upon the images derived directly from experience. This mental operation consists in discerning likeness and unlikeness between things, in combining or associating in the mind what are discerned to be alike, and in separating in the mind what are discerned to be different. This is the primitive process of thought, and to this process all thoughts, that are not mere images, are due.
When chalk, foam, snow, certain flowers, certain clouds, and certain other things, are successively contemplated, they are discerned to be all alike in a certain respect. A fundamental capacity of the mind enables us to combine, or associate together in the mind, all the things that we discern to be alike in any respect. This capacity is called Generalisation. A fundamental capacity of the mind enables us to set apart in the mind the group of things thus generalised by the discernment of their likeness in one respect, and to discern that they are different in some other respect from other things. This capacity is called Differentiation Division, or Classification. A fundamental capacity of the mind enables us to contemplate the respect in which things are alike or different, separately from the things themselves. This capacity is called Abstraction.
I have distinguished these as different capacities of the mind, but they are not different processes. They are different aspects of one process. In the same mental act in which we discern that things are like one another, we discern that they are unlike other things, and we discern the respects in which they are like one another and unlike other things. The whole process I call Syncrisis, and this account of Syncrisis affords us an introduction to many of the fundamental terms of Logic, and an explanation of them.
The respect in which things are discerned to be alike or different is called a Quality of those things.
Things which possess qualities are called Concrete things, or Concretes.
A quality may be contemplated as inherent in, or manifested by, a concrete: it is then abstractible from the concrete, but not abstracted. Such qualities are called Attributive qualities or Attributes-e.g., a white horse.
A quality may, however, be contemplated apart from the things in which it inheres or by which it is manifested. It is then called an Abstracted or Abstract quality, or an Abstract—e.g., whiteness, hardness.
An abstract quality has qualities of its own, abstractible from it—e.g., moderate hardness, excessive hardness. Contemplated with respect to these qualities of its own, a quality is a Concrete Quality.
The same quality is, therefore, abstract with respect to the concrete from which it is abstracted, and concrete with respect to the qualities it possesses. These qualities may be discerned in it while it is still abstractible, and not completely abstracted; so that an Attribute as well as an Abstract quality may be concrete. Concreteness is, therefore, not necessarily opposed to abstractness. It is complementary to abstractness, but not inconsistent with abstractness. The true opposite or contradictory of Abstract is not Concrete, but Attributive. The true opposite of Concrete is Qualitative.
The quality in respect of which several concretes are alike is called a Common quality of those concretes. A quality that is possessed by some concretes and not by others is a Proper quality of those by which it is possessed. The same quality that is common to some concretes, regarded as like one another in respect of its possession, is proper to those same concretes, regarded as different from other concretes that have it not.
An attribute may inhere in more than one concrete; and a concrete may possess more than one attribute.
The attributes of a concrete, taken together, form the Connotation of the concrete.
The concretes that possess an attribute form the Denotation of that attribute.
The same name that is given to a group of attributes found together in a concrete is given to the concrete or concretes in which that group of attributes is found. The group of attributes forms the Connotation of the name; the concrete, or group of concretes, forms the Denotation of the name.
When a group of attributes, with the concretes that possess them, are contemplated together, but the attributes or connotation are more prominent in the mind, the connotation and denotation together form a General Idea or Concept of the concretes.
When a group of concretes with their common attributes are contemplated together, and the denotation is more prominent in the mind, the denotation and connotation together are called a Class.
The process of Syncrisis places us in possession, therefore, of several kinds of terms, in addition to the individual images and ideas from which all other kinds of terms are derived. It places us in possession of Concretes, of Concepts, of Classes, and of Qualities, and of several classes of qualities.
Since, as we have seen, qualities may be concrete, and may be gathered into classes; since both concretes and classes possess qualities inherent in them; since classes are themselves necessarily concretes; and since each class is in some sort an individual; it seems that these several kinds of terms are so inextricably blended, that no absolute distinctions can be drawn between them; and that, in treating them as terms, we must treat them in the mass, and cannot usefully distinguish one from another. Such a view would, however, be erroneous. It is true that concretes may be concrete qualities, and that classes may be classes of qualities; it is true that qualities may be concrete, and may be grouped into classes; but, as we have found, and as we shall find again and again, logical differences depend on the different ways in which the subject-matter is contemplated by the mind; and the several kinds of terms may be disentangled from one another and disposed in distinct classes, if we rightly contemplate them. When we speak or think of an individual, we are contemplating the subject of thought from its quantitative aspect alone; and thus contemplated, it does not matter whether the individual is a concrete or a quality; and if it is a quality, it does not matter whether it is an attribute or an abstract. We regard it purely quantitatively, and quantitatively it is an individual. Similarly, when we speak or think of a class, we contemplate the subject of thought in its quantitative aspect only. We contemplate the class as quantitative, that is to say as made up of a group of concrete individuals; and thus contemplated, it is evident that classes and individuals may be associated together as Quantitative Terms.
A quality may, as we have found, be a concrete; but when it is viewed or contemplated as a concrete, it is no longer regarded qualitatively. It is regarded as itself possessing qualities, and therefore as a concrete individual or class. It is regarded quantitatively, and not qualitatively, and falls into the class of quantitative terms. But when a quality is contemplated with respect to the concretes in which it inheres, or from which it has been abstracted, then it is regarded qualitatively; and, so regarded, qualities, whether attributive or abstract, form a class of terms quite distinct from that which includes them when they are regarded quantitatively.
The two primordial kinds of terms are, therefore, the Quantitative and the Qualitative; and, while Quantitative terms are divisible into Individuals and Classes, Qualitative terms are divided into Abstracts and Attributes. These, then, are the primary classes of terms that we are to consider in detail.
The Traditional doctrine of quantity is not only miserably defective, but is also in such inextricable confusion that it is difficult to give any intelligible account of it. The following statements are authorised by a leading text book; all of them are corroborated by other text books, and all but one by every text book that I have been able to consult. In the examination and description of terms, quantity is not mentioned; nevertheless, terms are divided into Singular and General, and General terms into Collective and Distributive. Quantity means, in Logic, the quantity of propositions, as Universal or Particular. The logical doctrine of quantity does not apply to terms, which cannot be either Universal or Particular; at any rate, neither the Universal term nor the Particular term is ever mentioned in Logic. Nevertheless, every term must be either distributed or undistributed; which means that it is viewed quantitatively, and must possess one of these two quantities. The quantities known to Traditional Logic are two only, viz:—the Universal, the Particular, the Distributed, the Undistributed, the Singular, the General, the Distributive, the Collective, and the Indesignate. The predicate of a proposition is never quantified: it is always, however, of either distributed or undistributed quantity. Universal propositions are those in which the predicate explicitly refers to the whole of the subject. Particular propositions are those in which the predicate does not refer to the whole of the subject. There is no proposition in which the predicate does not refer to the whole of the subject. This rule is not to be found in any book on Logic. It is, however, indisputably true. How logicians reconcile in their own minds these several statements, is no business of mine. Whether they forget, when they come to one page, what they have said on a previous page; or whether the Universal quantity is the same as the Distributed quantity, and the Particular the same as the Undistributed; or whether they are respectively sometimes the same and sometimes different; or whether the Singular and General quantities are, is the estimation of Logic, not quantities; or whether Logic does not know what quantity is; or whether Distributive quantity is or is not the same as Distributed quantity; or whether logicians are unable to count up to more than two; I do not know, and it is no business of mine to determine. These subtle questions must be left to the acumen of logicians themselves; but there is one matter on which I am clear, and that is that in no circumstances whatever does the predicate of a proposition refer to part only of the subject of that proposition. The subject of a proposition may, indeed, be but a small part of an individual or of a class, but however small a part it may be, the predicate refers to the whole of that part. If I say that a ten-millionth of a grain of radium is a recognisable quantity, or that one of the innumerable host of stars is brighter than the rest, or that one of the countless grains of sand on the sea-shore is blown into my eye, the predication refers not to part of the one-millionth, very small part though it is of a very small part; nor to part of the star or part of the grain of sand, one only though each is of an incalculable multitude. The predicate refers in each case to the whole of the subject, small part of a whole though that subject is. What logicians mean when they say that a Particular proposition is one in which the predicate does not refer to the whole of the subject, is, no doubt, that the subject of a Particular proposition is part of a class; and this, though not universally true, is at any rate sometimes true; but this is not what they say, or what most of them say, and what they do say is never true. According to their definition, there is no such thing as a Particular proposition. Another distinction between Universal and Particular propositions is said to be that, while the subject of the Universal is understood in its whole denotation, the denotation of the subject of the Particular proposition is left indefinite. According to this distinction, ‘Some of the men were killed’ is a particular proposition, and to this logicians would, I suppose, agree. But according to this distinction, ‘Twenty-two of the men were killed’ is a Universal proposition; yet ‘twenty-two of them’ is certainly part of a class, so that the proposition is Particular according to one definition of Particular, and not Particular—in fact Universal—according to another definition. No doubt, if twenty-two of them were killed, all of the twenty-two were killed, and in this sense, the proposition is Universal; and no doubt if twenty-two of them were killed, it is not specifically asserted that more than twenty-two of them were not killed, and logicians may claim that this renders the numbers indefinite, and determines decisively that the proposition is Particular; but if logicians make this claim, they are confusing definiteness with exactness, which are very different things. For my own part, I am unable to decide, on the principles of Traditional Logic, whether ‘Twenty-two of them were killed’ is, in that Logic, a Universal or a Particular proposition; and I shall be very much surprised if logicians give a unanimous answer to the question. Fortunately for themselves, however, logicians are always ready with a short way to deal with difficulties. If any example, found in experience, of a Ratio, a term, a quantity, a mode of argument, or anything else, will not fit in with the scheme of Traditional Logic, out that example has to go. Such a Ratio, such a term, such a quantity, such a mode of argument, is ‘not logical.’ It doesn’t count. We are reminded of little Curran’s offer to his gigantic antagonist who complained of the unfairness of a duel between them. Curran offered to chalk out a figure of his own size on the body of his huge adversary, and to agree that every bullet that hit outside the chalk marks should not count. It is little consolation to a reasoner, whose arguments have been smashed, shattered and pulverised, to be told that the crushing retort of his adversary is outside the scheme of Traditional Logic. The Austrian generals who were defeated by Napoleon proved to their own satisfaction that Napoleon’s methods were not warranted by the rules of war. The demonstration was irrefragable, but it did not alter the results of the campaigns. What were altered were the rules of war. The doctrine of Traditional Logic, that quantity inheres in the proposition, seems to me fundamentally erroneous. In my view, quantity resides in the terms alone, and the proposition as a whole can no more be Universal or Particular than it can be white or soft. A proposition expresses the formation in the mind of a relation; and though, with some straining of the meaning of words, a relation may be said to be Universal or Particular, the formation of a relation cannot possibly be either. If there is a relation that subsists between all things, that relation may properly be termed Universal; and in this sense the relations of space and time are approximately Universal. They are universal in the material universe. And relations, such as likeness and unlikeness, that exist between certain things only, may be termed Particular relations. But the formation of a relation, cannot be either Universal or Particular; and it is the formation of a relation that is expressed by a proposition. Traditional Logic, as now taught, denies utterly that the Predicate is quantified; and abjures, abhors, and repudiates the Hamiltonian doctrine of the quantification of the Predicate, as utterly heretical and damnable. Nevertheless, Traditional Logic still teaches, by the mouths of those very logicians who pour contempt upon the Hamiltonian doctrine, that the predicate of every proposition must be either distributed or undistributed. Of the four forms of propositions that alone exist, E and O distribute
their predicates, A and I leave the predicate undistributed. In no proposition is the predicate quantified, but in every proposition the predicate possesses either distributed or undistributed quantity. That is the doctrine taught by every logician at the present time. How the two portions of the doctrine are reconciled is no business of mine, I am thankful to say, for, not having been brought up in Traditional Logic, I find some difficulty in reconciling flat contradictories. In my view, we may or may not quantify the predicate, or rather, the Object-term, of a proposition; and if we do choose to quantify the Object-term, we must apply to it a quantity that is applicable to it, and not one that is inapplicable. There is one mode of quantity—the Extensive—that is applicable to quantitative terms alone, and cannot rightfully be applied to qualitative terms. There is another mode of quantity—the Intensive—that
is applicable to qualitative terms only, and cannot rightfully be applied to quantitative terms. Traditional Logic does not explicitly or formally deny these doctrines, but its practice is completely inconsistent with them, and we may therefore take it that if Traditional Logic did know of them, it would deny them. As already shown, Traditional Logic, though it formally and verbally denies that the predicate is quantified, yet declares that the predicate always possesses quantity. It declares moreover that the predicate is always, or ought always, to be understood as a qualitative term; and that, being a qualitative term, it must be invested with extensive quantity, of which qualitative terms are not susceptible. I say that in ‘All gold is heavy,’ the predicate ‘heavy’ is to be understood qualitatively, that is to say, as a quality belonging to gold; and so far Logic agrees, But I say further, that ‘heavy’ cannot be every heavy, or a few heavy, or many heavy, or half heavy, or have any other numerical quantity attached to it. As a quality, it is susceptible of intensive quantity only. It may be very heavy, or moderately heavy, or rather heavy, or extremely heavy. This Logic does not admit, or at least does not declare; for no mention of intensive quantity is to be found in books on Logic. On the contrary, Logic declares that ‘heavy’ in the given proposition, does possess extensive quantity, for it is undistributed, and an undistributed term ‘refers to a portion of a class’ and ‘leaves the extent of the denotation absolutely indefinite.’ The sole aim, purpose, and meaning of conferring distributive quantity upon a term is to enable us, or disenable us, to include some other term within it. Logicians are compelled, by their doctrine that all reasoning is inclusion in classes or exclusion from classes, to make every term a class. They do not seem able to appreciate the difference between a quantitative term and a qualitative term, or to recognise that any change has taken place when the term ‘heavy’ is altered into ‘heavy things.’ But although logicians are forced by their erroneous doctrine of reasoning to pretend that every qualitative term is quantitative, and expresses a class or part of a class, it seems never to have occurred to any logician, from the days of Aristotle down to this present time of writing, that the predicate or Object-term of a proposition may explicitly express a class or part of a class. That All men are mortal is a proposition that every logician can understand, appreciate, and admit within the precincts of Logic; but that Mortality can be an attribute of all men, is beyond the utmost range of his imagination. The teaching of every logician is that the subject is to be understood in Extension, the Predicate in Intension. The practice of every logician is to understand both in Extension. “‘All men are mortal,”’ say logicians, ‘means Every man has the attribute of mortality; and therefore we will always take it to mean Every man belongs to the class of mortal beings. “No man is perfect” means No man possesses the attribute of perfection; and therefore we will always take it to mean No man is included in the class of perfect beings.’ The sole justification—no, that is wrong; there can be no
justification for the constant infraction of a rule that is laid down as universally applicable. The sole foundation for this strange doctrine of the quantification of the predicate, which logicians formally repudiate and universally adopt, is the fancied necessity of finding means to convert the proposition according to the conventional rule. Unless we understand ‘All men are mortal’ to mean ‘All men are included in the class of mortals,’ we cannot get the logical converse, ‘Some mortals are men,’ and without this converse, the Moods of the Syllogism must go by the board. In my view, the signs of quantity, whether of Extensive or
Intensive quantity, can as readily be affixed to the Object-term as to the Subject-term, and are, in the actual reasonings of daily life, as often affixed to the one as to the other. Either Extensive or Intensive quantity may be expressed in the Subject alone, in the Object alone, or in both, or in neither. Subject alone quantified—All men are liars. Subject alone quantified—Gross ignorance is deplorable. All of these variations of quantity except the first, would, I
suppose, be rejected by logicians as ‘not logical,’ but, as I owe no allegiance to Traditional Logic, I accept them all, and have no difficulty in arguing and drawing conclusions from them. If Lying is common to all men, then All men are liars. If Cloven-footed mammals are ruminants, then we may expect any cloven-footed mammal to ruminate. If One volunteer is worth twenty pressed men, he is worth more than ten pressed men. If Gross ignorance is deplorable, we should not encourage it. If Lying is very shameful, it is not to be commended. If Patience is virtuous, it is virtuous to be patient. If Intense hunger is very demoralising, starving them is not the best way to cultivate bravery in troops. These arguments are no more difficult to construct than they are easy to refute; but none of them can be reached by any method known to Traditional Logic as I understand it. If the distribution or non-distribution of the predicate is as important, nay, as necessary, in our estimation of propositions, as Traditional Logic asserts, then it is not justified in rejecting Hamilton’s scheme of quantification of the predicate, which, however, all logicians do reject. Hamilton’s quantification merely carries to its logical conclusion that quantification of the predicate which all logicians admit and proclaim. It merely states explicitly that which they assert is implicit in the proposition. Hamilton says in effect, ‘It is admitted that in every proposition the predicate is either distributed or it is not. It is admitted that this quantification is not explicit in the proposition, but must be inferred from the quality of the proposition. It would be much more satisfactory to state the quantity of the predicate openly and explicitly; and this I do. When the quantities of the predicate are thus formally displayed, it is found that the quantification in vogue is imperfect. My scheme brings to light quantities that have lain unsuspected. Logic declares that ‘“All A is B” means, of necessity, “all A constitutes a part only of the class B.” But this does not exhaust the possibilities. All A may constitute the whole of the class B; and it is not justifiable to make an assumption that may be inaccurate. Moreover, not only is the assumption, that all A is some B, not necessarily true, but when it happens that All A is all B, we can obtain, by so stating it, a more precise and correct conclusion than we can by limiting our statement to All A is some B.’ It seems to me that this reasoning is irrefutable. If quantification, in the logical sense of ‘distribution’ does reside in the predicate; if the predicate may be either ‘distributed’ or ‘undistributed’; and if the ‘distribution’ or ‘non-distribution’ of the predicate is as important as Traditional Logic says it is; then it seems to me beyond the pale of discussion that it is desirable to state openly on the face of the proposition whether or not the predicate is distributed, and not to leave the distribution to be inferred from the quality of the proposition. Hamilton’s scheme, as far as it relates to the affirmative propositions, A and I, of Traditional Logic, is as follows:— 1. The Toto-total—All A is all B. and there is a corresponding series of negatives. Now, it cannot be denied, that if the proposition does in fact state the inclusion of the Subject in a class, or its exclusion from a class, these alternatives are possible, and do give us more insight into the meaning of the proposition,—do state more clearly the relation of predicate to Subject—than the mere statement All A (or some A) is B. Logicians find, however, that when the negative series is examined, it leads to self-contradiction and absurdities; and for this reason they reject the Hamiltonian scheme of quantification of the predicate. They do not recognise, however, that that scheme is a strictly logical extension and application of their own doctrine; and that if it is rejected, their own doctrine must go with it. If an hypothesis, when strictly applied, leads to absurdity and self-contradiction, the logical conclusion is that the hypothesis is erroneous. No Logic but Traditional Logic would allow us, in such a case, to retain the hypothesis with respect to the cases it covers, and reject it with respect to the cases it does not cover. The Ptolemaic hypothesis of crystal spheres accounts perfectly for the movements of the fixed stars; but when applied to the movements of the planets and comets, it breaks down, and is found inefficient. Would astronomers, then, be justified in retaining it in the case of the stars, and rejecting it as far as the planets and comets are concerned? No practical reasoner would countenance such a proceeding for a moment; but this is what Logicians do with respect to the quantification of the predicate. Consideration of other propositions also destroys the scheme of quantity enunciated by Traditional Logic. ‘Cæsar was killed by Brutus.’ Neither the Subject nor the Predicate is a class, and neither, therefore, can very well be considered ‘distributed.’ By some logicians, the proposition is regarded as a Universal, since the Predicate refers to the whole of the Subject; but in the first place, as already shown, in every particular proposition, the Predicate refers to the whole of the Subject; and in the second, it is incongruous and anomalous to speak of the whole of Cæsar being killed. We do not think of Cæsar, in this connection, as a whole composed of parts. We think of him as an individual; and if we think of Cæsar as a whole, we do not, unless we are logicians, think of killed-by-Brutus as a class or as an attribute. The proposition certainly does not express, as Traditional Logic asserts that it does, that Cæsar was one of the class of persons killed by Brutus. It expresses, not the inclusion of Cæsar in a class, but that Cæsar underwent an experience—that he, as patient, suffered an experience at the hands of the agent, Brutus. Some logicians, recognising these difficulties, relegate the singular proposition to a separate class, that is neither Universal nor Particular; but then the logical scheme of quantity falls to the ground. My view is that quantity is not vital in reasoning. In Traditional Logic, in which all reasoning consists in inclusion in classes, or exclusion from classes, quantity is, of course, of paramount importance; but to a Logic which looks at reasoning by and large, and reasons of relations of all orders, of which the relations of class inclusion and exclusion form but a small minority, quantity is of less importance. But if quantity is to be admitted into reasoning at all, it must be admitted freely, and in all its kinds, and degrees, and varieties.
To admit the two quantities, All and Some, and to exclude all other quantities, every one of which is quite as important as these, and quite as frequently employed in argument, is monstrous, and cannot be allowed. Nothing but the blind infatuation with which logicians regard the syllogism, would render such a course possible; and it speaks loudly for the strength and depth of this infatuation, that the multitude of quantities other than All and Some should have been ostracised by Logic for so many generations. The time is come, however, to break down this absurd restriction. MY view of quantities is as follows:— Terms, whether quantitative or qualitative, may be contemplated intrinsically, that is to say, without regard to any term of the other kind; and thus regarded, are susceptible of quantity; the quantity of quantitative terms being different in kind from the quantity of qualitative terms. Or terms of either kind may be contemplated in association with a term of the other kind, as follows:— Quantitative terms may be contemplated with respect to the qualities they possess; and, thus contemplated, become susceptible of classification.
Qualitative terms, on the other hand, may be contemplated with respect to the concretes they qualify; and, thus contemplated, they form the means of classification. It follows that our task is first to investigate the quantity of quantitative terms, then the quantity of qualitative terms, and then to investigate the means of classification, and the process of classification. Quantitative terms are either individuals or classes, each of which has its characteristic intrinsic quantity, but both these kinds of quantity have the common character of extensity, and the two may be considered together as Extensive quantities. Qualitative terms are either abstracts or attributes, each of which, again, has its characteristic intrinsic quantity, but both kinds of quantity have the common character of intensity or degree, and the two may be considered together as Intensive or Graduate quantities. Extensive quantity is, then, of two kinds, one of which is applicable to individuals only, while they are regarded as individuals, and are not compared, or grouped, or contrasted, or associated, with other individuals. Thus regarded, an individual is susceptible of contemplation as a whole composed of parts, and we may concentrate our attention on the whole, or on a part, or on whole and part in association, or on parts associated together. When contemplated as a whole, without regard to its parts, a thing is an individual, or unit, and its quantity is Singular; when contemplated with respect to its parts it is a Composite individual, and is susceptible of a quantity that is no longer Singular, but that for want of a better name I call Massive quantity. The other kind of Extensive quantity is applicable to individuals, contemplated, not singly, but with respect to other individuals, associated together in one or more classes. Such Extensive quantity is Numerical quantity. Intensive quantity also is of two kinds, according as it is applicable to Abstract or to Attributive quality. Abstract quality is in a sense absolute—in the sense, that is, that abstract quality is absolved from its connection with any concrete but itself, and is contemplated alone. Attributive quality, on the other hand, is always related to the concrete by which it is manifested, and therefore may be termed relative. It must be admitted, however, that absolute and relative, in this connection, mean little, if anything more than abstract and attributive. The complete scheme of quantity will therefore be as follows:— This is the proper logical order, but Traditional Logic gives such enormous preponderance to the Distributive quantity, that in order to bring my scheme into comparison and contrast with that of Traditional Logic, it will be desirable to bow myself in the House of Rimmon, and rearrange the Extensive quantities so as to take the Distributive before the Singular and the Collective. The order in which these quantities will be taken is therefore as follows:— Extensive quantities refer to individual things, either singly, or aggregated into classes by the possession of some common quality. The class is of course conceptual; that is to say, when we speak of things being grouped, or associated, or aggregated, together in classes, we do not mean that the things are grouped or associated together in physical propinquity;
we mean that they are regarded or contemplated together by the mind, as alike in some respect. Similarly, all logical quantities are conceptual. They are aspects of things. They are ways of looking at things; and, as the same thing may be looked at from different aspects and contemplated with respect to different qualities, so it may have different quantities, according to the mode of contemplation. When we contemplate individual things as grouped together in classes, we may contemplate them in two ways as thus grouped. We may contemplate them in the class discriminately, or one by one, preserving their separateness from one another, and saying what we have to say of them of each and every individual in the class. Thus contemplated, they are contemplated distributively, and the quantity is the Distributive Extensive. But we may contemplate them otherwise. We may contemplate them indiscriminately, without distinguishing one from another, or keeping them separate in thought; and then whatever predication is made about them is made of all taken together in bulk or in the mass, and is not true of each and every one. Thus contemplated, the individuals are contemplated collectively, and the quantity is the Collective Extensive. In ‘Every one of the books is a first edition’ the Subject term is Distributive. In ‘All the books together cost £300’ the Subject term is Collective. An indesignate quantity is, strictly speaking, no quantity. In
many propositions no quantity is designated, either in the Subject or in the Object term; and, as Traditional Logic cannot construct an argument with unquantified propositions, such propositions have always been to it a stumbling block. In such propositions as ‘The weather is fine,’ ‘Beauty is skin deep,’ ‘The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love,’ there is no quantity in either term. This being so, what can Traditional Logic do, since it cannot construct an argument with an unquantified proposition? The obvious expedient, and one that is adopted by many cautious logicians, is to refuse to such propositions any place in Logic. Such logicians are wise in their own generation, for they evade an insuperable difficulty. That the price paid for this relief is such a narrowing and restriction of the province of Logic as reduces it to inefficiency in a large field of reasoning, is a consideration that has never troubled logicians. Indeed, there is no reason why it should trouble them in this case; for, when all Modals are excluded; when all propositions not expressed by the copula are excluded; and when all quantities but All and Some are excluded; the diminution, by the exclusion of the Indesignate out of the attenuated remnant that is left, is really of little consequence. When a man’s arms and legs have been amputated, it makes little difference to him to lose one of his ears; and the difficulty of bringing the Indesignate proposition into the scheme of Traditional Logic is so great, that those logicians are wisest who exclude this proposition altogether. Other logicians, however, admit it; and the difficulty of deciding whether it is Universal or Particular is neatly surmounted, by some logicians making it Particular, and others making it Universal. A third class declare that it is Universal in some cases and Particular in others; while a fourth decide that the indesignate quantity results from carelessness on the part of the proposer, who might have investigated and declared the quantity of the indesignate Subject, but failed to do so. In my view, the Indesignate term is neither Universal nor Particular, but Indesignate. It remains indesignate until its quantity is designated, and it is just as capable of entering into arguments and of forming the basis of sound and valid conclusions as are propositions that are specifically and definitely quantified. If I say ‘The poor are discontented’ or ‘Traditional Logic is unduly restricted,’ my statement must go for what it is worth; and any conclusion I may draw from it must be as indesignate in quantity as the premiss from which I started; but as long as it remains indesignate throughout the argument, and appears indesignate in the conclusion, the argument and the conclusion are, as far as quantity is concerned, perfectly sound; and it is just as easy, just as logical, just as permissible, to argue from an indesignate, as from a definitely quantified proposition. These are perfectly valid arguments. In the second the Predicate, and in the first both the Subject and Predicate of the conclusion are indesignate; and in both arguments the middle term is indesignate in both premisses. Yet the arguments are valid, and why? Because the term which is indesignate in the premiss remains indesignate in the conclusion. The Indesignate term is neither Universal nor Particular. It is, and it remains throughout the argument, Indesignate. If a Class term is preceded by a sign of quantity, it becomes a Designate term, for the sign designates the quantity that is to be attached to the term. As already stated, Designate terms are of two kinds, Distributive and Collective, the Distributive referring discriminately and separately to every member of the class, and the Collective term referring indiscriminately to all the members of the class taken together in the lump. In either case, the class designated by the sign of quantity may be regarded as a whole, without reference to any larger class of which it is a part; or it may be regarded as part of a larger class. In the first case, the quantity is called universal; in the second, it is called particular. Thus far, the statements made are true of both the Distributive and the Collective terms, but from this point they must be considered separately. This is practically the only quantity treated of by Traditional Logic. It is true that most logicians mention the Collective term, and point out the difference between it and the Distributive. It is true that, in modern times, logicians have admitted the Singular quantity as a possible subject of predication and argument. It is true that, under the name of the Substantial term, a logician here and there has shown that he is aware of the Uniform quantity; but beyond a bare mention, or a very perfunctory description, these quantities receive no consideration or examination at the hands of logicians. No logician known to me recognises that the Collective quantity as well as the Distributive is divisible into the Universal and the Particular; no logician of recent times discusses the nature of the Individual, or is aware of more than two kinds of Individual. Every logician confuses the Aggregate individual with the Collective class, and both with the Uniform individual; and no logician has ever yet recognised that there is an Intensive quantity as well as a Numerical quantity; nor has any logician regarded the Comprehensive quantity as one of the quantities of terms, or relegated it to its proper place in Logic.
To all intents and purposes, the logical scheme of quantity is limited to the Distributive quantity alone. Nor does the irrational limitation of the logical scheme of quantity end here. Logic divides the Distributive quantity into the Universal and the Particular, and then sits down contentedly in the belief that the last word has been said, and that no further division is required. It does not appear to have dawned upon the minds of logicians that any further division is possible or practicable, or that there are, in fact, any other quantities of terms than the bare Universal and the bare Particular; or any other signs of quantity than All and Some. Of the three varieties of the Universal it knows but one; of the innumerable classes, sub-classes, varieties and sub-varieties of the Particular quantity, Traditional Logic knows not one. The following is the skeleton Table of Distributive quantities: When all the Individuals in a class, regarded as a whole class, are referred to discriminately, or one by one, the quantity is the Universal Distributive, and the sign of this quantity is All. The Universal Distributive quantity is, however, itself a class, and includes three separate individuals, as follows:— The Simultaneous Universal quantity is characterised by the sign Every. This is the Universal of Traditional Logic, and the only Universal known to that body of doctrine. When Traditional Logic uses the sign All, it means Every one, and has not, until lately, recognised that ‘All’ includes three different meanings. The Universal Distributive term refers to all the individuals in a class taken discriminately, or one by one; but things can be taken one by one in different ways. If two things are on the table, we may take one in each hand simultaneously, and then we take every one of them. If there were fifty things on the table, and we were Briareus, we could lift them all, simultaneously and separately, and then we should lift every one of them; and the universal lifting is the Universal of Traditional Logic. Or without lifting them, we may contemplate them simultaneously, and make the same predication simultaneously of each separate one, and still we contemplate and speak of every one. But there is another way of taking them one by one, besides taking them simultaneously. We may lift them one by one in turn, taking them one after the other until all are lifted; or we may contemplate or speak of them one by one in turn, going on until all have been thus contemplated or predicated of; and in this case we deal with each one. By Each we mean one by one in turn until all have been taken. If we take each, we may not arrest the process until the tale is complete: we must go on to the end. Any predication made about each is not true unless it includes all. But a predication made about every individual of a class is true of any one of them taken at random; and vice versâ, what is true of any one of them, is true, as far as the class likeness extends, of any other, and of every other. If we select one, as we must if we take them in turn, then we are not entitled, until we have selected every other one, to predicate of all what is predicable of that selected one; because the very fact that it was selected raises a presumption that it was in some respect different from the rest. But if we take one at random, the very fact that it is so taken indicates the absence of any difference between it and the rest, and what is predicable of one taken at random is predicable, as far as the class likeness extends, of every other. Hence Any one, though it refers ostensibly to an individual only, is in practice a sign of the Universal. This, which we may call the Alternative Universal, is very closely akin to the Representative Individual. ‘Any pen is useful’ has very nearly the same meaning as ‘A pen is a useful thing.’ It has not quite the same meaning, however, as will be shown when we examine the Representative Individual. These, then, are the three varieties of the Universal quantity; but though they are here explained in detail in connection with the Distributive quantity, it must be clearly understood that the Universal is not restricted to the Distributive quantity, but is common to it
with the Collective quantity and the Unified Individual. The Collective quantity, however, has but one form of Universal. If Traditional Logic lumps together not merely the three varieties of the Distributive Universal, but the Collective and some forms of the Individual; if it makes no distinction between things so different as the Aggregate and the Corporate Individuals; if it is blind to Intensive quantity and deaf to Indesignate quantity, we need not be surprised that it fails to distinguish some of the varieties of the particular Distributive, for the characterisation of some of them is subtle and elusive; but that Logic should fail to distinguish or acknowledge any variety whatever of the Particular, except, in a halting way, one additional meaning of
‘Some,’ is really portentous, and calls to mind Dr. Johnson’s saying with respect to Thomas Sheridan. ‘Sherry is dull, Sir, naturally dull; but he must have taken great pains to become what we see him. Such an excess of stupidity is not in nature.’ Logicians are blind to the obvious, naturally blind; but they must have taken great pains not to see some at least of the varieties of the Particular. Such an excess of unobservation is not in nature. A Particular Distributive term refers discriminately to the individuals in a class; but the class is regarded, not as a whole, but as part of a larger and including class. Now, in examining the Universal term, we have already found that the individuals composing a class may, when contemplated discriminately, or one by one, be contemplated simultaneously, or successively, or alternately; and this is equally true whether the class they compose is or is not part of a larger class. But when the individuals compose a class within a larger class, the double composition offers us more ways of contemplating them than when they are regarded as forming a primary class only. The individuals composing the subordinate class, or sub-class, may be grouped together in the mind, and contemplated either with respect to the larger or including class, or with respect to other sub-classes within that including class. Every quantity has its appropriate sign, which, when prefixed to a term, determines the quantity of the term; and every such sign is the answer to a question that may be put with respect to the quantity of the term. The following Table gives a fairly complete list of the Particular Distributive quantities, together with a specimen sign of each. Each of these quantities is a class, and includes several distinct sub-classes; and most of the sub-classes are again divisible into varieties and sub-varieties, of which the individual members are, in many cases, indefinitely numerous. The Enumerative, the Proportional, the Ordinal, the Comparative, and the Indefinite Selective, have each their Indefinite, Semi-definite, and Definite sub-classes. The Residual quantity is divisible into the Universal Residual, and the Particular Residual; and has as many varieties of these as has the whole class. The Demonstrative quantity is divisible into Appropriative and Repudiative, and each of these into Singular and Plural; and the Purposive quantity is divisible into the Suitable and the Unsuitable, the latter being again subdivided. The total number of Particular quantities is therefore indefinitely multitudinous. The weary student will be disquieted to learn that the varieties enumerated above by no means exhaust all the recognisable and distinguishable varieties of the Particular Distributive quantity.
Every particular quantity is further susceptible of three Forms, in addition to the unqualified, vague or Indesignate form that alone has hitherto been referred to. The three additional Forms are the Minimal, the Maximal, and the Exact. The Minimal form of a quantity fixes that quantity as a minimum, below which the quantity does not extend, but fixes no maximum, and leaves it uncertain whether the part referred to in the term, does or does not extend beyond the minimum, and even to the whole class. The signs of the minimum are ‘not less than’ and ‘at least,’ and the indefinite ‘Some at least’ fixes a minimum, in this case an indefinite minimum, to the quantity to which the term refers, but leaves the maximum in doubt, and lets it be understood that the quantity may, for aught it expresses, extend to the whole class. The Maximal form of a quantity has the opposite effect. It fixes as a maximum the quantity referred to by the term, but leaves the minimum uncertain. It gives us the assurance that the quantity is not more than is expressed by the term, but gives us no assurance that it is as many, or even that there are any at all. The sign of the maximum is ‘Only,’ or ‘Not more than,’ to which it may be necessary, in some cases, for the sake of greater precision, to add ‘If any.’ The indefinite ‘Some only if any’
positively fixes the maximum at some, and assures us that it is not all; but it fixes no minimum, and the ‘Some’ may be an inappreciably small number, or even none at all. The Exact form of a quantity fixes both the maximum and the minimum, and assures us, first, that the quantity does not extend to all, nor to any more than the quantity expressed, and second, that the whole of the quantity expressed is certainly within the reference of the term, which, therefore, does not, as the maximal form does, or may, express a vanishing quantity. The indefinite quantity cannot be expressed in its exact form by any sign less cumbrous than ‘Some certainly, but some only,’ or ‘Some only, but certainly some’; in other quantities, however, it admits of much neater expression, and there are several forms of quantity in which the quantity itself and its form can be expressed in a single word. Out of the three primary kinds of quantity enumerated in Table II., Traditional Logic selects the Extensive, and explicitly or implicitly declares that we can reason of no other. Out of the two kinds of Extensive quantity, Logic selects one, the Class-quantity, and, though Logic does not now declare that we can reason of no other, there was a time when it did make this declaration, and it now gives no more attention to the Singular quantity than is barely decent. Out of the two kinds of Class-quantity, Logic selects one, the Designate, and proclaims its inability to reason of the other. Out of two kinds of Designate quantity, Logic selects one, the Distributive, and though it goes so far as to admit the existence of the other, Logic does not allow that this other, the Collective quantity, is susceptible of subordinate quantities. The two primary kinds of Distributive quantity, the Universal and the Particular, are, indeed, distinguished by Logic, but here its discrimination ends, or almost ends. Of the three kinds of Universals, Logic uses but one, though it is aware of the existence of the other two; and of the eight classes of Particular Distributive quantities, each with its sub-classes and varieties, Logic knows nothing at all. Logic selects one form of one variety of one kind of the Particular quantity, and explicitly excludes another form of this variety; while of all other kinds, with their varieties and forms, incalculably numerous though they are, Logic is profoundly ignorant. It never recognises their existence, and apparently has never realised or imagined that they do or can exist. Out of them all, Logic selects the Minimal Indefinite Enumerative, and declares that this is the only Particular quantity of which we do or can reason. It would be nearer the mark to say that it is the quantity of which we reason least often. It is clear that if we are to restrict our statements and reasonings to All and Some, we must divest these statements and reasonings of all precision and definiteness, and can reach none but vague conclusions. That the reasonings of Logic are but vague must be apparent to everyone who has ever opened a book on the subject. The first thing with respect to these reasonings that strikes a new comer is that they seem to have so little practical application; and when he seeks the reason for this detachment and aloofness from practical affairs, he finds it in the indefiniteness of the Particular quantity that alone is used. In the practical statements and reasonings of daily life, we do not restrict our dealings to ‘Some.’ We never do and never ought to employ this quantity if it is possible to use one more definite. In our household and family affairs, in business and. professions, in Parliament, in the pulpit, in the shop, the factory, the mine, and the railway, in work and in play, we never, if we can help it, use the indefinite ‘Some.’ What sort of a world would it be, how much business could be transacted, how many things could be done, if assertion and reasoning were limited to All and Some? ‘A house to let, with some rooms in it, some distance from some town in some county, rent some pounds per annum, fare from London some money, distance some miles. The trains run sometimes, and the journey takes some time.’
‘Please sell me some shares in some stocks and buy me some shares in some other stocks. My address is some number in some street in some town.’ ‘He is sure to be elected, for though some voters are pledged to vote for his adversary, some have promised to vote for him.’ ‘I am not in your debt, for though it is true that I owed you some money last week, I paid you yesterday all I had.’ ‘Since some people live to fifty, and some live to a hundred, it is evident that the same number of people live to a hundred as live to fifty.’ No? Do you doubt? Well, you may perhaps have reason, but Logic has no terms to express differences of quantity more precise than that between All and Some, and therefore in matters of such extreme exactitude it would be unfair to expect guidance from Logic. ‘An excursion train will start for some place next week, at some time in the day, and the return fare will be some shillings.’ ‘Ample provision has been made for the party, for some people are coming and some food has been provided.’ Are these the modes of statement and reasoning that are in use? Do we understand Some slimy things, or All slimy things? and did they crawl with Some legs, or with All legs? and if with Some, did they necessarily crawl with some-at-least-and-perhaps-all legs? ‘From that hour he never put pen to paper.’ Some pen or all pens? Some paper, or some at least, it may be all paper? Let us try how the General Confession looks in logical terms:—
‘We have erred and strayed from some, it may be all, of thy But Logic is not content with excluding from its purview all Particular distributives except the indefinite Some. We have seen that there are three forms of Some—the minimal form, Some at least; the maximal form, Some only; and the exact form Some certainly, but not all, or Some at least, but some only. To these may possibly be added a fourth, viz.:—‘Some, but I do not say whether some at least or some only.’ Of these three and possibly four, Logic selects the first, drives the second out of its precincts, and does not recognise the existence of the third. Why Logic should take to its bosom ‘Some at least,’ pitch ‘Some only’ neck and crop out of the house, and wilfully shut its eyes to the exact ‘Some,’ it is difficult to conjecture. Logicians make it a grave charge against Sir William Hamilton, that he has polluted the virgin purity of the logical Some, by befouling it with the hateful meaning Some only; but for the exclusion of the maximal Some only, Logic gives neither rhyme nor reason. And there is no reason for it. There can be no reason. ‘Some only’ is a quantity as useful, as accurate, as frequently employed, as capable of entering into statement and reasoning, as ‘Some at least,’ and its exclusion from Logic is utterly unwarrantable. If Some were drowned, Logic declares that all may have been drowned, and will not admit the possibility that some must have been saved; nor will it allow us to count on the probability that some may have been saved, for this is a modal, and modals are excluded from Logic. I aver, on the contrary, that if some only were drowned—a possibility that Traditional Logic will not admit—then it is certain that some were not drowned; and the anxiety of us, who are not logicians, as to the fate of Some at least of the party, is relieved; but logicians must still remain in anxious uncertainty. We, who are not logicians, know that, if logicians recognise some modes of argument only, and some Particular quantities only, it is certain that there are other modes of argument and other Particular quantities that logicians are not aware of; but logicians themselves are precluded by their own rules from drawing this inference, or making this admission. They claim that as they are acquainted with Some modes of argument and Some particular quantities, and as Some has, in Logic, but the one meaning of ‘Some, it may be all,’ the modes of argument and the quantities with which they are acquainted may be all there are. We know better, but we cannot convince a logician of his error, for to him every Some is potentially All. *I am ashamed to say that not until too late did I recognise that this is not a logical argument at all. The predicate of the major is explicitly quantified, and though the predicate of every proposition must be quantified, It must be quantified sub rosâ, and must not brazenly avow its quantification. Consequently, the major not being a logical proposition, the argument is not a logical argument I can only plead in extenuation that the limits of Traditional Logic are so extremely narrow, that a mere amateur cannot be expected to make a bull’s-eye at every shot. So few valid arguments are ‘logical,’ that one really ought to recognise that the more cogent an argument, the stronger the presumption that it is ‘not logical.’ This conclusion Logic forbids us to draw. Such an argument, such a conclusion, is illicit, illogical, illegitimate, and impossible. Why? If logicians know of some particular quantities only, then they do not know all particular quantities; then there are some particular quantities of which they are ignorant; then their knowledge of particular quantities is imperfect, it is defective: and then there are quantities of which they do not know. These are all valid inferences from the premiss, but logicians are happily ignorant of them, and doubly ignorant; for, in the first place, the premise is inadmissible into Logic, and, in the second, the conclusions are arrived at by a process unknown to Traditional Logic. They are Immediate Inferences, but none of them is a converse, an obverse, a contrapositive, or an inverse. If one particular quantity only is to be chosen to represent them all, the indefinite Some is the best that could be chosen, for it may be made, with little difficulty, to cover nearly all the rest. Many, a few, a very few, one, two, most, few of, three more, twice as many, the rest, the others, the first, the last, certain, this, those, enough, too many, and so forth, may all be included under Some; but apart altogether from these more definite interpretations, bare indefinite ‘Some’ is susceptible of twenty or thirty different meanings, as against the two that are recognised and the one that is used by Logic. ‘Some’ may mean an indefinite and unselected number taken distributively; or it may mean an indefinite but selected number taken distributively; or it may mean an indefinite unselected number taken collectively; or an indefinite selected number taken collectively; or it may mean an indefinite proportion, either selected or unselected, and in either case taken distributively or collectively; or it may mean an indefinite ordinal number, selected or unselected, and taken distributively or undistributively; and in any case it may mean the particular Some minimally, maximally, exactly, or vaguely, that is, without specifying whether it is minimal, maximal, or exact. The exclusion from Traditional Logic of all these meanings, except one, of the indefinite Some, and of all the semi-definite and definite varieties of the particular quantity, in both the distributive and the collective quantities, and in all the three or four forms of this quantity, is not, however, as important as it seems at first sight; for already, by excluding Modals, and all Ratios except the copula, Traditional Logic had so narrowed the field of its operations as to deprive itself of almost all practical usefulness; and the addition of one more unnecessary restriction makes no important difference. Logicians declare that they can make no reference to any part of a class without assuming that that part may be the whole. Well, if their minds are so constituted that this is true of them, I have no more to say, except that they must not seek to impose the same restrictions upon others, whose minds are more capacious. The restrictions of Traditional Logic are so surprising, and are so discrepant from common experience, that if it should declare that it can entertain no argument, and accept no conclusion, unless the premisses are written in red ink, or in black letter, I should accept the statement without a murmur, as true of logicians themselves, as long as they are engaged in reasonings that they are pleased to call logical; but I should not accept it, any more than I accept the exclusion of Modals, of Ratios other than ‘is’ or of Particular quantities other than ‘Some at least,’ as true of myself, or of reasoners in general, or of logicians themselves, apart from their books. The exclusion from Logic of all the semi-definite and definite Particular quantities, of all exact and maximal forms of quantity, of the Residual and Purposive quantities, not only deprives such reasonings as Logic can effect, of all precision, and therefore, in most cases, of all practical usefulness, but it also shuts out from Traditional Logic an immense range of arguments that are in constant use, but that this Logic cannot compass, for want of terms in which to express them. When these subordinate varieties of the Particular quantity are admitted into argument, it is found that the methods and principles of reasoning, as formulated by Traditional Logic, are not only defective, but also very erroneous. The rules of the Syllogism are applicable to deductive reasoning so long only as that reasoning is confined to the minimal indefinite distributive quantity. As soon as other quantities are admitted into statement and argument, every one of the Canons of the Syllogism is found to be false, and the Square of Opposition is blown to pieces. It will be necessary, therefore, even at the cost of some tedium, to examine in detail each of the Particular quantities that has been enumerated. WHEN a term refers discriminately to all the individuals in a class, regarded as part of a larger class, and contemplates them simultaneously with respect to their number, the quantity is Enumerative, and answers the question, How many? The Enumerative quantity may be Indefinite, Semi-definite, or Definite. The Indefinite Enumerative.—The sign of this quantity is Some, which includes, not only the ‘Some at least it may be all’ of Traditional Logic, but also ‘Some only, it may be none,’ and ‘Some certainly, but not all.’ Of these, the minimal form, ‘Some at least,’ is sufficiently explained in the text books, and the exact form, ‘Some only, but some certainly,’ has been examined on a previous page. It remains to consider the maximal form, ‘Some only, and perhaps none.’ This maximal indefinite is not very often used, though the maximal semi-definite and definite, ‘Few if any,’ and ‘Not more than so many,’ frequently occur in reasoning. The maximal quantity is an uncertain quantity. It may or may not exist; and as its existence is uncertain, it may lead to an uncertain conclusion. It is excluded from Traditional Logic, therefore, on the double ground, that it is not ‘Some at least’ and that the proposition into which it enters may be Modal. Its exclusion from Traditional Logic need not, however, hinder us from employing it in statement and in reasoning. If Some only and perhaps none were drowned, then it is certain that some, and possible that all, may have been saved. If some only and perhaps none of the messengers arrived, some at least, and perhaps all, stopped or were diverted on the way, and all the messages were not delivered. If some only and perhaps none of the eggs hatch out, some at least and perhaps all will be addled; certainly some will not hatch out; there will be fewer chickens than eggs; the whole clutch may be a failure; and the money paid for it will be partly or wholly wasted. What is the matter with these inferences? The Indefinite Enumerative quantity may qualify not the Subject-term only, but the Object-term, either instead of or together with the Subject-term. Vegetarianism is adopted by some men. Some rats were caught in some of the traps. This form of proposition is unknown to Traditional Logic, but the statements thus made are valid; and valid arguments may be deduced from them. If vegetarianism is adopted by some men only, it is not adopted by all men. If some of the rats only were caught in some of the traps, all the rats were not caught in those traps; and if some rats were caught in some only of the traps, there were other traps in which no rats were caught. THE SEMI-DEFINITE QUANTITY.— Before entering on the examination of the Semi-definite Enumerative, it is necessary to consider certain features that are common to all semi-definite quantities. The first of these is the Emphatic or Unexpected form, the sign of which is ‘Such’ or ‘So.’ ‘Such a great many,’ ‘So many,’ ‘Such a few,’ ‘So few.’ The meaning conveyed by the addition of this qualification of the semi-definite is that the quantity is unexpected. It surprises us that there should be so many or so few as we find. The next modification is more important. Every semi-definite, like every other quantity, exists in three forms, the minimal, maximal, and exact. These have already been described; but in addition to differences of form, and differences of emphasis, there is a third way in which semi-definite quantities may be classified. They may be referred to a certain standard or medium, and may be arranged in sets, according as they reach, exceed, or fall short of this standard. Moreover, the excess above the standard may be moderate or great, and the defect below it may be moderate or great, and this gives us a set of five degrees of semi-definite quantity, to one of which every such quantity may be referred. The degrees may be made more numerous than this, but five are enough for most purposes. This set of degrees applies to every semi-definite quantity, whether Enumerative, Proportional, Comparative, Ordinal or Selective. Omitting intermediate and excessive degrees, the degrees of semi-definite quantity include:— Combining these degrees with the forms already discovered, and omitting the Indesignate form, we arrive at the following table:— ‘A great many’ is a minimal form, though, like other terms, it is often misused. It means certainly a large number, and possibly all. ‘A great many men are honest’ states that certainly a large number of men are honest, and for aught we know, all may be. ‘There are a great many people on the cricket ground’ is an incorrect expression, for we know that the large number there are not all the people there are. The quantity referred to is an exact, though not a completely definite quantity. It means a large number certainly, but not all. It means a large number, no less and no more; and the proper sign of the exact semi-definite is not ‘a great many’ but ‘very many.’ ‘A great many specimens were damaged’ leaves in doubt whether all the specimens were or were not damaged. ‘Very many specimens were damaged’ clears up this doubt, and assures us that there were a very few that were not damaged. The proper magnative minimal of this quantity is ‘A many,’ which meant ‘certainly many, and perhaps all’; but ‘A many’ is unfortunately become a vulgarism, and its ostracism from polite speech deprives us of the means of expressing a useful distinction. No maximative or magnative quantity can be maximal. When we speak of a great many or of very many, or of many, we never make the reservation ‘Perhaps none.’ This reservation is confined to quantities less than the medium. The sign of the medium semi-definite is ‘A good many.’ It may be minimal or exact, but can scarcely be maximal. We can scarcely have occasion to speak of ‘A good many only, and perhaps none.’ The parvative is the only degree that runs through all the forms, and the minimal form is a little incongruous, and is seldom employed. ‘A few at least, and it may be all’ is not often used or implied. In practice, the two forms are the maximal, ‘Few,’ meaning ‘ Few only, and perhaps none,’ and the exact ‘A Few’ meaning ‘A few, neither more nor less.’ If we do desire to express the minimal form, the addition of the article, which invests the quantity with positive character, and fixes it as ‘certainly a few,’ is not enough. We must add ‘at least,’ which effectually adds the meaning ‘perhaps more or even all,’ ‘A few men at least are honest’ leaves it possible that all men may be honest. ‘Few men are honest’ denies that all are, and leaves it possible that there may be no honest men. ‘A few men are honest’ declares that certainly a few, but not more than a few men are honest. The sign of the minimative Enumerative is ‘Very few’; and it is evident that this quantity can have no minimal form. ‘A few at least, it may be all’ is a possible, though not a very frequently used quantity: but ‘A very few at least, it may be all’ is not a possible quantity. The addition of the ampliative, ‘Very,’ at once fixes a maximal limit to the quantity, and prevents its encroachment upwards, just as, at the other end of the scale, the addition of the ampliative to Many fixes a minimal limit. ‘Very few’ shouts ‘not many,’ says ‘few only,’ and whispers ‘perhaps none.’ In this, as in the other cases, the addition of the article at once invests the quantity with positive character, minimises it, and is equivalent to the addition of ‘certainly.’ ‘Very few’ may mean ‘perhaps none,’ but ‘A very few’ means ‘Certainly some, but a very small number,’ and is therefore exact in form. The degrees that have been enumerated are not all the degrees there are. Beyond ‘A great many,’ there are ‘A very great many,’ ‘An enormous number,’ and so on; between ‘A good many’ and ‘A few’ there are ‘A good few’; and below ‘A very few’ are ‘A very few indeed,’ ‘Extremely few,’ and so on. It is unnecessary to insist upon the frequency with which the semi-definite Enumerative quantities enter into statement and argument. That is at once apparent to everyone; but it is desirable to point out and insist that there are many arguments for the construction of which the semi-definite enumeratives are necessary—arguments that cannot be effected except by means of those quantities, and arguments that lead to conclusions utterly inaccessible to Traditional Logic. The following illustrate a few types of these arguments:— If there are a great many books in the British Museum, then they
must occupy a great deal of room, and it would take a very long time to read them all. If very few modes of argument are known to Traditional Logic, it does not know of many. If it is profitable to keep a hen when it lays a few eggs, it will certainly be profitable to keep it when it lays many. If a good many people go out for wool, and come home shorn, this unpleasant experience happens to more than a few people, and more than a few leave their wool behind them, and come home without it. In the last example, it is the object-term that is semi-definitely quantified; yet the argument is valid. The Definite Enumerative quantity is a cardinal number. Traditional Logic always assumes, though the text books do not definitely state, that Logic has nothing to do with the cardinal numbers, which are supposed to be susceptible of mathematical reasoning only, and to be outside the province of Logic. This doctrine, if it be a doctrine, is doubly erroneous. It is erroneous in supposing that numerical quantities are excluded from Logic, and it is erroneous in supposing that mathematical reasoning is distinct from Logical reasoning, and is not included in it. Still, although Logic is mistaken in supposing that its powers do not enable it to reason of numerical quantities, the numerical quantities of which Logic reasons are not the same as those employed in the reasonings of mathematics. Arithmetical numbers are doubly limited. They are exact in form. Logical numbers, unless formally stated to be so, are not limited, either minimally or maximally. In Arithmetic, three, or thirty, or three hundred, means that number exactly, neither more nor loss. No excess or deficiency is permitted, for if any were allowed, the operations of Arithmetic would be impossible. We could not satisfactorily add two and three together, or subtract two from three, if the two might be more or less than two, and the three less or more than three; but in Logic, the statement that two men entered a house does not preclude the possibility that three men entered it, and necessarily implies that one man entered it In Logic, a number means that number at least, or that number only; and if that number only, it may be that number exactly, or not more than that number. Since Mathematics cannot, except under very limited and rigidly defined conditions, reason of inexact numbers, such as more than seven, or fewer than five, it follows, if numerical reasoning. are excluded from Logic, that there is a field of reasoning that is neither Mathematical nor Logical. Where do such arguments belong? They belong to the New Logic here propounded. If two men left the house, and three men entered it, Arithmetic assures us that the number of men in the house was augmented by one; and in so concluding, Arithmetic is reasoning according to its lights, and within its limitations. Granting the assumptions of Arithmetic, that two and three mean, respectively, two and three exactly, neither less nor more, Arithmetic is justified in coming to this conclusion. But such a conclusion would be wholly unwarranted in Logic. Before Logic would be justified in concluding that the number of men in the house was augmented by one, or was augmented at all, Logic must know whether the two men who left the house were two at least or two only, and whether the three who entered it were three only or three at least. If ten men entered the house and two men left it, Arithmetic assures us that eight remained indoors. But if ten men only entered and two at least departed, Logic is not justified in concluding that any at all remained. The two at least may be the whole ten. If ten men at least entered the house, and eight men only left it, then Logic can tell us that two men at least remained in the house, a conclusion that is within the scope of Arithmetic also; but Logic can conclude further, that more men entered the house than left it, and this conclusion is beyond the capacity of Arithmetic. If ten men at least entered the house, and not more than three left it, Logic can derive the conclusion that seven at least remained; but Arithmetic knows no such number as ‘not more than three,’ and can derive no conclusion from these premisses. If not more than ten men entered, and seven at least departed, Arithmetic can arrive at no result, but Logic can tell us that there remained in the house not more than three, and perhaps none at all. When the individuals in a class, regarded as part of a larger class, are contemplated discriminately with respect to their proportion to the whole of the larger class, the quantity thus contemplated is the Proportional quantity, which may be an indefinite, a semi-definite, or a definite proportion of the whole. The Indefinite Proportional.—This quantity, as well as the Indefinite Numerical, is signified by Some, and it is another disadvantage of this multiguous adjective that its enumerative meaning is not clearly distinguished from its meaning as a proportion of a class. It is true that it does not greatly matter, when ‘some’ is used, whether the ‘some’ is understood as enumerative or proportional, but it does matter that the constant use of ‘some’ in both senses tends to confuse the two quantities, to obscure the differences between them, and to lead to the employment of more definite signs ambiguously. Generally, ‘some’ simpliciter is enumerative. The proportional indefinite is signified by ‘Some of the.’ ‘Some men are honest’ means that an uncertain number of the whole class of men are honest. ‘Some of the men’ are honest means that an uncertain proportion of the men in a certain class are honest. The distinction is not made in Traditional Logic. The Semi-definite Proportional.—This is subject to the same forms and the same set of degrees as other semi-definite quantities. It is scarcely necessary to go through these quantities and show
that they answer generally to the description implied by their places in the table. The reader who has followed me thus far can do that for himself. The Proportional Parvative is, in its minimal form, ‘A few of,’ in its maximal form, ‘Few of.’ ‘A few of’ means ‘certainly a small, and perhaps a large proportion, and it may be the whole.’ ‘.Few of’ means ‘A small proportion only, and perhaps none.’ Commonly, the possibility of ‘Few of’ vanishing into none is emphasised by adding ‘if any,’ but this is not necessary. ‘Few of’ is already maximal. The use of the proportional quantity enables us to conduct many arguments and reach many conclusions that are unattainable by Traditional Logic. If most men are honest, not only are all men not dishonest, but honest men are in the majority, and outnumber dishonest men. If nearly all were drowned, it follows that a few of them only, in fact scarcely any, were saved; and if nearly, but not quite all, were drowned, then a very few of them were certainly saved. The Definite Proportion is, of course, a fraction. It is a half, two thirds, three fourths, or some other numerical proportion. Logic, of course, excludes such quantities, on the ground that, lying within the domain of Mathematics, they are necessarily outside the realm of Logic; but in examining Enumerative quantities, we found that the boundaries of Logic and Mathematics are not rigidly marked by the exclusion and inclusion of definite numerical quantities. An argument concerned with exact definite numerical quantities, that is with figures, whether integers or fractions, exactly limited in both directions, and with nothing else, is an arithmetical argument; but many arguments contain indefinite proportional as well as definite proportional quantities, and many contain inexact as well as exact proportions; and such mixed arguments belong to Logic, just as those which contain a mixture of definite and indefinite integers belong to Logic. I aver that if two thirds of the company at least were drunk, then, according to the New Logic here propounded, not half of them were sober. Traditional Logic, in order to reach this conclusion from this premiss, must call in the aid of a Mathematician; and the Mathematician is entitled to say ‘Mind your own business. “Not half” is not a mathematical quantity. The argument is not arithmetical, but logical. See ye to it, for I will be no judge of such matters.’ In Arithmetic, two thirds, three fourths, nineteen twentieths, and so forth, are exact fractions of an integer; in Logic, they are classes, each containing some definite proportion, that may be exact or inexact, of a larger class. In Arithmetic, each fraction is an exact form, and no maximal or minimal form is known: but in Logic, two thirds may be two thirds exactly; or it may be two thirds at least, and perhaps all; or it may be two thirds only, and perhaps less or none. If at least two thirds of the company were drunk, Arithmetic cannot tell us what proportion were sober; but Logic can conclude without difficulty that not more than one third were sober, and that not half of them were sober. If not more than one third were sober, Arithmetic cannot tell us what proportion were drunk, but Logic concludes without difficulty, that not only more than half, but at least two-thirds of them were drunk. The Definite Proportional quantity is, therefore, in strict propriety, a logical quantity; and Logic is very incomplete without it. These are not arithmetical arguments. ‘Not half,’ ‘at least a third,’ ‘nearly a half,’ and ‘plenty,’ are not arithmetical quantities, and Arithmetic would rightly exclude the arguments from her domain. Traditional Logic is incapable of effecting them, and would shirk them on to Arithmetic if it could. Failing this effort, the only consistent course open to Traditional Logic is to deny that they are arguments at all. It would probably content itself, however, by saying that they are ‘not logical,’ and would then feel that its duty was done. When we contemplate parts of classes in succession, with respect to the order in which they present themselves, or in which we choose to take them, the quantity is Ordinal, and, like the other quantities that we have examined, may be definite, semi-definite, or indefinite. It will be noted that the order is always definite; it is the quantity that varies in definition. The Indefinite Ordinal quantity is signified by ‘the Former,’ ‘the Latter.’ It indicates the position in order of the individuals, but does not indicate their number; nor does it indicate with precision the ordinal position. It indicates the position with respect to one other part only of the class, not to every other part. The Semi-definite Ordinal term is characterised by an ordinal number followed by the sign of a semi-definite quantity, which is almost always few—the first few, the last few. We do not speak of the first many, though there is no reason why we should not. The Definite Ordinal is an ordinal number—the first, the second, etc. It does not specify an individual except by his position in the class, for the same individual may successively occupy more than one position, and the same position may be occupied successively by different individuals; but it indicates with precision the individual that for the time being occupies that place. Predications and arguments with respect to Ordinal quantities are not infrequent; they cannot be expressed without the use of this quantity, and therefore Traditional Logic, which has not discovered the quantity, is incompetent to deal with them. If the first comer is first served, he is not put off until others are served, he is not served second, or last; he has the largest choice; he has the opportunity of getting first away; he does not have to wait so long as others; the second comer is not first served. If it is the last straw that breaks the camel’s back, it is not the first straw, nor the second, that produces this disaster; a single straw will not break a camel’s back; if the last straw is not added, the camel’s back will not be broken. When any part of a class is removed, set aside, selected, or distinguished in any way, the rest of the class outside of the distinguished part, regarded alternatively, forms a quantity of a special kind, which may be called the Residual quantity. As has already been pointed out, the Residual quantity is not divisible, as the quantities are that we have examined hitherto, into Indefinite, Semi-definite, and Definite quantities. When a portion of a class is removed, the residue is itself a class, and is susceptible of all the quantities, including even the residual, that could be attached to the whole class; and thus it is primarily divisible, not into Indefinite, Semi-definite, and Definite Residual, but into Universal Residual and Particular Residual. The general sign of the Universal is All, which includes the three Universal quantities already examined; and correspondingly, we may predicate and reason of All the rest; of every one, each one, and any of the rest. The general sign of the Particular quantity of the whole class is Some, but the general sign of the Residual Particular is Others; and there are as many classes, sub-classes and varieties of the Particular Residual as of the common Particular quantity. Every Particular quantity has its complement in a Residuum, which remains undistinguished when the Particular is selected out of the class; but in the majority of cases, we do not take the residuum into account. It has already been shown that we possess the power of concentrating our contemplation on any aspect of a subject before us, and neglecting the rest; and when we select or distinguish a part of a class, we commonly ignore the remainder. But there are occasions on which the recognition and use of the Residual quantity are of the utmost service, and enable us to reach conclusions that would be utterly unattainable without it. Every Particular quantity may of course leave its residuum; but
it would seem that no Universal quantity can leave a residuum. If all are taken, there can be none left. This is true if all are taken simultaneously; but if all are taken in succession or alternately, there is at any rate a temporary residuum. If each man in turn takes a step forward, the rest remain for the time stationary; and though any stick may be taken out of a bundle, the rest may be left in it. The Minimal Particular may or may not leave a residue, according as it does or does not extend to all; and one of the virtues of the residual quantity is that it settles decisively the form of the otherwise formless Some. If some men desire money, the some may, for aught that appears in the statement, be all there are: but if some men desire money and others do not, the some is fixed at its maximal form, and cannot be some, perhaps all. Many arguments require the residual quantity for their statement, and cannot be effected without it. It differs from the quantities hitherto examined in that it must be preceded by a proposition containing some other quantity, to which it is residual, and therefore every argument containing the residual must be stated in the form of a compound proposition, and must be of the nature of what is called, in Traditional Logic, Mediate Inference. If some men desire money and others do not, then the desire for money is not universal among men; and with respect to the desire for money, men are divided. If two or three men were drowned, and the rest were saved, then neither were all drowned nor all saved; then all were saved but two or three; then very few were drowned; and then some at least were saved, and some only were drowned; and then, moreover, the fate of all was not the same. The Residual may be preceded by more than one other quantity, and argument may be founded on a compound proposition of many members, containing many quantities. If some of the balls were red, others were blue, four were green, twice as many were black, certain of them were yellow, more were purple, and the rest crimson, then it is an irrefragable conclusion that none of them was white. None of these reasonings can be conducted by any method known to Traditional Logic. Traditional Logic, which knows not the Residual quantity, is incapable of examining this statement, and cannot tell us whether it is valid or not. When the individuals in a class are contemplated discriminately, as part of a larger class, and alternatively with respect to other parts of the larger class, the comparison with the other part or parts results in the formation of the Comparative quantity, and the comparison may be indefinite, semi-definite, or definite, and the resulting quantity shares the degree of definition. The result of the comparison must be that the respective numbers are adjudged to be alike or different, and if different, the number in the class that is the chief object of attention, is adjudged to be more or less than that in the other. Thus the comparative quantities are primarily three, and, when the comparison is indefinite, are More, Fewer, and About as Many. Without being completely definite, the comparison may be more definite than this. On comparing these two lines of dots, it is at once apparent that the lower line contains two more dots than the upper. It is quite unnecessary to count each series, or to know how many dots in all each series contains. The excess of one, and the defect of the other, can be stated definitely, without the totals being definitely stated; and thus the signs of the Semi-definite Comparative are So many more, So many fewer, and As many. The Definite Comparative is a multiple or sub-multiple. It is Twice as many, Two thirds as many, Half as many again, and so forth. It seems incredible that Traditional Logic should have ignored the Comparative quantity, so frequently is it employed, so valuable are its uses, and so impossible is it to reach, without its aid, conclusions of the utmost practical importance. If more money is put into the bank than is taken out of it, the balance will increase. If more money is withdrawn than is paid in, the balance will be diminished. If more geese than swans now live, more fools than wise, then the geese outnumber the swans, and the wise are rarer than fools. If more people were thrust into the Black Hole at Calcutta than the air would support, it was inevitable that some of them should die. If there are fewer teats than there are little pigs, one little pig must go without. If there are three more people than there are seats, then three people cannot sit down unless they share a seat with some one else. If there are twice as many carts as horses, at least half the carts must go unhorsed. As its name implies, the Selective term selects a certain individual or certain individuals out of a class, and the individuals selected may be definite or less than definite in two senses. They may be indefinitely selected, and indefinite, semi-definite, or definite in number; or they may be definitely selected, and indefinite, semi-definite, or definite in number. The Indefinitely Selected Quantity is characterised by the sign ‘Certain,’ and Certain, standing alone, is a completely indefinite enumerative, and means some individuals selected out of a class, but neither indicates the individuals nor mentions their number. We may, however, select a proportion of a class, and indicate our selection by the sign ‘A certain proportion,’ and we may select a number out of the residue or a proportion of the residue, and signify our selection by ‘Certain others,’ or ‘A certain proportion of the others.’ These are all indefinitely selected indefinite quantities. But the Indefinitely Selected quantity, whether Enumerative, Proportional, or Residual, may be semi-definite with respect to the number of individuals it indicates; and then is characterised by the signs, ‘Certain few,’ ‘A certain few,’ of the whole, or the rest, as the case may be. Or this quantity may be completely definite as to the number or proportion selected, though this selection remains indefinite. The sign is then, ‘A certain’ as in ‘A certain one,’ ‘A certain three,’ ‘A certain half’ or ‘quarter.’ The individuals may be definitely selected and may or may not be definite in number or proportion. The signs of definite selection are This, These, That, Those. This, These, apply to a selected number or proportion near at hand or appropriated; That and Those apply to a selected number or proportion at a distance or repudiated. ‘A certain man drew a bow at a venture,’ selects one man out of the army, and places the bow in his hand. It was not any man in the army who drew the bow, it was a selected man; but beyond the fact that it was not any man taken at random, he is not identified. He may have been this man or that; he may have been the first in the army or the last, or in any intermediate position. He is not identified, but he is identifiable. This selects, but does not identify, the people in question. They may be these people or those; they may be the first people you meet, or the last that you wish to meet; they may, for aught we are told, be you and me, reader; they may be but two in number, or they may be all the people in the world except Madam Albani; but they are selected as possessing some quality, and, though not identified, are identifiable, provided we know their distinctive quality. This and These, That and Those, not only select, but Identify
the individuals they characterise; and not only do they identify the individuals, but they indicate also the proximity or otherwise of those individuals to ourselves, or our attitude, as appropriative or repudiative, towards them.The Selective quantity is not free from the complication of ‘forms.’ Any Selective quantity may be Minimal, Maximal, or Exact. ‘Certain,’ ‘A certain proportion’ and ‘Certain others’ may be at least, only, or exactly; and similarly, the definitely selected or Demonstrative quantity may be This or These only, That or Those at least, or exactly. Many predications, and therefore many arguments, can be conducted by means of the Selective quantity only; and many others by the Demonstrative quantity only. If certain people only should die before they sing, then other people should not die before they sing, and it is not true that any one taken at random ought to die before he sings. Moreover, it follows that certain other people should sing before they die. If this little pig went to market, then there was a little pig who went to market; it was not that little pig who went to market; and this little pig did not stay at home. If this is the house that Jack built, it is not the barn that Jack built; it is not the house that Tom built; nor is that the house that Jack built. If there is no way but this, there is no other way. If that is the way the money goes, then we know in what way the money goes, and in what ways it does not go. All of these arguments are beyond the range of Traditional Logic, and ultra vires of it. The last quantity on our long list is the Purposive. In using this quantity, we regard the individuals with respect to the suitability or unsuitability of their number to the purpose in hand; and if it is unsuitable, is unsuitable by excess or by defect. The Suitable quantity has its minimal and exact forms, but the Unsuitable are known in the exact form only. We cannot say too many only, or too many at least, or too few only, or too few at least, or if we do, such expressions are meaningless; but we can say of a number that it is enough at least, or enough only, if by only we mean just enough, for though a certain quantity may be suitable to the purpose, the purpose may perhaps not be defeated if we have more than enough. There can be no maximal suitable quantity, however, for if there are less than enough there are not enough. We see, therefore, that there is a clear difference between more than enough and too many. More than enough is excessive, but does not defeat the purpose in hand. If there are more than enough stamps for all the letters, the letters can still all be stamped; but if there are too many plants for the pots, all the plants cannot be potted, and if there are too many letters for the stamps, all the letters cannot be stamped. If the number is unsuitable, it may be deficient or excessive by an enumerative, a proportional, or a selective quantity, and the excessive or defective quantity may be definite, semi-definite, or indefinite. It may be one too many, or many too few, or more than enough; it may be too many by half, or deficient by a third; it may be this one too many, or that, or those, or may be defective by a certain few.As with other quantities, the Purposive has its own field of reasoning, and enters into predications and arguments that cannot be conducted without its aid. If there are enough glasses to go round, no one need go without a glass, and every one can have a glass to himself. If there are not enough glasses to go round, some one must go without, or share with some one else. If he is one too many, he is not wanted; he would be better away; there are enough without him. If too many cooks spoil the broth, it is a disadvantage to have too many cooks. If the Universal and Particular quantities of Traditional Logic are too few for the expression of all our thoughts, we must employ additional quantities or leave some of our thoughts unexpressed. If the number of quantities enumerated here is too many to be easily remembered, it will need an effort to commit them to memory, but it does not follow that they are more than enough to express our thoughts.TABLE I.
PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION OF TERMS.
Extensive Quantity.
Object alone quantified—Lying is common to all men.
Neither term quantified—Cloven-footed mammals are ruminants.
Both terms quantified—One volunteer is worth twenty pressed men.Intensive Quantity.
Object alone quantified—Lying is very shameful.
Neither term quantified—Patience is virtuous.
Both terms quantified—Intense hunger is very demoralising.
2. The Toto-partial—All A is some B.
3. The Parti-total—Some A is all B.
4. The Parti-partial—Some A is some B,
CHAPTER VI
NEW DOCTRINE OF QUANTITY
QUANTITY
TABLE II.
SCHEME OF QUANTITY.
TABLE III.
EXTENSIVE QUANTITIES.
THE INDESIGNATE QUANTITY.
THE DESIGNATE QUANTITY.
THE DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITY.
TABLE IV.
DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITIES.
THE UNIVERSAL DISTRIBUTIVE.
THE PARTICULAR DISTRIBUTIVE.
TABLE V.
PARTICULAR DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITIES.
‘ways, like some; it may be all, lost sheep. We have followed
‘of too much some or all the devices and some or all the
‘desires our own hearts. We have offended against some, it
‘may be all, of may be all, of thy holy laws. We have left
‘undone some, it those things that we ought to have done, and
‘we have done some, it may be all, of those things that we
‘ought not to have done. And there is no health in us. But
‘thou, O Lord, have mercy upon some and perhaps all of us,’
&c. These are the terms in which we ought to express ourselves if we follow strict logical form.
CHAPTER VII
PARTICULAR DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITIES
THE ENUMERATIVE QUANTITY.
SEMI-DEFINITE ENUMERATIVE QUANTITIES.
THE PROPORTIONAL QUANTITY.
SEMI-DEFINITE PROPORTIONAL QUANTITIES.
THE ORDINAL QUANTITY.
THE RESIDUAL QUANTITY.
THE COMPARATIVE QUANTITY.
THE SELECTED QUANTITY.
THE PURPOSIVE QUANTITY.
THE COLLECTIVE QUANTITY.
The Collective term is recognised by Traditional Logic, and is by it distinguished from the Distributive term, but the notion that Traditional Logic has of the Collective quantity is sadly defective, and is, in some respects, completely erroneous.
The Collective term is briefly referred to in that chapter in books on Logic that treats of terms, but when propositions are considered, the Collective term is completely ignored, and no logician entertains the possibility that a term in a proposition can be Collective, or if it can, that its quantity can be other than Universal. The Collective Particular is unknown to Logic, and the whole logical scheme of quantity is based on the assumption that there is no quantity but the Distributive, for, if the Collective quantity is admitted, that necessary part of logical doctrine, the Square of Opposition, is broken up, disorganised, and dispersed, as will be shown in a subsequent chapter.
The same name is often applied to the Collective Class as to the Compound Individual, and Logic never distinguishes between them. Indeed, most text books adduce Compound Individuals, such as a regiment, a library, a committee, as examples of the Collective Class. Yet the distinction between them is plain and manifest. The Compound individual term refers to a number of individuals, aggregated or incorporated together into a single thing. The Collective term refers to, it may be, the very same individuals, collected into a class in which they are not discriminated from one another. The test is simple. If one or more of the constituent individuals of the compound individual is withdrawn or ejected, the integrity of the individual is not impaired. In spite of the loss, it remains an individual, and any predication made of it as an individual is still true. But if any one or more of the constituent individuals of a collective class is withdrawn, that collective class is destroyed, and any predication made of it before the mutilation is no longer true, or may be no longer true. The House of Commons is a compound individual, and though the full House consists of some 670 members, yet if only forty are present, it is still the House of Commons. But all the members of the House of Commons, as a collective class, number 670, and if even one is withdrawn, or dies, or accepts the Chiltern Hundreds, the House of Commons no longer numbers 670. If only 40 members of the House of Commons are present, the House, as a compound individual, can pass a Bill, or vote money, or adjourn; but if even one member is absent, the House of Commons, as a collective class, no longer occupies as many seats, needs as much standing room, or consumes as much food and drink. If half or two thirds of the men in the regiment are absent on leave, or sick, or killed in action, the regiment, as a compound individual, still exists; but if all the men in the regiment, as a collective class, outnumber all the men in another regiment, or are sufficient to line the street, or occupy so many berths in the transport, then if only one man is withdrawn, these predications may all be falsified. If several cups and saucers are broken, the tea set, as a compound individual, still exists, and is still a product of the Worcester factory; but if one is broken, the set no longer, as a collective class, consists of thirty pieces.
Traditional Logic recognises the Collective Universal, and, in the chapter on Terms, every text book of Logic distinguishes the Collective Universal from the Distributive Universal; but it does not appear to have dawned upon the mind of any logician that the Collective is susceptible of any quantity but the Universal. In fact, however, the Collective may be Particular, and there are as many varieties and as many degrees of the Collective as there are of the Distributive Quantity, and every statement and argument made of the one can be paralleled by a statement or argument made of the other. The only Distributive quantities that have no parallels in the Collective series, are the subordinate Universals. Every, Each, and Any, refer discriminately, not indiscriminately, to all the individuals in a class, and are therefore excluded from Collective quantities.
The sign of the Collective quantity is the definite article, following the common sign of quantity; but though the Collective cannot be accurately conveyed without the use of the definite article, this article is not characteristic of the Collective, but may be used for the Distributive also. ‘All the men in the regiment took part in the charge,’ does not convey all the men collectively: it means every man taken discriminately. But ‘All the men in the regiment were only just enough to man the rampart’ does mean all the men collectively. The test by which we distinguish between the Collective and the Distributive ‘All the’ is our ability or inability to substitute ‘Every’ for ‘All.’ If we can make the substitution without destroying or altering the meaning, the quantity is Distributive; if not, it is Collective. The only way to designate the Collective quantity without possibility of mistake, is to add to the term the words ‘taken together.’
It is unnecessary to go through again all the Particular quantities that have been enumerated in the previous chapter, and to show that each of them may be understood in a Collective as well as in a Distributive sense; but it is expedient to show by examples that the Collective quantity is just as susceptible of inference and argument as the Distributive; a fact of which Traditional Logic does not seem to be aware.
If the whole library fetched £3000, then no one book in the library can have fetched as much as this; then neither a few, nor very many, nor a half, nor a third of the books, nor the rest of the books after some were sold, nor certain of them, nor this nor that selected set of volumes, can have fetched more, nor even as much as £3000. If £50 was given for most of the books, and £1000 for all of them, then they were very unequal in value. If they were all of about the same value, and £50 was enough to give for two thirds of them, it was too much to give for the remainder. All these arguments are beyond the competence of Traditional Logic.
REFERENCE to the scheme of Quantity [TABLE II.] will show that individuals may be contemplated in two ways. They may be contemplated primarily as wholes, and if contemplated as composed of parts, the composition is a secondary consideration, and is used only to distinguish them, as wholes, from other wholes, differently constituted. Or they may be contemplated primarily as composed of parts, so that the contrast of part and whole, or of part and part, is the main purpose of the contemplation. In the first case, the individual is dealt with in thought as a unit, and is never divided. In the second case, it is dealt with in thought as a composite, or quasi-class, the difference between the individual, so regarded, and the class, being that, while the constituents of the class are individuals, and are therefore necessarily discrete, the constituents of the Composite individual are parts, and need not be discrete.
The first difficulty that confronts us in this part of our task is to determine what is meant by an individual. To the uninitiated the task may seem easy enough, but biologists know that nothing is more difficult. A tree is usually regarded as an individual, as strictly distinct as an individual man. But the roots of a tree may contain buds—buds which are parts of the root, and therefore parts of the tree. These buds may grow into suckers, which are but buds more developed, and must still, therefore, be considered parts of the tree, though they grow at a distance from the tree, and to anyone who does not know of the underground connection, appear to be individuals, as distinct as the tree itself. The root may be severed between the tree and the sucker, and the sucker taken up and transplanted into the next parish or into a distant county, where it may grow into a tree as large as its parent. Does it become by this severance a separate individual, or does it still remain a part of the tree, the two trees making up a single individual? Suppose that the connecting root, instead of being cut, withers away, and in the course of years perishes and destroys the connection, at what moment does the one individual became two? That the flowers are part of the tree, and that the tree with its flowers are, from one point of view, a single individual, few would dispute; and if this is so with the tree in flower, it is equally so with the tree in fruit. Yet each fruit may be severed without impairing the individuality of the tree, and may grow into a separate individual.
An animal may be cut in two, and each half is then an individual half, but is not an individual animal. But suppose, as happens with some simple animals, that the head part grows a tail, and the tail part grows a head, are there then two individuals, or is there only one? and if there are two, at what moment did the two halves cease to be parts of an individual, and become separate individuals?
The old problems of the sorites and the calvities provide us with similar puzzles. A heap of stones is an individual thing. If we take one stone away, the heap still remains an individual. We may go on taking away one stone after another till none is left. At what stage does the heap cease to be a heap? does the individual cease to be an individual?
Again, a human monster may consist of two heads and torsos, the latter fused together at the pelvis, and terminating in one pair of legs. Is it one individual, or two?
The solution of these problems is to be found in regarding an individual as constituted by the way in which things are contemplated by the mind. The individual, like the class, is a conceptual creation, existing in the mind alone; corresponding, indeed, with observed facts, but itself conceptual, and not ‘real.’ When we experience the colour blue, we intuitively think of the colour as resident in the extra-mental blue thing that we see. Not until we study the psychological aspect of vision do we discover that the colour is not in the blue thing, but in the mind alone; and that although the colour corresponds with some quality in the seen object, yet the quality in the object is not colour, but something that gives rise to the colour in our minds. Similarly, individuality though it corresponds with some quality in the individual thing, the quality in the thing that arouses in us the concept of individuality, is not individuality, but something else. Although the individual is a mental creation, its mental origin and existence do not prevent us from dividing individuals into kinds, any more than the purely mental existence of colour prevents us from dividing colours into kinds—red, blue, &c.
Thus regarded, individuals are susceptible of arrangement into kinds, primarily according as they are or are not divisible into parts. Some individuals, such as colour, likeness, &c., though they may be divided into kinds, cannot be divided into parts. Though we may divide colour into red, green, and blue, this is a division of colour, not into parts but into kinds. Red and green and blue are not parts of colour, but kinds of colour. Hence the first classification of individuals is into those that are indivisible into parts, and those that are divisible into parts, the former being Qualitative Units, and the latter Quantitative Units.
Every Quantitative Unit is divisible into parts, and such units are of two kinds, according as the parts coexist, or follow one another in time. The former may be called Coexistent Units, the latter Serial Units.
Coexistent Units are divisible into kinds according as the parts of which they are constituted are or are not contemplated with respect to their continuity or discontinuity.
If they are so contemplated, the parts are either continuous, in which case the individual is a Simple Unit, or they are discontinuous or discrete, in which case the individual joins the Serial Individual in the class of Compound Units.
The parts of the Compound Coexistent Unit may be alike or unlike. If they are alike, the individual is an Aggregate Unit; if they are unlike, it is a Corporate Unit.
If, however, the continuity or discontinuity of the parts of the individual is not taken into consideration, the individual is a Uniform Individual or Unit.
Thus we arrive at a complete classification of individuals, which runs as follows:—
When an individual is divisible into parts that are coexistent and continuous, it is a Simple Unit, or Simple Individual, and it matters not whether the parts are like or unlike. A man, a ship, a country, a machine, a road, a table, a house—each of these is a material unit whose parts are unlike, and each is a simple individual. A piece of gold, a pint of water, a cubic foot of oxygen, are simple individuals or units whose parts are alike. The parts of a piece of wood may or may not be considered to be alike; it depends on the purpose in view; but in any case, it is a simple individual or unit.
When an individual is made up of parts that are discrete, the parts may be alike or unlike. If the parts are alike, it is an Aggregate unit individual, such as a crowd of men, a ream of paper, a fleet of ships, a street of houses, a bushel of corn, a layer of dust, a pair of boots. The Aggregate individual is always, in books on Logic, confused with the Corporate Individual, and with the Collective Class; and usually all are confused with the Uniform Individual, though this last is sometimes distinguished as the Substantial term. These things are all quite discriminable and distinct. There is some excuse for confusing the Aggregate with the Corporate Individual, for the same group of things may constitute either the one or the other, according to the manner in which we contemplate them; but the distinction between the Uniform Individual and the Collective Class is much more easily made, and the confusion between them is therefore the less excusable.
The parts of the Aggregate Individual are alike, and it is this alikeness that enables us to unify them into an Individual. They need not be closely alike. It is enough if they have such a likeness that we can unify them. A mob is still an aggregate individual, if we choose so to contemplate it, though it consists of men, women, and children. A fleet is still an aggregate individual, if we choose so to contemplate it, even though it consists of many different kinds and sizes of ships. A street of houses is still an aggregate individual, even though it consists of residential houses, shops, banks, warehouses, and so forth. The parts of the Collective class also may be closely alike or may be different inter se, but they must have enough likeness to one another to enable us to group them together in a class. The very same collection of individuals may be an aggregate individual or a collective class, according as we contemplate it; but this does not constitute the aggregate individual and the collective class the same thing, for, as already explained, both the individual and the class are purely conceptual; and if we contemplate a thing or a number of things in any particular way, we cannot simultaneously contemplate them in a different way. We may successively contemplate a collection of men first as a mob, which is an aggregate individual, and still remains an individual though half its members disperse; or we may contemplate it as a collective class, capable of overcoming the police opposed to it, and now destroyed, as that collective class, if half its members disperse; but we cannot contemplate it simultaneously as both an individual and a collective class.
When the parts of a Compound Individual are not only discrete, but so dissimilar that we cannot, by their likeness alone, unify them into an individual, or if the unification is not in fact effected by their likeness, then the individual is not an aggregate, but a Corporate individual. But if the parts of an individual cannot be unified by their similarity to one another, how are they to be unified? What is the basis of the unification? It is to be found in their devotion to a common purpose. A regiment, an army, a college, a university, a hive of bees, a venetian blind, a railway, a table laid for dinner, a furnished house, are all Corporate Individuals. They are all signified by the indefinite article. They are all spoken of and thought of as individuals; and the parts of each are unified by their devotion to a common purpose. An army consists, not only of men of different ranks, but of horses, guns, wagons, ammunition, pontoons, and stores, all discrete, and all unlike, but all unified into a single individual army by devotion to the common purpose of fighting. A venetian blind consists of slats, tapes, and cords, all discrete and all unlike; but all devoted to the same purpose of shading the window. A hive of bees consists not only of the bees, but of the cavity in which they are contained, of the comb, the honey, the eggs, the grubs, and the propolis, all different, and most discrete, but all unified by devotion to the common purpose of continuing the race of bees. A railway consists of the permanent way, the stations, the bridges and tunnels, the staff, the directorate, the shareholders, the capital, and so forth; all unified by devotion to the common purpose of transport.
The same individual may, in many cases, be Aggregate or Corporate, according to the way in which it is regarded. Regarded as a collection of ships, all alike in their character as ships, a navy is an Aggregate Individual. Regarded as a collection of different kinds of ships—battleships, cruisers, torpedo boats, repairing ships, and so forth, all devoted to the common purpose of fighting at sea—a navy is a Corporate Individual. Regarded as composed of sixty ships, the same navy is a Collective Class; and regarded as composed of none but English ships, it is a Distributive Class. Regarded as marching together disorderly through the streets of Paris, a number of men and women constitute a mob—an Aggregate Individual. Regarded as intent on taking the Bastile, they constitute a Corporate Individual. Regarded as numerous enough to take the Bastile, they constitute a Collective Class; and regarded as every one wearing the tri-coloured cockade, they constitute a Distributive Class. The mode of contemplation determines the constitution of the concept.
When a number of things are so contemplated that we disregard their continuity or discreteness, and look solely to the qualities in which they are alike, or rather, to their alikeness in certain qualities, without paying regard to whether they are continuous or not, then we constitute those things a Uniform Individual. When, for instance, we contemplate successively specimens of water, gold, air, or other alike material units, and consider the alikeness between the several specimens of each, without regarding whether or not the specimens are continuous or discontinuous, then we form concepts of water, gold, air, and so forth, as Uniform Individuals.
The Uniform Individual, in as far as it is recognised at all by Traditional Logic, is confused with the Class.
Lastly, the parts of an individual may not be coexistent. They may follow one another in succession, constituting together a Serial Individual, or Series. It would need no insistence or argument to show that we may regard a series as a single individual, were it not that Traditional Logic is altogether ignorant of it. We constantly think and speak, however, of a revolution, a journey, an election, which are series of events; of a melody, which is a series of sounds; of a disease, which is a series of bodily changes; of a process of manufacture, which is a series of manipulations; of a lecture, which is a series of spoken words; of a din, which is a series of noises; of the growth of a tree, which is a series of changes; of the flight of a bird, which is a series of movements; of the evolution of man, which again is a series of changes; and we speak and think of each of these series as an individual thing, or unit. The simplest series, and the one of which we most frequently think and speak, is the numerical series. When we speak of three, or of three hundred, we mean every number up to and including three, or three hundred, as the case may be. We indicate the series by its final number, but when we speak of three hundred we do not mean the three hundredth alone, but all the previous numbers in the series also.
There are certain serial individuals that are complex, consisting of a series of parts, each part being composed of coexisting parts. Thus a shower of rain is a serial individual, composed of drops falling in succession, but the succession is so rapid that many drops are, in fact, falling at the same time; and the construction of a battleship is a serial individual, composed of a succession of processes, or rather of many successions of processes, proceeding simultaneously, and devoted to the same purpose. Some serial individuals, such as a journey, or the emptying of a measure of corn, have a definite beginning and end; while in others, such as a rebellion, or a reformation in religion, or a disease, the beginning and end are more or less arbitrary; but it is unnecessary here to pursue these nice distinctions.
The Singular Term is not the same as the Individual thing. The Individual thing is conceptual. It is a mental concept, corresponding, more or less accurately, with its external reference. The Singular Term is the name we apply to the concept, the means whereby we are able to express it, and reason about it in words. For the purpose of expression and reasoning, the same kind of Singular term may be applied indifferently to any kind of unit individual; and thus it is necessary to classify Singular terms on a plan different from that which applies to individual things. The reference of the Singular term is not to a simple or compound individual as such, but to a specified individual, a definite individual, an indefinite, or a representative individual. The scheme of Singular terms is therefore on very different lines from the scheme of individual things, and is as follows:—
The Specific Singular term is the Proper name, and may specify an abstract unit, as blueness, or hardness; or a simple unit, as John Jones, Helvellyn, The Saucy Arethusa, Carfax; or an aggregate individual, as The house of Commons, the Cabinet, Stonehenge, The Needles; or a corporate individual, as The Devil’s Own, Trinity house, Parliament, The Louvre; or a uniform individual, as gold, water, dust, soot; or a serial individual, as Measles, The Messiah, the Reformation, the Restoration, twenty.
The Proper Name specifies a certain individual as an individual, and not formally or explicitly as a member of a class. In this it differs from the Singular Demonstrative or Selective quantity, which also specifies a certain individual, but specifies it as a certain member of a class. When a member of a class is specified as such, the mention of the class carries with it the common qualities that form the concept, and combine the individuals into a class. The class qualities need not be mentioned, but the name of the class implies their presence in every individual bearing that name. When we speak of this man or that man, it is pretty plainly intimated, though it is not stated in so many words, that we mean this or that individual having the qualities common to the class of men. But when we specify an individual by a proper name, without mentioning the class to which he belongs, do we thereby convey any qualities that be possesses? Some logicians say we do not. Proper names, they say, are not connotative, that is to say, they convey no implication of any qualities in the thing named. This seems to me a complete misunderstanding. The proper name either has a meaning, or it has none. If it has a meaning to anyone who uses or hears it, it specifies a certain individual; it points out a denotation; it indicates a certain thing; and if that thing is known to us, it is known by its qualities. If it is not known to us, either the proper name connotes to us some qualities, or it is to us not a proper name, but a meaningless word. A name must be the name of something, or it is not a name. To call a name a meaningless mark, or an arbitrary and unmeaning sign, is a misnomer. A mark or a sign does not, in this connection, mean an ink mark on paper, or a written sign, or even a public-house sign. A mark is a mark of something; a sign is a sign of something; or the one is not a mark, nor is the other a sign. And a thing is known by its qualities, and by its qualities alone. Any name, or mark, or sign, of any thing, must convey the qualities of that thing, or it is neither name, mark, nor sign. I say that Ponos is Kala-azar, and if you know the qualities of Ponos and Kala-azar, these are to you proper names; but if you do not happen to know any of the qualities of Ponos or Kala-azar, and cannot therefore relegate them to a class, then these words are to you not names, but meaningless sounds or characters. When any one speaks to me of John Jones, the name conveys to me, not only all the common qualities of men, but also the additional common qualities of Welshmen. If you tell me that the John Jones of which you speak is the name, not of a man, but of a goat, or a leek, or a rarebit, you do not thereby abolish the connotation, you merely change it. If you tell me that it is not the name of a man, but is the name of something else, you refuse to say what, then you do not abolish the connotation, you merely reduce it to the connotation of individual thing. If you empty the name of even this connotation, then it is no longer a name at all; it is flatus vocis.
The Definite Singular term is indicated by the definite article. It is true that certain proper names have the definite article attached to them, as the Dreadnought, the Cabinet, the Reformation; but in these cases the proper name is the residue of a Definite Singular name, that has become proper by the omission of the name of the class to which the definite individual belongs. The Dreadnought is the ship Dreadnought; the Cabinet is the Cabinet Council; the Reformation is the Reformation of religion in the sixteenth century. The fact that the definite Singular term can become a proper name by the omission of the class name seems to me to show conclusively that there is no such wide difference between them as some logicians contend.
The definite article marks its subject as expressed in denotation—less strictly in denotation than the proper name marks its subject, but more strictly in denotation than the Definite Selective marks its subject. As there can be no denotation without connotation, each of these terms is connotative in some degree; but the degree is degree in explicitness, not degree in amplitude. ‘Big Ben’ specifies a certain individual clock, and part of the connotation of the term is the situation of the clock at Westminster. ‘The Westminster clock’ denotes the same individual as is denoted by Big Ben; but ‘the Westminster clock’ denotes the individual less explicitly, because there may be more than one clock at Westminster, and connotes more explicitly the situation at Westminster, and the horological properties of the individual it refers to or denotes. Since, however, the individual denoted by the two terms is the same individual, it must have the same connotation, however it is denoted. The difference between the two terms is that the one connotes all the qualities implicitly, while the other connotes some of them explicitly.
The next kind of Singular term is the Indefinite Singular, which is characterised by the indefinite article. The Indefinite Singular term refers to one unspecified indefinite member of a class; as a man, a quality, a mob, a college, a disease; but this is not the only term that thus refers to one member of a class. The Alternative Distributive term, characterised by the adjective ‘any,’ also refers to an unspecified and indefinite member of a class, but ‘a man’ does not mean the same as ‘any man.’ ‘A man called while you were out’ cannot be replaced by ‘Any man called while you were out.’ What, then, is the difference between the Indefinite Singular and the Alternative Distributive? The difference is this: the Indefinite Individual, e.g., ‘a man,’ is an unchosen member of a class, determined, beyond alternative, by circumstances. The Alternative Distributive, e.g., ‘any man,’ is one member chosen out of the rest—any other of which might have been alternatively chosen—and therefore not determined by circumstances. In other words, the Indefinite Individual is determined by circumstances, the Alternative Distributive is determined by the choice of the proposer.
The Indefinite Individual is characterised by the indefinite article; but this is not the only individual characterised by the indefinite article. The indefinite article characterises also the Representative Individual. When we say ‘a man is a biped mammal’ or ‘a man is a responsible being,’ the term ‘a man’ has not the same meaning as it has in ‘a man called while you were out.’ In the last case ‘a man’ means a determinate individual man, whose identity cannot be altered; but when we say ‘a man is a responsible being’ we are using ‘a man’ very much in the sense of ‘any man.’ We mean not a determinate individual, but a representative individual. We take a man—any man—as the representative of men in general, and whatever is predicated of a representative man is predicated of men generally.
Yet the Representative Individual, ‘a man,’ has precisely the same form as the Indefinite Individual, ‘a man.’ How then are we to know when the term is being used in the one sense, and when it is being used in the other? Very simply and very easily. Whenever the indefinite article characterises a term in an attributive or a defining proposition, the term marks a Representative individual; in every other case, it marks an Indefinite individual. ‘A man is a responsible being,’ ‘A regiment is made up of soldiers,’ ‘A mob is liable to panic,’ ‘An attack of plague is very dangerous,’ ‘Responsibility is part of the nature of a man,’ ‘Privates and officers go to the composition of a regiment,’ ‘Panic may at any time attack a mob’—in all these cases, the term characterised by the indefinite article is a Representative individual, and in every case the proposition is attributive or defining. But when we say ‘A man called while you were out,’ ‘A regiment marched forty miles in a day,’ ‘A mob sacked the Tuileries,’ ‘The bale fell on a man,’ ‘The artillery destroyed a regiment,’ ‘Walworth confronted a mob,’ we are using substantive propositions; and in these propositions every term characterised by the indefinite article is an Indefinite individual.
Mediæval Logic did not recognise or admit the Singular term, and thereby tacitly declared that there can be no reasoning about individual things, and even that no statement can be made about an individual thing, a declaration that is evidently self-contradictory. The mere inconsistency of a logical doctrine with common sense or plain fact has never deterred logicians from maintaining it; but one would have supposed that a self-contradictory doctrine would have given them some hesitation or uneasiness. Logic began by assuming that the only mode of reasoning is by the inclusion of things in classes, and the exclusion of things from classes. If it had been content with this limitation, its reasonings would have been few enough, and of little enough value; but Logic was not content with this limitation. Logicians have always been possessed by a passion to exclude from the realm of Logic as much as they possibly could; and in view of the imperfection and limitation of their method, the desire was possibly wise. Not only do they assume and declare that there can be no reasoning about anything that is not certain, as if one of the main aims of reasoning were not to render that certain which is uncertain; not only do they declare that there can be no reasoning except about classes and parts of classes, which is contrary to universal experience; but they positively assert that there is no part of a class but the indefinite part, or, at least, that no definite part of a class can be reasoned of. Confronted with the existence of individuals, which are neither classes nor indefinite parts of a class, Logic was nonplussed, and took the simple course of ignoring their existence. Logic in fact forestalled the methods of Christian Science. When it came upon an inconvenient fact, that it knew not how to account for or to deal with, Logic adopted the simple course of ignoring that fact, and pretending that it did not exist. Of recent years, Logic has, indeed, admitted Singular terms into its system, but when they were admitted, Logic knew not what to do with them, nor where to place them. On its own showing, there are, and in reasoning there can be, no quantities but two—the class and the indefinite part of the class,—and to which of these two is the individual to be allocated? It would seem that an individual cannot be a class, for the very nature of a class is to consist of more than one individual; and though an individual may be, and in fact always is, a part of some class or other, yet it is not an indefinite part. It is an extremely definite and restricted part. Confronted with this difficulty, different logicians have solved it in different ways. Some call the individual a third variety of term, which of course it is, distinct from both the class and the indefinite part of a class; but this distinction holds good so long only as terms are being considered. When they come to propositions, these very logicians forget all about the individual term, and declare that propositions must be particular or universal, and can be nothing else. Other logicians declare, consistently, that the singular proposition must be either particular or universal, and after some hesitation they usually plump for his universality, for, they say, when it is affirmed that Taffy is a Welshman, the affirmation refers to the whole of Taffy, and not to an indefinite part of him. Whatever Taffy’s moral deficiencies may be, he has at least the satisfaction of knowing that, in the eye of Logic, he is not an individual nor an indefinite part of a class, but a whole class all to himself.
Either the Subject-term, the Object-term, or both, may be singular, and may be any kind of individual, expressed in any kind of singular term; and arguments may be conducted as well about predication concerning individuals as about any other subjects. If Angus McNab is a presbyterian, be is not a Roman Catholic. If Pillicock sits on Pillicock’s hill, he does not stand in Pillicock’s valley. If the King is in his counting-house, we know where to find him; and if the maid is in the garden, she is not at the back door flirting with the baker. If St. Paul’s was designed by Wren, then Wren designed St. Paul’s, and Inigo Jones did not. If the King was in the counting-house, counting out his money, he was not in the parlour eating bread and honey; nor was be compromising his royal rank by flirting with the maid in the garden.
That none of these arguments is a syllogism, or can, without the use of unnatural violence, be distorted into a syllogism, leaves me cold. It is enough for me that they are all completely valid, although the terms are all singular, and refer to individuals.
The careful reader will have no difficulty in keeping in mind the distinction between the Composite Individual and the Compound Individual. The Compound individual is, indeed, regarded as composed of parts, but his parts are not separately contemplated, nor are they contemplated at all, except for the purpose of determining what kind of a unit individual he is. The parts are not distinguished from one another, nor are they contrasted or compared in any way with the whole of which they are parts. Their function is purely definitive, and when we have determined, by reference to the parts, what kind of an individual we are dealing with, we may drop them out of sight, and refer to them no more. But in dealing with the Composite individual, we never lose sight of the parts. They cannot be disregarded for a moment. It is the contemplation of the parts that renders the individual composite, and if the parts are neglected, the composite individual reverts to the unit.
As already stated, the Composite Individual is a quasi-class, in which the place of the constituent individuals of the class is taken by the constituent parts of the whole. So close is the resemblance, that logicians have not detected any difference between the composite individual and the class, and constantly give, as class arguments, arguments about parts and wholes of composite individuals. Every distributive quantity, whether Universal or Particular, that is applicable to the individuals in a class, is applicable to the parts of a whole also; and not only are parts of a whole susceptible of distributive quantity, but they are susceptible of collective quantity also. Nor does the parallel end here, for it is no more necessary that the quantity of the parts of a whole should be designated, than for the quantity of the individuals in a class. We can think, speak, predicate, and argue as readily, as intelligibly, and as validly, of gold, and of water, and of Logic, as we can of the rich or of the poor, or of definitions.
As logicians are in fact familiar with the composite individual, though they are here for the first time presented with it as a discriminated thing, and as they frequently state arguments about it under the mistaken belief that they are arguing about classes, there is no need to insist upon the fact that it can be the subject of statement and argument. It may be useful, however, to parallel some of our instances of class arguments that are out of the reach of Traditional Logic, by others of massive quantity that are out of its reach.
If part only of the machine is rusty, part at least remains bright, and the whole of it is not rusty. If every part is greasy, you cannot touch any part of it without soiling your hands. If a man cannot lift the whole of it, it does not follow that he cannot lift it in parts (this last argument employs the Particular Collective Massive quantity). If a great part at least of the embankment was washed away, the damage must have been extensive. If a small part only was damaged, it should not cost much to repair it. If nearly all the beer was drunk, there was not much left; but if a very little only was gone, the greater part remained. If he gave away most of his property, and he had very little to begin with, he left himself very poor. If he omitted the last part of his sermon, and the peroration was the best part of the sermon, he omitted the best part. If part of it only was written, and that not the best part, he must have preached the best part extempore. If more water flows out of the tank than flows into it, the tank will in time become empty; and if more flows in than flows out, the tank will in time overflow. If there is not enough wine to go round, and you want every one to have some, you had better get some more. If there has been too much rain to do the plants good, and they have not been sheltered, they will suffer in health. None of these arguments can be compassed by the methods of Traditional Logic, for each contains a quantity that Traditional Logic does not admit; and though Traditional Logic could, no doubt, violate its own principles and construct quasi-syllogisms that would appear to prove the conclusions, the arguments so constructed would in no case represent the actual course of thought by which the conclusions were in practice reached. Anyone who is not blinded by familiarity with Traditional Logic will see that these conclusions are reached intuitively from the premisses given, and that a circuitous route through a syllogism or quasi-syllogism does not represent the mental process actually employed. Nothing is easier than to fake a syllogism that purports to show the process of an argument. We have only to garble the premiss so as to bring it into ‘logical form,’ then to pretend that the argument is an enthymeme, and to invent a premiss to suit the purpose, and we have the argument expressed in a syllogism. The facts that such a mode of argument is utterly artificial and unreal; that it is utterly foreign to the course of thought actually pursued in reaching the conclusion; and that no one outside of Bedlam or a book on Logic would ever argue in such a way; do not deter logicians from this deplorable practice.
IN the foregoing chapters, the varieties of quantity that can be attached to Quantitative terms have been enumerated and examined, and the meanings of their signs discriminated and identified. It now remains to examine the quantities of Qualitative terms, and although Qualitative terms are susceptible of two kinds of quantity,—the Intensive and the Comprehensive,—as against the one Extensive quantity of Quantitative terms, the reader will be relieved to know that the Intensive and the Comprehensive quantities together are far less numerous than the Extensive.
Intensive quantity is quantity of degree, and is applicable both to abstracts and to attributes. The degrees of both kinds of qualities are the same, but the signs of intensity that are applicable to the one are not applicable to the other; so that there are two parallel ranges of signs, the one range applicable to Abstract qualities, the other to Attributes. Unlike the signs of Extensive quantities, those of Intensive quantity are not always the same for the same quantity. Corresponding quantities, even of qualities belonging to the same series, that is, to the Abstract or to the Attributive series, are not always indicated by the same sign. A thing maybe of small or great size, but it cannot be of small or great whiteness or definition. It may be bitter cold, but it cannot be bitter hot or bitter long. A thing may be intensely heavy, but not intensely light, nor do we speak of intense weight. It may be light or dark green, but not light or dark savoury. Nevertheless, though the signs are not the same, the degrees correspond, and we may always find a sign that will correspond in degree with that of the sign applied to another quality.
There are many qualities that are not themselves susceptible of degree. They may be present or absent, but if present, can be present in their fulness only, and not in graduated degrees. A thing is either perfect or imperfect; there are no degrees of perfection. It may be full or it may be empty, but there are no degrees of emptiness or fulness, properly speaking. It may be rigid, or straight, or circular, but there are no degrees of rigidity or straightness or circularity. If it falls short of any of these qualities by the shadow of a shade, the quality is, in truth, altogether absent.
But though there cannot be degrees of such qualities themselves, there can be all degrees of approximation to them. A thing cannot be partly perfect, or rather perfect, or considerably perfect, or very perfect; but it can be nearly perfect or far from perfect. It cannot be intensely full, or most full, or very full, or straight, or circular; but it can be very nearly, or far from, or approximately, or not nearly, full, or straight, or circular.
The different varieties of Quality will be further examined in the chapter on Negation, to which the reader is referred.
These preliminaries being settled, we may set forth the several classes of Intensive quantity, in both the Abstract and the Attributive series, as follows:—
Since Intensive quantity is the same as Degree, we might anticipate that it would present the same set of degrees as have already been found to obtain in the Semi-definite Extensive quantities; and this we find to be the case. The Medium intensity is signified in the Abstract qualitative term by ‘Some’ or ‘Moderate,’ and in the Attributive by ‘Rather.’ From this medium, as a central plane, intensity varies upwards towards a maximum, and downwards towards a minimum, and thus we get the set of five or more degrees that have already been enumerated. Moreover, Intensive quantities exhibit the same three forms of Minimal, Maximal, and Exact quantity that we have found to pertain to Extensive quantities. If we keep the forms in mind, however, it will not be necessary to encumber the page by setting them forth in full, and we may take the following set as comprising
Statements and arguments containing the Positive Intensive quantity, and inexpressible without it, are frequent enough. They are, of course, outside of Traditional Logic, which knows not the quantity.
If the cancer is very small, it is still in an operable stage; if it is very large, operation may not be practicable. If the sentence was just, no exception can be taken to it, but if it was very unjust, it ought not to have been passed, and it would be very wrong to carry it out. If there is some slight difficulty about it, it cannot be done with complete ease, but if the difficulty is very slight, it may be neglected. If his fate is rather hard, he is not very much to be envied. If the stain on the wall is very slight, it does not very much matter. If the wall is very slightly out of plumb, it is not very insecure.
If it was a very good song, and very well sung, it must have been well worth hearing. If they both started from scratch, and one ran very fast, but the other won the match, the winner must have run very fast indeed. If the tide was very high yesterday and only rather high to-day, it was higher yesterday than to-day.
The Comparative Intensive term refers to the intensity of a quality in one thing, compared with its intensity in another thing, or in other things regarded indiscriminately as possessing the quality in the same degree. If the other things are regarded discriminately, as possessing the quality in different degrees, the degree is not Comparative, but Superlative. Comparative Degrees are three,—the Medium, the Excessive, and the Defective; and moreover, each of these may be Indefinite, Semi-definite, or Definite.
The Indefinite Comparative.
The sign of the Medium Indefinite Comparative is ‘About as,’ which suffices for the Attributive quality, but for the Abstract needs the addition of ‘the same.’ ‘About as hard,’ ‘about as near,’ ‘about as just,’ ‘about as definite,’ are Attributives in this quantity; but to express the Abstract, we must add ‘About the same hardness,’ ‘about the same nearness,’ ‘about the same justice,’ ‘about the same definiteness.’
The sign of Excess in the Indefinite Comparative is, for Attributes, ‘more,’ or the addition of the syllable -er. More hard, harder; more near, nearer; more just, juster; more definite. In the last, and many other cases, the addition of the syllable is inelegant, and is not often employed. For the Abstract, the sign or indefinite excess is more, greater, more intense, or some equivalent. More or greater or more intense hardness; more or greater justice; more or greater nearness; more intense heat or cold.
The sign of Defect in the Indefinite Comparative is, for both Attributes and Abstract qualities, ‘less.’ Less near, less hard, less just; less nearness, less hardness, less justice.
The Semi-definite Comparative.—This intensive quantity, as applied to Abstracts, exhibits the Exact form only; but as applicable to Attributes it exists in all the three forms that we have found to belong to semi-definite extensive quantity, viz:— the minimal and the maximal, as well as the exact.
The semi-definite degrees as pertaining to Abstract quality are
As pertaining to Attributive quality, they are
It does not need much explanation to show that these degrees of intensity have generally the meanings implied by their places in the table. If one thing is very much harder, or softer, or more definite, than another or others, a downward or minimal limit is imposed on the degree of the one, by the degree possessed by that other, plus the interval between the two degrees that is expressed by the sign of quantity ‘very much more.’ But no upward limit is imposed, and the very much more may be any degree more. ‘Much more’ hard or soft or definite fixes a lower minimal limit, but fixes no maximal limit. ‘Quite as’ hard or swift or definite has the force of ‘at least as,’ and still shows the absence of any upward limit.
All the maximal degrees fix, by their very terms, an upward limit of intensity beyond which the degree does not extend, but fix no inferior limit. It may seem that ‘not very much more’ has a downward limit in the medium quantity, and must be at least as intense as that of the quality with which it is compared; but this is not necessarily so. If this is not very much harder than that, it may not be harder at all; it may not be as hard. ‘Only as’ hard means ‘not more’ hard than, and clearly fixes a maximal limit only.
‘As hard as that’ would seem to be not only exact, but definite, but it is not quite definite. It leaves a little margin for inaccuracy, especially in the direction of excess. ‘As hard’ is more definite than ‘About as hard,’ but it is less definite than ‘Exactly as hard.’
The Definite Comparative is, in the medium degree, expressed by ‘Exactly as’; in the excessive degree by a multiple; and in the defective degree by a submultiple. Twice as hard, as penetrating, as loud, as bright; or, in the Abstract quality, twice the hardness, the penetration, the loudness, the brightness. Similarly on the defective side, half as hard, half as bright; half the hardness, half the brightness. Definite comparatives, other than the medium, have their minimal, maximal, and exact forms, indicated by the additions of at least, not more than, and exactly—at least half as bright; not more than twice as hard; exactly three times as great.
Statement and argument would be very much hampered, and very imperfect, if the Comparative degrees were excluded from Logic. If it is about as hard, it is not very much harder nor very much softer. If there is much more cogency in the arguments for it than against it, it is difficult not to agree with it. If the sapphire is not quite as hard as the diamond, it will not scratch the diamond. If fifty thousand pannier loads of Devils, with their tails chopped off by their rumps, could not have made a more diabolical scream than Tristram Shandy on a certain occasion, he must have screamed very diabolically. If more haste is less speed, it is wise to act with the least possible haste when we are in a hurry. If it is more blessed to give than to receive, those who wish to be blessed had better devote themselves to giving rather than to receiving. If the sun is much hotter than the earth, and Sirius is a good deal hotter than the sun, Sirius must be very much hotter than the earth. If darkness covereth the land, and gross darkness the people, then both the land and the people are in the dark, and the darkness of the land may not be so gross as that which covers the people. If Bill Adams was a very much greater general than Wellington, and Wellington was a greater general than Marmont, Bill Adams must have been a far greater general than Marmont. These modes of reasoning are, of course, beyond the reach of Traditional Logic.
The Superlative term refers to the intensity of a quality of one thing compared with its intensity in two or more other things regarded discriminately. Its sign is ‘most,’ ‘least,’ or some other superlative adjective. With respect to the degrees of quality in the other things with which comparison is made, the superlative degree is always at the end of the scale. It may, however, be at either end, the maximal or the minimal; and in either case it may differ from the other examples of the quality by various degrees. It may be the most or the least by a little, or by much, or by a great deal, or a very great deal. Since the other things with which comparison of quality is made differ, ex hypothesi, in degree among themselves, the Superlative cannot be definite. It can be by far the largest, but it cannot be the largest by twice. It can be by very far the least definite, but it cannot be the least definite by a tenth. The Superlative is susceptible, therefore, of only two modes of quantity—the Indefinite and the Semi-definite.
If this is the hottest day in the year, it is hotter than any other day in the year; it is hotter than yesterday or the day before; no previous day in the year has been as hot as this; nor has any day been of the same temperature. If he is the greatest rascal in Christendom, he has not an exemplary character; there are others more moral than he; he is not a man to be trusted; you must go beyond Christendom to find a greater rascal. If, as Lord Salisbury said, the best man for the place is the man I like best, then it is easy to make the selection, and if the appointment is in my hands, the man I like best will get it. If this one is by far the best for my purpose, this is the one I should like to have. If this is the hottest day in the year, but yesterday was nearly as hot, this is not by much the hottest day. If he is the least to be trusted of any, and none are very worthy of trust, he must be decidedly untrustworthy. If the best time to bathe is the morning, and he bathed in the afternoon, he might have bathed at a better time. These arguments are all valid and all useful, but are all outside the scope of Traditional Logic.
This also exists in three modes, according as the degree is suitable to the purpose in hand, unsuitable by excess, or unsuitable by defect. The suitable degree is expressed by ‘Enough,’ which precedes the Abstract, and follows the Attributive quality,—Enough hardness; hard enough. The unsuitable degrees are indicated in the Abstract by ‘too much’ and ‘too little,’ in the Attributive by ‘too,’ and ‘not—enough.’ Too much or too little sweetness, too sweet or not sweet enough. The Purposive Degree exists in all three forms—the minimal, maximal, and exact, but after what has been said with respect to the other quantities, it is not necessary to pursue the degree through all its forms and all its degrees of definiteness, &c. It will be enough to give a few examples of arguments that cannot be conducted without this intensive quantity, and that, therefore, cannot be conducted by Traditional Logic.
If his feet are too big for his boots, his boots are too small for his feet. If it is only just large enough, it is not too large; but if it is more than large enough, there will be some over. If the sapphire is not hard enough to scratch the diamond, the diamond may be hard enough to scratch the sapphire. If the speed is too great for the lubrication, the bearings will heat. If there is not enough depth of water to float a barge, there is not enough to float a battleship. If the air is too foul to support the flame of a candle, and it requires a purer air to support human life than to support the flame of a candle, the air is too foul to support human life. If the meat is not sufficiently salted to preserve it, it will go bad if it is kept long enough. If it has been long enough in the oven, it will be cooked through, and if it is left too long, it will be overdone; but if you take it out too soon it will be underdone.
This degree may be added to almost any of the foregoing. It is signified in the Abstract by ‘Such’ and in the Attributive by ‘So.’ Such brightness; such very great tension. So hard; so long; so sweet, so cool, so calm, so bright. It conveys that the degree of quality experienced is unexpected, that we did not anticipate that it would be so much or so little, as the case may be.
VIEWED in comprehension, qualities are contemplated with respect to concretes, and have different modes of comprehension according as they are regarded with respect to those concretes only in which they inhere or from which they have been abstracted, or with respect also to concretes in which they do not inhere, and from which, therefore, they cannot be abstracted. When a quality is contemplated with respect solely to the concretes to which it belongs, it is called a Common Quality; and when it is contemplated with respect both to those concretes to which it belongs and to those to which it does not belong, it is called a Proper Quality of those to which it does belong.
From this description it appears that Comprehensive quantity appears among quantities by courtesy only. It is, in truth, a kind of quality that pertains to qualities only, and that every quality must possess.
With respect to their comprehensiveness, qualities may be regarded singly or in groups. A single quality may, as just shown, be regarded as Common or Proper. If regarded as Common, it may be regarded as common to several individuals, and in that case it may or may not be selected to form the basis of a class.
If it is so selected, the quality is a Class-quality.
If it is not so selected, the quality is a Property of the class.
Or the single quality may be regarded as common to several classes; and in that case, it may or may not be selected to form the basis of a larger class, including all the classes that exhibit the common quality.
If it is so selected, the quality is a Generic quality, and is sometimes called a Genus, though nowadays the term Genus is usually employed to characterise a class composed of smaller classes, and not to characterise the common quality that unites these smaller classes in the larger.
If it is not so selected, it is a Property of the Genus, or Generic Property.
If the single quality is regarded as proper, it may be regarded as proper to an individual, or to a class of individuals.
If the quality is proper to an individual, it may be regarded in any one of three aspects.
If it is regarded with respect to the individual primarily, the consideration of the other individuals in the class, and of the class itself, being secondary and subordinate, then the quality is a Property of the Individual.
If it is regarded with respect equally to the individual in which it is found, and to other individuals in the class to which the individual belongs, then the quality is no longer a Property of the Individual, but is an Individual Difference.
If it is regarded with respect equally to the individual to which it belongs and to the class that includes that individual, then it is an Accident of the Class.
Regarded as proper to a class, a quality may be contemplated with respect not only to the members of the class to which it belongs, but also with respect to other classes within the same genus, that do not exhibit the quality. It is then a Specific Differentia, or Specific Difference.
Regarded with respect, not only to the members of the class to which it belongs, but also with respect to the genus which includes that class, the proper quality of the class is an Accident of the Genus.
But with respect to comprehension, qualities may be regarded not only singly, but in groups; and may be grouped together in the following manner.
The group of qualities formed of the Class-quality and the Class-Properties is a Description of the Class.
The Generic quality plus the Generic properties form the Description of the Genus.
The Class-quality plus the Individual Difference form the Identification of the Individual.
The Generic quality plus the Specific Difference form the Definition of the Species.
In Tabular form, the scheme of Comprehensive Quantity is as follows.
From this table it appears that a Genus is a class whose component individuals are themselves classes; and that the component classes of a Genus are Species.
It will be immediately apparent that the comprehensive quantities include the Predicables of Traditional Logic, and it will be evident also that these quantities are more numerous than the Predicables. The difference is accounted for by the want of any distinction in Traditional Logic between the Individual property, the Generic, and the Class properties; by the omission from the Predicables of Descriptions, and of the Identification of the Individual. Nevertheless, these are quantities that it is desirable to distinguish, for, though definitions are of incalculable use and value, descriptions have their place in statement and argument, and nothing that pertains generally to statement or argument ought to be excluded from Logic. In practice, we are as much and as often concerned to describe and to identify as to define.
If we look back on the long array of quantities that have been described, and turn back to the summary given in Table I., we shall find that there is yet one more division that may be made of terms. We find that Attributive qualities cannot stand alone in a proposition except as Object terms, unless the proposition is merely Defining. If we define what we mean by hard, or just, or savoury, or white, or take these words as we find them in the dictionary and predicate of them their dictionary meanings, then, and then only, can they stand alone as Subjects in a proposition. On all other occasions of their use they must either qualify a concrete thing, as a hard fate, a just sentence, a savoury dish, a white horse, or they must be attributed to a concrete thing; as His fate was hard, His sentence was just, The dish is savoury, &c. This follows of necessity from the fact that an attribute is contemplated as inherent in its concrete. The moment it is separated from its concrete it is an abstract or it is nothing. Abstract qualities may be regarded as qualitative or quantitative, and in the latter aspect they may stand as Subjects in propositions. Patience is a virtue. Beauty is skin deep. Honesty is the best policy. Those terms, whether quantitative or qualitative, that have the capacity of standing as Subject in a proposition, are all grammatically noun substantive.; and for this reason may be called Substantial terms. Those which cannot stand as Subjects are attributes, and the attributive term we are already familiar with. We may therefore supplement the table of primordial terms as follows.
Logic is so large a subject, and its ramifications are so numerous and complicated, that it is not easy, when we arrive, as we have now done, at the end of one ramification of the subject, to keep in mind at what point the next branch starts away from the trunk, or how far back towards the trunk we must go in order to reach the next branch that we ought to follow. If the reader will turn back to [Chapter V], and refer to the account of the three-fold or four-fold process of Syncrisis that is there given, he will find that the three aspects of the process are Generalisation, Classification, and Abstraction. By Generalisation we form concepts of classes; by Classification we separate classes into sub-classes, and by Abstraction we reach the concept of Quality. Classes and sub-classes may, as we have already found, be regarded from various points of view; but all the ways in which we have hitherto contemplated them have this in common—that they have all contemplated classes numerically. Nothing has been considered but number. We have considered classes numerically as complete or incomplete, as to their numerical proportion to other classes, and as to the cardinal number or ordinal number of the individuals they contain. The whole treatment of classes has been numerical. Qualities have been considered as to their degree or intensity, and as to their comprehensiveness; and in the latter respect we have, it is evident, reached the frontier of classification. For classification results from contemplating classes with respect to their qualities; and in contemplating qualities comprehensively, we have contemplated them with respect to the classes to which they belong. Classification is the converse of this. It is the contemplation of classes with respect to the qualities they manifest. This is the branch of Logic that we are now to consider. When, by abstraction, a quality of a thing is discriminated from its remaining qualities, the remainder is at the same time discriminated from the quality abstracted. Every process of abstraction results, therefore, in the formation of two abstracts, or of abstract and remainder, each of which is the complement of the other. If two or more things are taken, and the same quality is abstracted from each, so that they are combined in a general idea or concept, two or more remainders are left, one belonging to each concrete thing. These remainders may be as different as possible, but they are linked with the others into a class by the possession of the common quality. When we take account of the likeness of the concretes in respect of their possession of the common quality, we are generalising. When we contemplate the unlikeness of the concretes in respect of their other qualities, we are differentiating or dividing. Foam, snow and chalk are, by virtue of their common quality of whiteness, generalised into the class of white things. Within this class they are divided or differentiated from each other by virtue of their several proper qualities. Foam is a white liquid, snow is a soft white solid, chalk is a hard white solid. All are classed together as white; each is separated from the others by difference of consistence. Thus we arrive at the division from one another of the individuals in a class; but there is a further step. Chalk, I find, is not the only hard white solid. Sugar, porcelain, marble, silver, and many other things, are alike in the two respects of being both white and hard. These, then, constitute a class of hard white things, within the class of white things, and different from other things within the class of whites. Such a class included within a class, and not constituting the whole of the including class, is termed a Species; to which the including class is the Genus. The same class that, included in another class, is a species of this other, may itself include yet other classes, and be of them a genus. The process of dividing a genus into species, dividing one or more of these species, now regarded as genera, into lower species, and these again into lower still, may be continued until we are arrested by the impossibility of finding any quality common to any of the individuals of the last species and not common to all. That species is an infima species, and its components are individuals only. In the other direction, more than one species may be combined by some common quality into a genus, and this genus may be found to possess qualities in common with other genera, and so to form with them species of some higher genus, and this process may be continued until all classes of concretes, or of the concretes under consideration, are included in one comprehensive class, the summum genus. The division of a class into sub-classes, or its constitution as a genus and its division into species, is the process ordinarily termed Classification. Classification in this sense is a necessary condition of orderly thinking. It is, indeed, implied and involved in all thought; though thought is not limited, as the doctrine of the syllogism implies, to the formation of classes and to nothing else. Preliminary to all thinking, there is a limitation, or classification, or definition, more or less definite, but always present, always presumed, always understood, of the things thought about. It is impossible to reason about men, or principles of law, or modes of action, or shirts, or mental processes, or anything else, without first delimiting the subject of thought from other things. Without classification, the Universe is chaos. It is this preliminary delimitation that logicians have denominated the suppositio, or Universe of discourse. Formal classification and formal definition are merely extensions of this practice, and its execution with exactitude. They are the accurate delimitation of classes, and of classes within classes. As some vague and general delimitation of the subject of thought is a necessary preliminary to thinking of any kind, so the accurate delimitation of the subject of thought is a necessary preliminary to accurate thinking. Hence the great importance of classification. It requires accuracy, and is indispensable to accuracy. No intellectual exercise is so conducive to a habit of accurate thought, as the practice of defining and classifying. Let us see, then, what are the essentials of a good classification. The first essential is to know what it is that we intend to classify. What are the things to which the classification is to apply? What are to be the limits of the classification? Here we are introduced to another aspect of the problem already treated of with reference to propositions. In classifying, do we classify names, or thoughts, or things? It is not necessary to go over the whole ground again, but it is necessary to give attention to certain of its features. In settling the subject-matter with which Logic is concerned, every one admits that it includes words. The only questions have been whether it includes thoughts and things as well. In settling the subject-matter of classification, the opposite assumption is usually made; we speak of classifying things, and make little or no reference to the part that thoughts and names take in the process, Classification, as ordinarily understood, does not, however, apply to things—certainly not to things alone. When, indeed, a cashier takes a drawer full of money, and puts the bank notes in one heap, the gold in another, the silver in a third, and the copper in a fourth, he does classify the things themselves; but this is not the sense in which classification is customarily understood. When we speak of a classification of animals, we do not mean a segregation of the animals themselves into groups—putting the deer into a pen, the pigs into a sty, the birds into cages, and so on. We mean, undoubtedly, a classification of the concepts of animals, not of the animals themselves. At the same time, our classifications are not of mere concepts, as mental states only. When we classify animals, we classify them, not as states of our minds, but as things having an existence outside of our minds. In other words, the thoughts that we utilise in the classification have an external reference. We classify our concepts of the things in conformity with the resemblances and differences that we believe to exist in the things. This being settled, the first step in classification is to form a generalisation of the things to be classified. Are we about to classify animals? Then we must form a general concept, including all animals, and excluding all other things. We must fix the denotation and connotation of animals as nearly as we can. We must say what we intend to understand by animals—what are the qualities this term is to connote, and what are the things to which this connotation applies. We must make clear the distinction between animals and the things most like them; we must make clear the qualities by which things, such as zoophytes, which appear to be different from animals, are included among them. In short, the first step in classification is to form a class, or to draw a definite boundary around the things that are to be divided into classes—to mark them off from other things—to convert a vague concept into an accurate concept. This, of course, presupposes that our classification is to be a scientific or accurate classification; for scientific, in this sense, means no more than accurate. In short, we cannot speak or think of anything without classifying it, in the sense of separating its concept from the concept of other things. But to separate a concept from other concepts is to define the thing conceived, so that, while complete and accurate definition is a result of classification, tentative definition is also a necessary preliminary to classification. The second requisite of a classification is that it should be adapted to its purpose. Before any classification can be effected, its purpose must be decided on. Classification is often spoken of, in books on Logic, as if there were but one ideally right mode of it,—the Natural Classification—and all other modes were wrong. This is a mistake. Classifications are made by us for our convenience; and whether a classification is right or wrong depends on whether it is or is not suitable to the purpose for which it is made. Classifications are to economise thought; to enable us to think of things separately and orderly. We classify things in order that we may the better and more clearly think about them, subdue them to our purposes, and attain the ends in which the things classified are concerned. The nature of the classification that we make; the mode of classifying; the basis or principle of classification; the fundamentum divisionis; must have direct regard to the purpose for which the classification is required. In as far as it serves this purpose, the classification is a good classification, however ‘artificial’ it may be. In as far as it does not serve this purpose, it is a bad classification, however ‘natural’ it may be. ‘Natural’ classification is classification into natural kinds, and must fall with the doctrine of Natural Kinds, now abandoned. A good classification is a classification in which those things are grouped together that are most alike for the purpose in view; and those things are separated which, for the purpose in view, are unlike. When the purpose in view is to group together those things that have the closest genealogical affinities, and therefore are usually alike in most respects, the classification is called ‘Natural’ or Scientific; since this is the purpose of that classification that we call ‘Natural’ and Scientific. But when we have some other purpose in view, the ‘Natural’ and ‘Scientific’ Classification may be a very unnatural and unscientific one. The Natural classification of plants is a good classification for the purpose of revealing the genealogical affinities of plants, but for the purpose of the cultivation of a garden it is a very unnatural classification. The gardener does not apply the rose and the apple, the lily and the onion, the potato and the winter cherry, to the same purpose; and therefore he does not classify these pairs together, and such a classification, good for the purpose of the botanist, is bad for the purpose of the gardener. The best and most natural classification of books for the purpose of the librarian, is according to subject or author; for the purpose of the bookbinder, it is according to size, price, and style of binding. The classification by the gardener, of plants into useful and ornamental, is a good classification when he is making out his seed list, or arranging his plants in the garden; but it is a bad classification when he is sowing his seeds. He now wants quite a different classification, into hardy, half-hardy, tender, and stove plants; and his classification into useful and ornamental is useless. When the things to be classified have been delimited, and the purpose of the classification has been settled, the next step is to find a fundamentum divisionis, or principle of classification, by which the things may be divided; and the nature of this principle must evidently depend on the purpose in view. Traditional Logic asserts that the division must proceed upon the presence or absence of a single quality, and that venerable tree of Porphyry, which vies in antiquity with the great baobab, is put forward as the model of the perfect system of Division—the process of Dichotomy. But dichotomy is by no means the only proper mode of division. Instead of dividing Corpus, in the Porphyrian method, into Animatum and Inanimatum, we may divide it into Perfectly elastic, Imperfectly elastic, and Inelastic. Instead of dividing Animal into Rationale and Irrationale—a very faulty division, since most animals are to some extent rational, and the limits of rationality cannot be accurately fixed—we may divide it into two- footed, four-footed, six-footed, eight-footed, and many-footed; and this division will be far sharper and better than that into Rationale and Irrationale. So we may divide Corpus Viveus, not into Sensibile and Insensibile, but into that which is locomotor throughout life, that which is non-locomotor throughout life, and that which is locomotor at one time of life, and non-locomotor at another. While I must deny that the method of Porphyry is the only true or reliable method of classification, I must, on the other hand, defend it from certain criticisms that have been passed upon it. It is said that division according to the possession or absence of a quality has no value at all, for, if we know the positive qualities of the things included in the negative group, it ought to be indicated by them, and not by a nomen indefinitum; and, if we do not know them, the negative class is not a class at all, and we have not made even a formal division, for the absence of a quality cannot indicate anything. This criticism seems to me ill founded. The positive qualities are already enumerated in those of the suppositio, or universe of discourse, or summum genus, that we are dividing; and the presence or absence of an additional quality within this genus, is a good, valid, and useful distinction.
The instances in the tree of Porphyry are, indeed, not very happy, but it is easy to find instances that are; and the defect in the Porphyrian tree is the selection of qualities that are indefinite, not in the method itself. To divide insects into those which, in the imago state, have jaws, and those which have not, would be a valid and useful classification. It would, indeed, be absurd to divide the contents of the Universe into things which have jaws and things which have not. In such a division, things which have not jaws would be indeed a nomen indefinitum; and it would be impossible, as Lotze says, to hold together in the mind such a chaos of disparate things. The things without jaws would include triangles, beauty, sulphuric acid, and so forth. But no rational system of classification is guilty of such absurdity. The criticism applies to a division of things, into things with jaws and things without jaws, but it does not apply to a division of insects on that basis. A division of elements into those that tarnish in damp air and those that do not, would be open to criticism; but a division of metals on the same basis would, for some purposes, be perfectly sound. A division of substances into phanerogamic and aphanerogamic would be open to criticism, but a division of plants on the same basis has been found to be not without value. What is required in a fundamentum divisionis is that it shall be a single attribute. Whether the division is made according to the presence or absence of this attribute, or according to its modes or degrees, does not matter in the least, as long as the attribute remains single, and the following conditions are observed. 1. The classes must be mutually exclusive. If these conditions are observed, and the classification is adapted to its purpose, it is a good classification. If the classification is not adapted to its purpose, or if any of these conditions is broken, it is a bad classification. The worst defect in a classification is neglect of its purpose, the next grave is the inclusion of the same thing in more than one group of the same rank; the next is failure to include something that ought to be included; and the fourth is a defect, not so much in the classification itself, as in the definition of the group of things to be classified. These are the principles on which Classification should proceed; but, in practice, it is often difficult to give effect to them, and they are often neglected. Non-compliance because of the difficulty of compliance is to be condoned; but non-compliance from neglect of rules is not excusable. The preliminary process, of delimiting the genus, or group of things to be divided, is often difficult from the nature of the things. There may be no sharp differences between them and other things. In classifying Insanity, for instance, what are we to include, and what to exclude? Are we to include Hypochondriasis, Delirium, Coma, Drunkenness, Hysteria, Hallucination? Some persons would include some of these and exclude others; some would exclude all; and some would, perhaps, include all. For the purpose of classification, the classifier must first of all make up his mind whether he will include any of them, and which. The next step is to choose a fundamentum divisionis, that is adapted to the purpose in view. The purpose must be clearly conceived, and the principle of division chosen accordingly. Suppose the things to be classified are the goods to be stowed in a ship’s hold. The purpose of the stevedore is to stow the goods so that they may trim the ship, and be accessible when wanted. He classifies them, therefore, according to their weights and the ports for which they are destined. But the underwriter has another purpose. His purpose is to charge his premium according to value and risk. He, therefore, classifies the goods according to their value and perishability. The purpose of the captor is yet different. His purpose is to confiscate what is contraband of war. He, therefore, classifies the goods according to what is contraband, and what is not. The worst and most frequent vice in classifying, is to proceed on more than one principle, for classes of the same rank, in the same classification. There is no objection to proceeding on more than one principle if the principles are applied successively; those groups created by the application of the first principle being subdivided by the application of a second; as when a bookseller divides his books into bound and unbound, and each of these again into folio, quarto, and octavo. There is no objection to applying different principles in different classifications, so that the bookseller may divide his books into bound and unbound for one purpose, and into folio, quarto, octavo, &c., for another. But he may not divide them on both principles simultaneously in the same classification. The process here described is sometimes called Division, and is distinguished from Classification, which is then said to be the reverse process of collecting things, first into small groups, these into larger, and these into larger still. Such a process may be called Classification, but it is indistinguishable from Generalisation; it is Generalisation in successive steps; and, although it is the practice in Mental Science, of which Logic is an outlying member, to call the same thing by different names, and different things by the same name; the practice is one that should not be encouraged. I have treated Classification and Division under one heading because, in my opinion, they are two names for one thing. It is desirable that the one name Classification should alone be used, for Division has already other meanings, which Classification has not. Now that we have examined the several constituents of propositions in all their numbers and varieties, we are at length in a position to estimate the nature and meaning of the Aristotelian Categories, the discussion of which, in books on Logic, is so lengthy and so barren. Every logician has his own notion of what Aristotle intended to enumerate in making out his list of Categories, and I am not going to add another barren speculation to the tale; but if, instead of speculating as to what Aristotle’s intention was, a speculation that has the demerit or merit that it can never be verified or disproved, we examine the Categories themselves, and estimate what they are, it appears plain enough that they constitute a list of the things that propositions may express or refer to—an imperfect list, and a crude list, it is true— but still they do enumerate some of the most important, as well as some of the most trivial matters that are expressed or referred to in propositions. The first of the Aristotelian Categories is Substance, and the meaning, as I take it, of placing Substance among the Categories, is that the proposition refers to Substance, or says something about Substance—that Substance is, or may be, expressed or referred to in every proposition. This we have found to be the case. Every Subject-term, as has just been shown, must be substantival or substantial, and the Object-term also may be substantial. This may not be the meaning that is usually read into the statement that substance is a Category, but it is a meaning that may very fairly be read into it, and that invests the statement with a significance that it does not otherwise possess. Whether this was what Aristotle meant by saying that Substance is a Category cannot now be known, but it is at any rate an intelligible and reasonable meaning, which is more than can be said for some of the conjectures that have been made about it. Quantity, the second Category, is another of the things that may be, and usually is, expressed in a proposition. As we have seen, either term in a proposition may express quantity, either extensive or intensive, and thus, if we mean by a Category that which may be expressed in a proposition, Quantity is properly a Category. Quality is understood in Logic in two senses. it is one of those equivocal words that Logic delights in. As applied to the proposition as a whole, it means the character of the proposition as affirming or denying the relation it expresses, or as containing or not containing a negative term. But terms may, as we have found, be qualitative, and may express many qualities besides those of affirmation and negation. Whether we restrict the meaning of Quality to affirmation and negation, or whether we let in all the other qualities that terms may express, Quality is, in either case, one of the things that can be expressed in a proposition, and therefore is legitimately a Category in the sense here ascribed to Category. Relation, the fourth Category, is expressed in the Ratio of every proposition. It is the function, and the sole function of the proposition to express a relation; and the Ratio of every proposition expresses a relation, and expresses nothing else. If, therefore, we take the Categories to mean the things expressed or referred to in a proposition, then Relation is very properly a Category. Action and Passion are, as we have seen, kinds of relation, and if Relation is a Category, Action and Passion are Categories of course. There is no need to enumerate them separately from Relation, but as they are separately enumerated in the Aristotelian Categories, logicians have the less excuse for excluding them from the logical scheme of propositions, and for declaring that the Ratio of every proposition cannot be other than the verb ‘to be.’ When and Where have been shown to be qualifications of the Ratio, and their inclusion in a proposition converts the proposition into a modal, and thereby excludes it from the ambit of Traditional Logic. By including When and Where among his Categories, Aristotle signified, if I understand him aright—and if I don’t it doesn’t matter—that these modals at least may be legitimately included among logical propositions. Posture and Habit may qualify a term if the term happens to be singular and personal also. Their triviality and unimportance are blemishes in the scheme of Categories, and are scarcely consistent with the enlarged and philosophical calibre of Aristotle’s mind. I should hazard the conjecture that they are interpolations by some later and very inferior hand. If we include Posture and Habit among Categories, I see no warrant for excluding Complexion and Acuteness of Vision. De minimis non curat lex. HITHERTO we have treated of affirmative propositions only; but in the course of thought, it is almost as frequent to deny as to affirm the existence of a relation; and until denial and its modes have been examined, the treatment of the proposition is deficient by a full moiety. Denial is a denial of a relation, just as affirmation is affirmation of a relation; and therefore, strictly speaking, a negative proposition is a proposition with a negative Ratio. It is usually possible, however, though it is not always possible, to introduce a negative into a term; and there are many terms, such as immortal, ignorant, unwise, disorganised, in which a negative is incorporated. Propositions in which there is a negative term have, when the negative is a Privative negative, a negative force, even though the Ratio is affirmative; but terms that are negative in form very often have a positive signification; and when such a term enters into a proposition, that proposition is in sense affirmative, if it has an affirmative Ratio, even though a term is negative. In many cases, though not in all, as logicians assert, a negative may be transferred from the Ratio to a term without altering the meaning of the proposition. Thus, for ‘Angels are not mortal,’ we may substitute ‘No angels are mortal,’ and ‘Angels are immortal.’ Since negation may be effected by the use of a negative term, it is necessary to give some attention to the nature and varieties of these terms. Negative terms may be contemplated in two ways. They may be regarded with respect to the effect of the negative on the term alone to which it is attached; or they may be contemplated with respect to other terms. We will consider first the effect produced upon a term by attaching to it a negative. The attachment of a negative to a term may have any one of five different effects. Three of these we are already familiar with. The attachment of a negative may limit a term, either minimally, as when we add ‘less than’; or maximally, as when we add ‘not more than’; or exactly, as when we add ‘neither more nor less than’; or it may merely empty the term of all contents, putting nothing in their place, and is then a Privative Negative; or it may take out all the contents of the term and substitute other contents. In every case except the last but one, it leaves the term still positive, and the proposition into which the term enters is still affirmative, unless and until a negative is introduced into the Ratio. The Privative Negative.—When the attachment of a negative to a term results in the emptying of the term of all its contents, without replacing them by other contents, the term so produced may be called the Privative Negative. The negative so attached may be a negative prefix, such as un-, in-, dis-, or non-; or it may be the negative word ‘no’ or ‘not.’ To say that a thing is imperfect, merely deprives that thing of perfection, without replacing the perfection by any other quality. To say that it is incomplete or unsuitable, or unintelligible, usually does no more. To affirm that a man is untravelled, or inexperienced, or uninterested, merely deprives him of having travelled, or gained experience, or exhibited interest, and ascribes to him no positive quality in place of those that are removed. If it is asserted that no man has three legs, the assertion gives us no inkling of the number of legs he possesses, nor even of whether he has any at all. All the negative term gives us is that, if he has any legs, they must be more or fewer in number than three. If I am told that there is no balm in Gilead, I am not entitled to assume that Gilead contains anything at all. I now know that it contains no balm, but whether it contains anything else or not, the proposition gives me no information and no hint whatever. It needs a good deal of care to construct a negative qualitative term that shall be purely Privative, and shall contain no hint of a positive content. When a negative is attached to an adjective, the resulting term is generally not privative, but more or less explicitly positive. To say that Angels are immortal, affirms not only that they do not die, but that they go on living for ever. To say that a thing is immobile, asserts not only that it does not move, but that it stays where it is; and less explicitly, such terms as unjustifiable, inexpedient, dishonest, unhappy, have all a positive flavour, more or loss pronounced. The qualitative term that is most easily kept free from positive signification is the past participle. Unmarried, unfinished, undefended, undefeated, are pretty free from positive implication; and though unnerved, unhung, unlicked, are not wholly free, they are far from having the depth of positive significance that attaches to improper, imprudent and dishonest. Even the past participle, however, may convey very positive signification, as in the case of disorganised. Quantitative terms are much more easily kept free of positive meaning. No man, no brilliancy, no litigation, no class of things, not a penny, not a friend, not a bit, are purely privative negatives; but ‘no gentleman’ carries a good deal of positive meaning, and so does ‘not a genius.’ The limiting negatives we have already made acquaintance with in our examination of quantities. There we found that every quantity has three assignable forms, the minimal, than which it can be no less; the maximal, that it cannot exceed; and the exact, from which it cannot depart in either direction. The negatives by which these three forms are severally conveyed are ‘No less than,’ ‘No more than’ and ‘Neither more nor less than.’ It is odd that though logicians reject the maximal positive quantity—Some only—they mention and examine the Maximal or Exclusive Negative, ‘Not more than,’ in its equivalent form ‘None but’; and that though they welcome the minimal form of the Particular—Some at least,—they do not examine or mention the negative by which it is expressed—‘Not less than’; and of course they have no place for the sign of the Definitive or Exact form—‘Neither more nor less than.’ These forms of quantity have already been referred to, examined, and utilised; and all that now remains to be said of them is that, rightly regarded, they are negative limitations of the terms they qualify. They do not, as the Privative Negative does, empty the term of contents, but they limit its extension strictly in one or other direction, or in both; and, as has been already sufficiently explained, they are applicable to all forms of quantity, both Extensive and Intensive. ‘None but the brave deserve the fair’ is a maximal limitation of class; as is ‘Birds are clothed in nothing but feathers.’ ‘Fish breathe no air that is not dissolved in water’ is a maximal limitation of part of a uniform individual. ‘The diamond is at least as hard as glass’ is a minimal limitation of an attribute; and ‘His manner amounted to neither more nor less than piggishness’ is an exact limitation of an Abstract. The Exceptive Negative differs from the Limiting negatives just considered, in that it does not limit the term to which it is attached, but, like the Privative negative, empties it of all contents. Here the Privative Negative ceases its operations, and leaves the term empty, but here the Exceptive Negative does not cease. It goes on to fill up the vacancy with an alternative, and is therefore always positive. The most general form of the Exceptive Negative is, in the Subject-term, ‘What is not,’ as in ‘What is not mortal is not a man’; and in the Object-term, ‘Except,’ as in ‘He ploughed the whole field except the headlands.’ It is manifest at once that Exceptive Negatives are extremely comprehensive quantities,—more so even than the ‘Some’ of Traditional Logic; for they include not only, as ‘Some’ does, all Particular quantities, but all Universal quantities also. Hence, there are as many varieties of the Exceptive negative as there are of Extensive quantities. What is not desirable may be everything, each thing, or anything that is not desirable. It includes some things, a great many, many, a few, and a very few things that are not desirable. It includes every proportion of such things, from nearly all to scarcely any; and not only some, but the first, the last, others, and the rest of them. It includes more if there be more, and fewer if fewer are possible. It includes certain things that are not desirable, as well as this and that; and it includes, moreover, only too many things that are not desirable, as well as enough and too few. Thus our three forms of quantity are increased to four. The minimal form, signified by ‘Not less than’ and ‘At least,’ limits the quantity downwards, and secures it against defect, while leaving it quite undefined in the direction of greater number, proportion, or magnitude. The maximal form, signified by ‘Not more than,’ ‘At most,’ and ‘Only,’ limits the quantity upwards, or maximally, and secures it against excess, while leaving it open to defect. As ‘not less than’ and ‘at least’ may include ‘perhaps all,’ so ‘not more than’ and ‘only’ may imply ‘perhaps none.’ It is usual, if it is intended to convey this possibility, to add ‘if any’; but I do not know that it is logically necessary in all cases, though it seems to be necessary in some. It is necessary with the singular quantity, as we shall find, and its use is desirable, though perhaps not imperative, in other quantities when the meaning ‘it may be none’ is intended. The Exact form limits the quantity in both directions; and lastly, the Exceptive form applies to all that is outside of or beyond the quantity of the term. In order that the Exceptive may be applicable to a term, it is necessary that the form of that term should be exact or maximal, for a minimal term may extend to all, and if it does, there are none left for the Exceptive to apply to. The Exact form is not often explicitly stated, but it may be assumed, and usually is assumed, in spite of the teaching of Traditional Logic, that when no indication of form is attached to a term, the quantity of that term is to be taken as exact. Logic tells us that the minimal form should always be understood, at any rate in Particular quantities, but Logic gives no authority but its own for the dictum, and we have learnt that the authority of Traditional Logic is not decisive. In fact, the universal practice, outside of books on Logic, is to take as exact every quantity whose form is not explicitly stated. If we adhere to this practice, and bear in mind that any form of negative Subject-term may be combined in a proposition with any form of negative Object-term; and that in any such proposition the Ratio also may be negative, we see that the choice of propositions into which the negative enters is very large. If we use No-A and No-B for the Privative negative, and not-A and not-B for the Exceptive negative, we can frame six leading types of propositions, and pursue the different shades of negation through at least three and twenty degrees. The six leading types of proposition are as follows:— Each of these values of the Object may be combined with the Privative Subject: Or the different values of the Object may be combined with the Exceptive Subject: Or the negative Subject may be duplicated: This list of negative propositions is long, but it is far from exhaustive. The Exceptive term has been treated as if it were one, whereas it is in fact many. Any of the quantities already discovered to reside in terms, may qualify the Exceptive term, and thus the Exceptive term may have a very large number of meanings as has already been shown. Of this great multitude of negative propositions, Traditional Logic knows of five only,—the Simple negative, A is not B; the Privative negative, A is no-B; the Obverse, A is not no-B; what it calls the Universal negative, No-A is B; and one kind of Exceptive negative, A is everything but B. The remainder of those that have been enumerated, and the additional multitude that can be constructed, are utterly unknown to Traditional Logic. It does not even know of their existence. Even of those that are recognised, two only, E and O, the so-called Universal and Particular negatives, are allowed to enter into the logical scheme of Mediate Inference. The O proposition is one variety out of eight of the Simple negative; of the remainder Logic knows nothing. The exclusion of the remaining vast multitude of negative propositions, beyond the classical five, is owing to no inherent defect or disqualification, in them. They are all good and valid forms of proposition. There is not one of them that is not in frequent use. Even the highly elaborated form No. 24, with its doubly negative Subject, its negative Ratio, and its negative Object
—four negatives in all—is in use, and expresses a meaning that cannot be expressed otherwise. ‘No one but Jones was appointed solely on account of his merit,’ ‘Barbara Allen was the only dancer dressed in nothing but a few beads.’ Nor does our licence to multiply negatives end here. In the Object-term as well as in the Subject, the negative may be duplicated, and we can argue quite well from propositions on the model ‘No not-A is not no not-B.’ ‘No animals but those with wings are not confined exclusively to the surface of the earth.’ As this book is going to press I find in the day’s Times ‘by not excepting him from the list of Scottish members who had not mentioned,’ &c. He was therefore not no not-A. If it is justifiable, and in accordance with the true laws of reasoning, to argue from ‘Every bird has feathers,’ to ‘No bird is featherless,’ it would be interesting to know why it is not equally justifiable, and in accordance with those laws, to argue from ‘He will accept anything but money,’ to ‘He will accept a pair of boots,’ or from ‘He has lost everything but honour,’ to ‘He has lost his wits.’ Traditional Logic does not admit the validity of these inferences; or, if it does, it knows not how to attain them without making a long detour through a syllogism, a course that no one but a logician would ever dream of taking. They are quite beyond its competence; but they are so clearly and manifestly valid, that a Logic that does not provide for them confesses its own futility. It is often asserted, not, indeed, by logicians, but in common discourse, that, in English, two negatives make an affirmative. An inspection of the examples of the double negative given on a previous page, will show that this is not always true. ‘No bird is featherless’ is indeed equivalent to ‘Every bird has feathers’; but ‘Nothing that is not a bird has feathers’ does not positively imply, though it strongly suggests, that birds have feathers. We might say ‘Nothing that is not a bird has five legs’ and still be within the four corners of strict truth; though we should certainly be guilty of the suggestio falsi that birds possess five legs. It is, therefore, more accurate to say that the double negative is always consistent with the affirmative; and we may go further and generalise the statement thus:—Every proposition in which the number of negatives is even, is consistent with the affirmative, and therefore with every other proposition derived from the affirmative, in which the negatives are even in number; while every proposition in which the number of negatives is odd, is consistent with every other such proposition, derived from the same affirmative, but is incongruous with the affirmative, and with all its even negatives. Even a single negative, introduced into an affirmative proposition, does not necessarily make a proposition inconsistent with that from which it is derived, but it always makes them incongruous. Any single negative introduced into the proposition, ‘birds have feathers,’ gives an inconsistent proposition. ‘No birds have feathers,’ ‘Birds have not feathers,’ ‘Birds are featherless,’ are all inconsistent with ‘Birds have feathers’; but ‘Some birds have no feathers’ is not inconsistent with ‘Some birds have feathers.’ The two are not inconsistent, but they are incongruous. If they refer to the same Subject, they are inconsistent; if they refer to different Subjects, they are irrelevant. In either case, they are incongruous. ‘Everything but a bird is not featherless,’ contains three negatives, and is incongruous with ‘Birds are feathered,’ from which it is derived. It is incongruous, because it refers to a different Subject; but it is not inconsistent. If everything but a bird is not featherless, that is, is feathered, it does not follow of necessity that birds are not feathered, though it is strongly suggested that they are not. ‘Every vertebrate but a bird has a backbone’ is a materially true proposition. Every such vertebrate has, in fact, a backbone; but though I have strongly suggested that birds have no backbone, I have refrained from actually making the assertion. The statements are incongruous, but they are not formally inconsistent. In books on Logic there are two muddles about the negative term, and the two muddles are in some books muddled up together, so as to make confusion worse confounded. Taking as a text the Law of the Excluded Middle, which asserts that everything must either be or not be, logicians apply this law to the cases of the soul being square, and virtue being red, and ask whether it is really necessary that the soul should be square or not square, or, as they prefer to write it, not-square, and that virtue should be red or not-red. Most logicians assert that these alternatives are inescapable, and that we are compelled by the Law of the Excluded Middle to accept one or the other. The Law of the Excluded Middle will be discussed, together with the other Laws of Thought, in a subsequent chapter, but this is the place to discuss its application to terms. With respect to such examples as virtue is not-square, the soul is not-red, Professor Bosanquet argues that ‘bare denial, whether disguised as spurious affirmation, or taken as the mere exclusion of mere suggested predicates, amounts in the strict sense to nothing.’ It is difficult to imagine a statement more contrary to truth. Does it amount to nothing to deny of a man that he is honest, of a woman that she is virtuous, of a soldier that he is brave, of a ship that she is seaworthy, or of a logician that he is logical? If bare denial amounts, as it may, to nothing, it is for the very reason, and for no other than this, that the predicate has not been suggested. Denial always refers, as will be explained directly, to pre-negative affirmation. Denial is denial of something. Of what then? Of some affirmation, made, suggested. conjectured, or possible. It is this pre-negative affirmation that gives to denial its whole content and meaning. The bare denial of a suggested predicate may always be made, and always has significance, for the very reason, on which all denial is founded, that the suggestion has been made. To deny that the soul is red, or that virtue is square, is nonsense, because the corresponding affirmative suggestions have not been made; but if it were seriously suggested that the soul is red, or that virtue is square, I see no reason why it should not be as seriously denied. The significance of denial rests, not upon the congruity or incongruity of the terms of the relation that is denied, but on the presence or absence of pre-negative suggestion. Denial that the soul is red, or that virtue is square, is without significance, not because the terms are incongruous, but because and if the relation has not been suggested. Denial that there is anyone in the next room is equally devoid of significance if there has been no pre-negative suggestion. If one should tell me, apropos of nothing, that there is no one in the next room, the denial is as devoid of significance to me as is the denial that the soul is red; but if I have heard a crash in the next room, and have said or thought that there must be some one there, the denial is immediately invested with significance. Much—fortune, life, honour—may depend on it. The other muddle about the negative term is again a compound muddle. To clear it up it is necessary to answer not one question, but two. It concerns first, the possibility of the Privative negative, and second, the scope and range of the Exceptive negative. When we speak of not-man and not-white, do we mean, by the former, living beings only that are not men, and by the latter, surfaces only that are not white, or do we mean everything thinkable that is not man or not white, including, as Lotze puts it, triangles, melancholy, sulphuric acid, and so forth? The controversy seems to me to be founded on the fallacy hereinafter described as the fallacy of the previous question. The problem is on a par with the problem, Why does the weight of a bowl of water not increase when a fish is put into it? In other words, it assumes the previous solution of a problem that has not, in fact, been solved. It is asking, before we have determined whether there is anything at all in the jug, whether it is half full at least; or quite full. Not-man and not-white may be exceptive negatives, it is true, but they need not be exceptive: they may be privative; and if they are, then to ask the range of their denotation is to ask how much beer there is in an empty jug: and to ask whether they are infinite negatives or indefinite negatives is to ask whether the empty jug is quite full or only partly full; or more accurately, perhaps, whether the empty jug contains all the beer in the universe, or only an indefinitely large quantity of beer. A negative term may, as we have seen, have a positive signification. But it need not have a positive signification, and in many cases it has none. When I am told that there is no one in the next room, do I take it to mean that the room is empty of men, women, and children, or do I take it to mean that it contains triangles, melancholy, sulphuric acid, fixed stars, All Fools’ day, and all other thinkable things except men, women, and children?
No one can foretell what strange notions may not be entertained by logicians, and when some of them say that this last is the meaning that they understand by the negative term ‘no one,’ I must suppose that they believe that this is what they ought to understand by it; but I have a shrewd suspicion that they are mistaken as to their own meaning, and I am quite certain that I do not myself read any such meaning into the term. If silver is not gold, then, according to Traditional Logic, silver is not-gold. Silver is, therefore, according to pre-Lotzian logicians, triangles, melancholy, and the rest. A logician to whom I put this consequence demurred. Silver is not-gold means, said he, Silver is some not-gold. If this be so, then Logic is compelled to accept the Hamiltonian quantification of the predicate, which all logicians reject: and it is compelled, moreover, to accept ‘some’ in the sense of some only, which is opposed to the unanimous teaching of logicians. ‘Silver is not gold,’ or not-gold, may assert of silver either a privative negative or an exceptive negative, if not-gold is privative, the proposition asserts merely that silver is not gold, without in the least implying what silver is, or even whether silver exists. But if not-gold is an exceptive negative, then to assert that silver is not-gold denies, indeed, that silver is gold, but asserts that it is something. The full expression of this exceptive negative is, of course, Silver is something that is not gold. But this is not the only exceptive negative included in not-gold. I can, if I please, limit the exceptive to one of the elements that is not gold; and, further, to one of the metals; and, further still, to one of the noble metals, that is not gold. An exceptive negative, therefore, need not be a universal negative, but it may be a universal negative; and if universal, it may be a limited or an unlimited universal. ‘Every term that is not quantitative is qualitative’ has for its subject a universal limited to the universe of terms. ‘Everything that is not mental is material’ has for its subject an unlimited universal. Lotze is therefore no more completely correct than his antagonists. The Universal Exceptive may be a limited or an unlimited universal, and if unlimited, it is an Infinite Negative. The Infinite negative is a very unusual negative, but it is not an impossible negative, and there is at least one occasion on which it is requisite and necessary. THE foregoing discussion on the character of the negative term is a suitable introduction to the discussion of modes of denial or negation. Affirmation and denial are complementary opposites. When we deny, we deny something that has been, or might have been, affirmed. The negative always has reference to an affirmative. It implies or suggests at least a conceivable affirmative. If I say ‘Birds do not possess hoofs,’ I must have in my mind an antecedent assertion, or suggestion, that birds do possess hoofs; and this assertion or suggestion is the basis and occasion of the denial. Unless the affirmative suggestion had been there, there would have been no reason or meaning in the denial. Similarly, every, affirmation suggests, or is suggested by, a corresponding denial. If I say ‘Birds are migrants,’ I deny that birds have fixed abodes; and to elicit this denial, I must have had the denied relation to some extent explicitly before my mind. As the negative denies the affirmative, so the affirmative denies the negative. ‘Steel is hard’ denies that steel is not hard. ‘Brutus killed Cæsar’ denies that Brutus did not kill Cæsar. But the affirmative does not need the antecedent suggestion of the negative as urgently as the negative needs the antecedent suggestion of the affirmative; and, in many cases, does not need any negative suggestion at all. There would be no need, occasion, utility, or even sense, in denying that Brutus killed Cassius, unless there had been some antecedent assertion or suggestion that Brutus did kill Cassius; but the assertion that Brutus killed Cæsar can stand by itself, as a piece of news, without any antecedent suggestion that Brutus did not kill Cæsar. This relative urgency of antecedent suggestion, in the two cases, corresponds with the psychological law, that discernment of likeness always explicitly precedes discrimination of difference, but discrimination of difference does not, or does not so explicitly, precede discernment of likeness. Affirmation and denial are complementary and inseparable. Each supposes and implies the other; but affirmation usually suggests consequent denial only, while denial suggests a previous affirmation. The opposition of affirmation to the corresponding direct denial, is but one instance of a law of opposition of much wider and more general application, viz:—that Every proposition denies every proposition inconsistent with it; and from this law (which is a U proposition in Hamiltonian, or rather, Thomsonian, nomenclature) we may deduce, that Denial is the assertion of a proposition inconsistent with that which is denied; that the only mode of denial is by assertion of the inconsistent; and that the assertion of every proposition denies every proposition inconsistent with it. Thus, ‘He has just had a good dinner,’ denies and is denied by not only ‘ He has not just had a good dinner,’ but also ‘He has not dined’; ‘He has just had a bad dinner’; ‘He is hungry’; ‘He has been long without food’; ‘His stomach is empty’; ‘He is starving’; and many other propositions inconsistent with the original. Hence, in order to determine the modes in which denial may be made, we must discover in what ways a proposition may be inconsistent with another; and this, in general terms, is easily done. A proposition may be inconsistent with another proposition in its Subject, in its Object, or in its Ratio; and in either case will deny this other proposition. So far, the matter is simple: but when we enquire what terms are inconsistent, and what Ratios are inconsistent, our difficulties begin. Evidently, Terms and Ratios must be examined separately with respect to their inconsistency with other Terms and other Ratios; and we shall find it necessary to examine the inconsistency of Quantitative Terms separately from the inconsistency of Qualitative Terms. The consistency or inconsistency of quantitative terms with each other is determined entirely by their form, as minimal, maximal, or exact. The minimal form of a quantity may flatly deny the maximal form of another, and yet may be wholly consistent with the minimal and exact form of that other, and vice versâ; so that no quantity can be denied by affirming another quantity, unless the forms of both are stated. All and None are both consistent with certain of the forms of Some; and unless the form of this quantity is explicitly stated, there need be no inconsistency, and can be no denial. ‘All’ is quite consistent with ‘not less than some,’ or ‘some at least,’ and does not deny this quantity; though it does deny ‘not more than some’ or ‘some only.’ ‘None’ is consistent with ‘not more than some,’ or ‘some if any,’ and does not deny this quantity; but it does deny ‘some at least,’ and ‘not less than some.’ Even All and None are not necessarily inconsistent. ‘All if any’ is quite consistent with None, and does not deny None. This quantity is peculiar, in that the signs of form, when applied
to individuals, alter their significance, and do not mean quite the same as they mean when applied to classes. ‘A few only’ and ‘Not more than a few’ are maximal forms, and as such are consistent with None. But ‘Gladstone alone,’ and ‘No one but Gladstone’ are not consistent with ‘No one.’ They are exact in form, and mean ‘Gladstone certainly, but no one else.’ So, also, ‘few if any’ is a maximal form, and is consistent with none, but emphatically denies more than a few; but ‘Gladstone if any man’ is more preferential than maximal. It is consistent, indeed with no one, but it is consistent also with others besides Gladstone, and though it declares that Gladstone has a preferential position with respect to others, it does not exclude others. Although, however, the signs of quantitative form are different for the singular quantity from the signs applicable to other quantities, the rules respecting the forms are the same, mutatis mutandis, however the forms are expressed. The exact form of the Singular quantity denies None and denies Others. ‘A boy alone rang the bell’ denies that no one rang the bell, and denies also that more than one boy or any one but a boy rang the bell. The minimal form of the Singular denies No one, but does not deny Others, or All. ‘Gladstone addressed the meeting’ denies that no one addressed the meeting, but does not deny that others, or every one present, addressed it. The maximal form of the Singular quantity denies Others, and All, but does not deny No one. ‘An infant alone, if any one, is irresponsible.’ The preferential form is antithetic to the exceptive, and the two deny each other. ‘A logician, if any one, should be consistent’ does not deny ‘No one should be consistent,’ nor does it deny ‘Others besides logicians should be consistent.’ All that it denies is that ‘Others besides logicians should alone be consistent.’ The antithesis of the Distributive Universal is None, but this is not the antithesis of the Collective Universal. None is no one, and no one, though it effectually denies Every one, Any one, and Each one, does not effectually deny All taken together. All taken together does not assert or posit one, and therefore to confront ‘all taken together’ with ‘none’ is irrelevant. The true antithesis of ‘all taken together’ is ‘not all.’ ‘All the ships sailing out of Liverpool are together enough to bridge the Irish Channel’ is not denied by ‘None of the ships sailing out of Liverpool is enough to bridge the Irish Channel.’ The negative is irrelevant, and does not bear upon the affirmative assertion, either in the way of denial or of corroboration. The only way to deny the assertion by means of a negative term, is to assert ‘Not all the ships sailing out of Liverpool are enough to bridge the Irish Channel.’ This is a denial, and a relevant and effective denial, and in no other way can an effective denial of the Collective Universal be made, except by a negative Ratio. The Collective Universal cannot be maximal in form. If all are taken together, they may not be more than all, but they cannot be fewer, and the true maximal is ‘not more, and it may be fewer than.’ An All that is minimal appears tautological, for all must be all at least, and there seems no room for a possible more, if all are accounted for. But a little consideration will show that there are plenty of occasions for more than all. If the engine can draw all the coaches and a guard’s van in addition, it can draw more than all the coaches. If the auctioneer conducted in the morning one sale of 150 lots, and in the afternoon another sale of 50, then in the day he sold more than all the 150 lots of the first sale. ‘All taken together’ denies, therefore, ‘not all’ and ‘less than all,’ and is denied by them; but it does not deny ‘None’ or ‘More than all,’ nor is it denied by these quantities. The rules for denying the Collective Particular quantities are the same as those for denying the Distributive Particular, and are given below. The Distributive Universal exists, as we have found, in three varieties, Every, Each and Any. ‘Every one’ may be exact or inexact, and if inexact may be minimal or maximal. ‘Every one at least’ implies possibly more, and in the distributive as in the collective quantity, there may be more than all. ‘There was transport for every one of the wounded at least’ suggests that there may have been transport for some of the unwounded. ‘Every officer at least was armed with a revolver’ suggests that some of the men also may have been so armed. The minimal ‘Every one’ denies and is denied by ‘None’ and by every maximal particular quantity. It does not deny its own exact and maximal forms. ‘Every one only’ is exact. ‘A medal was given to every combatant only’ asserts that every combatant received a medal; denies that any non-combatant received a medal; and denies, though not very emphatically, that no one received a medal. ‘Every one’ applies distributively to each one, and the only distributive quantity less than one is none. Consequently, to make ‘Every one’ explicitly maximal, that is to say, so to express it that it may mean that quantity or less, we must express it ‘Every one if any one,’ or use some equivalent. ‘A medal was given, if at all, to every combatant only,’ fixes the form of Every one as maximal. Such a maximal is not denied by None, or No one, nor is it denied by any of the minimal particular quantities included under Some at least; nor is it denied by All or Every; but it is denied by every maximal particular included under Some only. ‘Each one’ is almost always exact in form. ‘Each if any’ is a possible form, but is not often employed, and ‘Each at least’ scarcely ever. Each denies and is denied by None, and by all maximal particular quantities. ‘Any one’ cannot be maximal. ‘Any one if any’ is an impossible quantity. It may, however, be minimal. Any decked boat at least (and perhaps some without a deck) can cross the North Sea. Any denies and is denied by None, No one, and all maximal particular quantities. Denial of Particular Quantities.—What is said here with respect to the denial of Particular quantities applies to both the Collective and the Distributive. For the sake of brevity, I will confine my examination of the modes of denial of Particular quantities to denials by other members of the same series. Those who desire to know how an Enumerative quantity can deny, or be denied by, a Proportional or an Ordinal, or any other kind of particular, can easily work the problem out for themselves in the light of what follows. In the Particular, as in the Universal quantities, the mode of denial depends on the form of the quantity, as minimal, maximal or exact. For instance, ‘A great many at least’ denies and is denied by ‘Many only,’ ‘A good many only,’ ‘A few only,’ ‘A very few only,’ and ‘None.’ For instance, ‘Not more than a half’ denies ‘Not less than two thirds,’ ‘than three fourths,’ and all minimal proportions in excess of a half, up to ‘all.’ It does not deny ‘A fourth at least,’ ‘A third at least,’ ‘Not less than a fifth,’ or any other minimal quantity less than itself, even None. It does not deny ‘Not more than a third,’ ‘Not more than three fourths,’ nor any other maximal quantity more or less than a half. Nor does it deny an exact half. The exact form of any particular quantity denies, of the same series, All and None, and all other quantities except its own maximal and minimal forms. A small number of these relations of consistency and inconsistency are expressed by logicians in the Square of Opposition. The quantities that enter into the Square of Opposition are Distributive quantities only, and of distributive quantities none but the Universal and the Indefinite Particular; and of the Universal and the Indefinite Particular none but the exact form of the Universal and the minimal form of the Particular. As a general guide to the inconsistency of quantities, the Square of Opposition is, therefore, almost worthless. Even to display the inconsistency of the only quantities it includes—the Universal and the Indefinite Particular—it must be supplemented by three other squares, one for the maximal Distributive ‘Some’ and one each for the maximal and minimal Collective ‘Some’; and even then it will not display the inconsistency of semi-definite and definite quantities. The Traditional Square of Opposition is as follows. I discard the symbols A, E, I and O, and substitute for them their equivalents—All are, None is, Some are, Some are not. [Unless otherwise noted, in the following diagrams the diagonal lines connect Contradictories.] This is all very well as far as it goes, and as long as the All
is distributive and the Some is Some at least; but if, the All remaining distributive, the Some is made maximal, or not more than Some, or Some only, the Square must be remodelled, and must be expressed somewhat as follows. In the nomenclature of Traditional Logic, this would mean that A is compatible with O, its contradictory in the Traditional Scheme; and E is subalternans, not to 0, but to I. E and O, instead of E and I, become contradictories, and A and I become contradictories instead of subalterns.
In the [next] square it will be seen that every quantity has two contradictories, and therefore there are four pair of contradictories, no contrary, and no sub-contrary. The reason is manifest. Between ‘All together are’ and ‘All together are not,’ there is no third alternative, and these are therefore contradictory. And Some at least, is Some, it may be all, and must therefore be taken as contradictory to whatever is contradictory of all. [In the following diagram, the diagonal from top left to bottom right connects Sub-Contraries.] The complement of the Residual quantity is necessarily exact. ‘Some at least, it may be all’ may leave no residue; hence there can be but one Square for the Residual quantity. Purposive quantities require two Squares of Opposition, the one to provide for exactly enough, the other to provide for the maximal and minimal suitable quantity. [In the top half of the following diagram, the diagonals connect Contraries.] With respect to possibilities and modes of denial, qualitative terms are divisible into five classes. 1. There are qualities which, starting from zero, proceed in one direction only, and in that direction increase in intensity without assignable limit. Such qualities, of which red, loud, wonderful, horrible, are instances, can have no Contrary or Opposite, and are deniable by the privative negative only. If we wish to deny that a thing is red, or loud, or wonderful, or horrible, there is no means at our disposal except that of saying that it is not red, not loud, not wonderful, or not horrible, as the case may be; or of asserting of the thing some quality inconsistent with that which we desire to deny. Although, however, the quality in toto cannot be denied except in these two ways: any given degree of intensity, whether maximal, minimal, or exact, may be denied by the assertion of some inconsistent degree; and the degrees that are inconsistent may be ascertained from the examination of inconsistent quantities just concluded, degree being substituted for quantity.
Quantities of this class I call Singly Unlimited. 2. The next class of qualities consists of those which, starting from a zero point, depart from this point in opposite directions, and proceed in both directions without limit. Thus ‘hard’ starts from a zero point, and proceeds through degrees of increasing hardness without limit, there being no limiting point at which we can say of a thing that it is completely hard, or deny that a greater degree of hardness is conceivable. From the same zero point starts, in the opposite direction, a range of degrees of softness, which is similarly without assignable limit. Such qualities, which I call Doubly Unlimited, are deniable, not only in the same ways as the Singly Unlimited, but also by the assertion of any degree of the opposing series. Very hard is denied, not only by not very hard, but also by soft, rather soft, very soft, and so on; and similarly, any degree of softness is denied by the assertion of any degree of hardness. Every degree of each series is negative with respect to every degree of the other series, and such negatives are called Contrary. Contrasted with each other, the degrees at opposite ends of the two scales are called Opposites. 3. A third class of qualities consists of those which, starting from a zero point, proceed by successive degrees along a scale, but instead of proceeding without limit, as in the cases of the previous classes, arrive at length at a limit of completeness beyond which they cannot proceed. More correctly, we may contemplate the series as beginning at completeness, and from this point departing without limit. Such qualities are perfection, truth, purity, safety, definiteness, and so forth. If a thing is perfect, pure, or true, it admits of no degrees of perfection, purity or truth. It either has the quality or has it not, and no degrees of the possessed quality are conceivable. But though the quality admits of no degrees of intensity, it admits of unlimited degrees of approximation to, or departure from completeness. A thing cannot have degrees of perfection, but it may have illimitable degrees of imperfection. Purity and definiteness must be complete or incomplete. If complete, they admit of no degrees of intensity; but if incomplete, they may be incomplete through all degrees without limit. A thing cannot be completely unjust, or completely imperfect or unsafe, but it may be very or extremely unjust, imperfect, or unsafe. Complete qualities, like other qualities, may be denied by the privative negative. It is a sufficient denial of perfection, or justice, or safety, to say that a thing is not perfect, or not just, or unsafe; but in addition to this mode of denial, completeness of any quality that is susceptible of completeness may be denied by asserting any degree of incompleteness. Complementarily, assertion of completeness denies incompleteness in all its degrees; and any degree of incompleteness denies every other degree with which it is inconsistent, according to the scheme of inconsistent quantities. 4. The fourth class of qualities consists of those which are limited abruptly at both ends of a scale, the scale being a scale, not of intensity, but of degrees of approximation or departure. In the previous class, an abrupt limit of completeness closes the scale at one end, and from this end we may depart, without limit to our excursion. In the class now under consideration, the scale is closed by completion at both ends, and the extent of our departure from completeness at one end is limited by the attainment of a complementary and opposite completeness at the other. Fulness is a complete quality. There can be degrees of approximation to fulness, and degrees of departure from it; but there can be no degrees of intensity of fulness. When we depart from fulness, however, we cannot depart from it to an indefinite extent, as we can depart from justice and perfection. A point is reached at length at which we are brought up with a round turn, and find that we can proceed no further, for we are confronted with emptiness, which is itself a complete quality. We have now reached a blank wall, and must turn back; and the farther we recede from emptiness, the nearer do we approach to fulness, until we are again brought up with a round turn at a complete quality. Qualities thus limited by completion at both ends of the scale of departure or approximation, are deniable in more ways than are those which are but singly limited. Fulness is deniable, not only by the privative negative, not full, and by all degrees of departure from fulness—nearly full only, not more than half full, and so on—but also by all degrees of approximation to emptiness,—partly empty, half empty, nearly empty—and also by complete emptiness, a mode of denial that cannot be used in the case of just, or perfect, or any other singly limited quality. Other pairs of complete opposites are transparent and opaque, legible and illegible, awake and asleep, wide open and shut. 5. Lastly, there are qualities that admit of no degrees at all, either of intensity or of approximation, but that are simply present or absent, such as metallic, moving, fallen, favourite, previous. Such cases may be viewed as doubly complete qualities, like those of the last class, in which the scale of intermediate degrees of approximation has been removed, and the ends brought together and coalesced into one. Such qualities can be denied only by the privative negative, or by the assertion of a quality which is equivalent to the privative negative. Metallic cannot be denied except by non-metallic; but moving may be denied both by not-moving and by at rest; but at rest means no more and no less than not moving. Such terms can have no Contraries, but Contradictories only. Traditional Logic admits into its scheme quantitative terms only, two quantities only of quantitative terms, and two ways only of denying the quantitative terms that it admits. Though it recognises that there are contrary and opposite qualitative terms, it does not mention denial of quality in its scheme of negation. According to Traditional Logic, there are but two ways of denying the proposition ‘All soldiers wear red coats.’ It may be denied by the Contradictory, Some soldiers do not wear red coats, and by the Contrary, No soldiers wear red coats. To these denials Traditional Logic is limited, and when they are made, its resources are exhausted. But in the actual practice of daily life, the assertion that all soldiers wear red coats may be denied in a score of different ways. It can be denied by All soldiers wear coats that are not red, and by Some soldiers do the like. It may be denied also by any assertion that is inconsistent with it. It can be denied by Some, or all soldiers wear black, blue, green, or yellow coats. It can be denied by Soldiers do not wear coats. It can be denied by Soldiers wear no coats at all. It can be denied by Soldiers wear smocks or blouses instead of coats. It can be denied by Soldiers are always in their shirt-sleeves. The merits claimed by Traditional Logic for the modes of denial by the Contrary and the Contradictory, are that Contradictories exhaust between them the universe of discourse, and therefore of Contradictories one must be true and the other false; while Contraries do not exhaust the universe of discourse, and therefore both may be false. Either All soldiers wear red coats, or Some do not; and there is no third alternative. It is the absence of any third alternative that is said to exhaust the universe of discourse. It means that between the two alternatives every case is provided for. But between the Contraries, All soldiers wear red coats, and No soldiers wear red coats, there is a third alternative—that some do and some do not. Hence Contraries are said not to exhaust the universe of discourse; and it is plain that both may be false. There is, no doubt, a certain utility in making this distinction, though whether it is worth all the fuss that logicians make about it, is another matter. Contradiction, the opposition between All are—some are not, and between None are—some are, is called by logicians the most perfect form and the most important form of logical opposition. Why it should be considered perfect, whether there can be degrees of perfection, and what the meaning is of perfect, as applied to logical opposition, are matters on which logicians do not enlighten us; but from the logical ‘square of opposition’ we may gather this— that denial may have more than one degree of comprehensiveness. ‘No A is B’ is a more comprehensive denial of ‘All A’s are B,’ than is ‘Some A’s are not B.’ ‘Some A’s are B’ does not so comprehensively deny ‘No A’s are B,’ as ‘All A’s are B’ denies it. So far, Traditional Logic is justified; but from the square of opposition we cannot gather the much wider generalisation that denial may have many degrees of comprehensiveness, and that in some cases the number of degrees may become infinite. According to the Logic of Tradition, there are two ways and two ways only of denying a proposition. We may deny by affirming the Contradictory, or by affirming the Contrary. But of pure denial of quantity there are many degrees, which may, indeed, all be grouped as either Contraries or Contradictories, but which are more conveniently regarded as of three kinds; according as they deny exactly what is asserted, or a portion only of what is asserted, or more than what is asserted. If the assertion is ‘Every man in the regiment has all his teeth sound,’ the proposition is invalidated if I can show that one man has one tooth slightly decayed. This is a denial of the least possible comprehensiveness, and is a disproof or contradictory of the assertion. If, however, I affirm that Every man in the regiment has not all his teeth sound, or that Not every man in the regiment has all his teeth sound, I deny exactly, in form, what is asserted, neither more nor less; but my denial is, in fact, vague, and may cover every degree of comprehensiveness. But I may go much further than this. I can assert that not a man in the whole army has a sound tooth in his head. This is knock-down denial. It denies all that was asserted, and a great deal more. It strips the assertor stark naked of every rag of affirmation, and leaves him nothing wherewith to cover his shame. The first denial is a Contradictory; but so far from being ‘the most perfect,’ or the most important mode of denial, it is manifest that it is little more than a quibble; and if this were all the evidence that could be adduced in contradiction, the dentist who made the original assertion would escape without even a reprimand. The second mode of denial also must be regarded as a Contradictory; but though a perfectly valid denial, it is in a form that Traditional Logic knows not as a Contradictory. The third denial might be called a Contrary, but it is much more comprehensive than the Contrary known to Logic. I dare say logicians, if they admitted it into their scheme, would call it a super-Contrary; but at any rate it is a far more effective and conclusive denial than either of the Contradictories. Prove it, and the dentist who certified to the soundness of the teeth of the regiment would not escape with a reprimand: he would be cashiered. Inconsistency of Ratios is not susceptible of such systematic treatment as is inconsistency of terms. A Ratio may always be denied by the insertion of a negative, and usually it may be denied in other ways also, and with various degrees of comprehensiveness. Most Ratios have a complementary opposite, which is affirmative in form, but denies and is denied by its opposite. ‘He hit it’ is deniable by ‘He did not hit it,’ but it is also denied by, and denies, ‘He missed it.’ In this case, the affirmative is denied by other affirmative Ratios, such as ‘He went wide of the mark,’ ‘He very nearly hit it,’ and by negative Ratios, other than the direct denial, such as ‘He did not reach it,’ ‘He did not go near it.’ In other cases, the negative Ratio is the sole mode of denial, though other Ratios may be incongruous, without being inconsistent. ‘Brutus killed Cæsar’ is not deniable except by ‘Brutus did not kill Cæsar.’ ‘Brutus saved Cæsar’s life’ is incongruous with ‘Brutus killed Cæsar,’ but the two are not inconsistent, for they may refer to different occasions. Of course, in denying by means of an inconsistent Ratio, care must be taken that the Ratio is actually inconsistent, and is not merely incongruous. ‘He said he would do it’ is not necessarily denied by ‘He said he would not do it’; nor by ‘He declared he would not do it’; nor even by ‘He emphatically stated what he’d be before he would do it’. All these he may have said, and yet he may have previously undertaken to do it. Even Peter denied his Master. If the assertion refers to one particular occasion of his utterance, then these are effective denials; but if not, then the only effective denial is ‘He did not say he would do it’. THE Art of Reasoning has already been defined as that of attaining, or constructing, or establishing, new propositions, from propositions already in possession. It is the process by which the mind, working on its own contents, rearranges them, and brings them into new forms. It gives new lamps for old ones. The form the new knowledge takes is the proposition. The material out of which the new judgement is constructed consists of propositions, or of those consolidated relations, that, as we shall presently see, result from propositionising. But though propositions are constructed in this way, it is clear that this process does not take us back to the ultimate origin of propositions. We are confronted with the problem of the owl and the egg. If every owl comes from an egg, and every owl’s egg comes from an owl, which was first, an owl or an egg? If every proposition comes from a previous proposition, and this from another, what was the origin of the first proposition of all? Every proposition, however, does not come from a previous proposition. Some propositions only are thus derived. The remainder come directly, and all propositions are derived directly or indirectly, from experience. Experience is the ultimate source of all thoughts. Some little controversy has arisen as to the meaning of experience; and by some, empiricism is taken to mean the mere succession of impressions made on the senses, as if they were received passively. This of course is not the case. The mind is active in receiving impressions; and by experience, I mean that active commerce between the self and its circumstances, by which the mind not merely is impressed, but perceives. The unit of knowledge is not a Sensation, but a Percept. The radical vice of the Logic of the Schools was its failure to appeal to experience; and its failure to appreciate that all knowledge is founded on experience, and drawn from experience. To the Schoolmen, Logic meant, not the three modes of reasoning specified in the Introduction to this volume, but solely the second of these modes—Deduction. Their efforts were concerned solely with explicating the implications of propositions; with deducing results from postulated principles; with speculating on the consequences that followed from suppositions. In this there would have been no harm if they had not mistaken postulates for facts, and suppositions for truths. Instead of going to experience for their principia or universals, they spun them out of their own bowels. Some of their cobwebs have long been swept sway, but as we have already found, and shall find again in the next Book, many still await the broom and dustpan of the reformer. It was the recognition of this defect in Scholastic Logic that led to the institution of Inductive Logic, as a separate branch of the subject. The radical difference between Deductive Logic and Inductive Logic, is that the one appeals to experience, and the other does not. The mistake of the Schoolmen was that they applied Deduction, which is the Logic of Consistency only, to the discovery of Truth. The mistake of the Inductive School, and of present-day logicians, is that, though they recognise that the direct appeal to experience cannot be made by any of the processes of Deduction, they confuse the indirect appeal to experience with the deductive process of syllogising; and fancy that Mediate Induction is the same as Mediate Inference; whereas the two, despite a superficial and deceptive similarity, are profoundly different. Moreover, though the Inductive School broke in one direction through the narrow and artificial limitations of Scholastic Logic, yet it falls short in two ways of the revolution that was necessary to bring this Logic into accordance with the practice of reasoners. In the first place, it leaves the whole structure of Deduction, limited, defective, and erroneous as it is, practically unchanged. In the second place, it confines its appeal to experience practically to the discovery of causation alone, and ignores the multitude of other relations that exist in the real world, and that it is interesting and important for us to discover. The function of Induction is to solve problems; and the problems that confront us, and demand solution by appeal to experience, are by no means limited to causation. Causation is a very important relation, no doubt; but it is far from being the only relation that we desire to discover, and that we must discover if we are to adjust ourselves favourably to our circumstances. As a guide to conduct, it is necessary that we should solve innumerable other problems—discover innumerable other relations. Is it raining? Will it be fine to-morrow? Who was it that called when I was out? Where did I put my hat? Did Babylon ever exist? Do any ruins of it remain? Do birds of a feather flock together; and if so, at what times, in what circumstances, in what numbers, in what places? Is the fleet efficient? Is it in home or foreign waters? How is it distributed? Have all the ships their full complements of men, of guns, of stores? Is ponos kala-azar? If not, what are the differences between them? Which is the best way to get to Bath, to Jericho, to Coventry? Is he rich or poor, stupid or clever, honest or dishonest? All these and many more are problems that it may be interesting and important to discover; none of them is a problem in causation. Modern Logic, recognising the narrowness of Traditional Logic, and its severance from experience, seeks to bring Logic into touch with experience by declaring that all judgement refers to Reality. The effort seems to me as naive and crude as the efforts of the Inductive School are partial and restricted. Reasoning cannot be based on experience by merely saying that it refers to reality. The statement is flatly opposed to fact. Modern Logic, in making the assertion, neglects that very appeal to experience on which every material statement ought to rest. If space were of four dimensions, I could tie a knot in a string without letting go the ends. Supposing I were you, and supposing you were me, and supposing we both were somebody else, our identities would be confused. If all the earth were apple pie, and all the seas were ink, and all the trees were bread and cheese, why then, many inferences could be drawn from these propositions; but to say that in stating the propositions, in forming the judgements, in drawing the conclusions, I am making any reference to reality, in any recognisable or admissible sense of the word reality, seems to me the merest moonshine. That there are ‘real’ propositions, in the sense of propositions that refer to reality, and affirm the existence in the real world of a relation between real things, as well as propositions whose relations and whose terms are merely postulated for the purpose of the argument, I not only admit, but also contend. Both have their appropriate places in Logic, the one as the unit of the Logic of Experience, the other as the unit of the Logic of Consistency. Either being wanting, Logic is deficient by a moiety; but no good purpose can be served by confusing them with one another, or by pretending that a postulated proposition necessarily refers to reality, when its very nature is to be indifferent to reality. Far from agreeing that every proposition refers to reality, I consider it of the greatest importance to recognise the distinction between the postulated proposition and the real proposition; and the corresponding distinctions between the Logic of mere Consistency, and the Logic of Experience; between the argumentum ex postulato and the argumentum in materia; between the explication of what is implied in a proposition, and the investigation of fact. This distinction was drawn by Mill, but his distinction was not as complete and thoroughgoing as I would make it. He recognised that a new method was necessary to complement the Logic of Consistency; but the new method that he and his successors have adopted, is widely different from the method of solving problems that is here propounded. Mill’s Logic of Induction is practically a method of determining causation experimentally. Supposing that the method can be applied, mutatis mutandis, to the solution of other problems than those of causation, still, it sets forth one only of the two methods by which problems are, in practice, solved. It sets forth the modes of appealing directly to experience. The indirect appeal to experience, which I call Mediate Induction, was known to him, but has never been described as it is described here. That there is an indirect as well as a direct appeal to experience, is, indeed, common knowledge; but this indirect appeal is confused by Mill and the Inductive School, as well as by Modern Logic, with the syllogism, to which it has a superficial and misleading resemblance. What I believe to be its true nature, together with the resemblances and differences between it and the syllogism, will be set forth in the next chapter. In the Logic of Consistency, the proposition is the grist that is put into the inferential mill; and the sole function of inference is to grind it up, and present it in a new form. Until it is furnished with a proposition, and a complete proposition, inference cannot begin. But in most of the reasonings of actual life, the material presented to the reasoning process is not a complete, but an incomplete proposition; and the main task of reasoning, the sole task of Empirical reasoning, is the completion of the incomplete propositions that are continually confronting us. In short, the task of Inference is the extraction of the implications of propositions; the task of Empirical Reasoning is the solving of problems. The aim of Inference is the maintenance of Consistency; the aim of Empirical Reasoning is the discovery of Truth. Well, Doctor, have you discovered the cause of my child’s illness?—Why, yes, I have found that it was caused by the foulness of your drains; and I should advise you to put them in order. What Would it cost, Mr. Builder, to relay my drains from the house to the sewer?—I reckon it would cost about £160, but I will send you a detailed estimate. What is the prospect, Mr. Solicitor, of recovering from my landlord the cost of relaying the drains?—There is no prospect at all. Your landlord is not liable, and you must pay the cost yourself. For the moment, we will not enquire how these conclusions are severally reached. All we are to notice now is that these three questions are problems; and the three answers are their respective solutions. It is quite clear that in each case the solution is more than the mere extraction of what is implied in a proposition, and therefore is reached by a process radically different from any of the processes of Inference described in the next Book. By no process of explicating the implications of any proposition in my possession can I discover the cause of my child’s illness, the cost of relaying my drains, or the liability of my landlord to pay this cost. In order to solve these problems, I must go outside the proposition, for in fact, I have no complete proposition at my service; I have a problem only, and first of all, I must ascertain the nature of a problem. A problem is an incomplete proposition. It is a proposition in which one of the three elements is wanting; and is temporarily replaced by a dummy; and the problem is solved by supplying the missing element. What is the cause of the child’s illness? In this case the problem is, The cause of the illness is x: find x. What will be the cost of relaying the drains? The problem is, X will be the cost of relaying the drains: find X. Can the landlord be made to pay the expense? In this case the problem is, The landlord x (can, or cannot be made to pay) the expense: find x. In the first problem, the Object-term is missing; in the second, it is the Subject-term that is missing; and in the third, the element that is missing is the Ratio. Thus, any element in a proposition may be missing, and its absence converts the proposition into a problem. In any case, the solution of the problem lies in the supply of the missing element. It will be seen by the examples given, that the scope of a problem varies much. The problems of the doctor and the builder were set at large. No hint was given to them of what the solution might be. The nature of the missing element was not suggested. The solicitor’s problem was more restricted. He was not to search the universe for the missing element; it was suggested to him. All he was to do was to decide between two alternatives. And in practice we find that problems may present themselves with any degree of definiteness. Who killed Cock Robin? is an indefinite problem. Was it or was it not Sparrow that killed Cock Robin? is an alternative problem of much more restricted scope. Is there any relation between drunkenness and insanity? Is there a causal relation between drunkenness and insanity? The latter is a much more restricted problem than the former; but if an affirmative solution is found for the latter, it still leaves us in doubt whether the drunkenness causes the insanity, or the insanity causes the drunkenness, or whether both are not concurrent effects or causes of some third condition. Does or does not drunkenness cause insanity? narrows the issue to these definite alternatives. The indefiniteness of a problem may reside in the scantiness of our experience; and in such a case, the vagueness with which it is expressed is proper and unavoidable. Or it may lie in the mode of stating the problem, and then it is avoidable and improper. Did Sparrow kill Cock Robin? sets three distinct and separate problems, and it is impossible to tell, from the form of the statement, which of the three is intended. It may mean, was it Sparrow that killed Cock Robin? It may mean, was it Cock Robin that was killed by Sparrow? Or it may mean, was killing what Sparrow did to Cock Robin? It is impossible to tell, from the way in which the problem is stated, whether it is the Subject, the Ratio, or the Object that is to be supplied. Hence, the best way to state a problem is to substitute x for the missing element. From this statement of the nature of the problem, the distinction between Inference and Empirical Reasoning comes clearly into view. Inference needs, as its first and indispensable requisite, a complete proposition. Ex nihilo nihil fit. From an incomplete proposition no implication can be extracted. ‘Give me a premise,’ says the Deductive logician, ‘and I will tell you what it implies. Give me an argument, and I will put it into convincing form. If there are certain flaws in it, I can point them out. But these are the limits of my powers. Incomplete propositions are of no use to me; I can do nothing with them. As to problems, I know nothing of them; they are not in my province. I can do nothing with them until they are solved. When you have solved your problem, bring it to me, and I will tell you whether it stands certain tests that I consider important; but until you have solved your problem, you must excuse me; my functions cannot begin.’ Confronted with the innumerable problems of practical life, may we not fairly apply to the exponent of Traditional Logic the question put by Dr. Johnson to Lord Chesterfield: Is not a logician one who looks with unconcern upon a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached around, encumbers him with help? There are two ways, and two ways only, in which a problem can be solved. If I want to know whether this jug will break if it is dropped on the stones, I can drop it on the stones, and see what happens. If I want to know whether there is anyone in the next room, I can go there and look. If I want to know whether my ship is arrived, I can go down to the docks and see. If I want to know whether the piano is in tune, I can strike the notes and listen. If I want to know whether the meat is tainted, I can find out by smelling it. In short, one mode of solving problems is by direct appeal to experience. This is the mode inculcated by John Hunter’s maxim, ‘Don’t think: try.’ This is the mode that alone is indicated in the discovery of causation by the Inductive School of logicians. But the direct appeal to experience is often expensive; often tedious; often dangerous; often altogether impracticable; and then the second mode must be used. If I test the fragility of my jug by dropping it on the stones, and it turns out to be fragile, I have lost my jug. If I want to know whether this foreshore will ultimately form the summit of a mountain, or whether this mountain will ultimately be eroded and carried down in debris to the sea, it would be tedious to sit down and watch. If I want to know whether the bite of this cobra is fatal, I prefer some other method than that of letting him bite me, and waiting to discover whether I live or die. And if I want to know whether the moon is inhabited, it is quite impracticable to go there and look. Nevertheless, there are means at my command, there is a mode of appealing to experience, by which all these problems can be solved with as assured a certainty as by the direct appeal. Without breaking my jug, I can ascertain with certainty that it is fragile; without having seen this mountain upheaved from the sea, I can be quite sure that its summit once was a sea-bottom; without being bitten by the cobra, I can make quite certain that its bite would be fatal; without going to the moon, I can be as sure that it has no human inhabitants as if I had explored every foot of its surface. In these cases I make no direct appeal to experience, but I can appeal to experience indirectly, and thus solve my problems with complete certitude. When the direct appeal to experience takes the materials of experience as they are, and merely notes them, without making any alteration in them, the appeal is called Observation. But it often happens that the real world affords no experience that applies precisely to the problem, and then we must create a quasi-artificial experience ad hoc. Such quasi-artificial experience is called Experiment. If I want to know whether there is anyone in the next room, I can go and look; and the experience furnishes me with a solution of the problem, without any artificial manipulation of the materials by me. But if I want to know whether the jug will break if it falls on the stones, the only way of appealing direct to experience is to create an artificial experience, ad hoc, by letting it fall on the stones—unless, indeed, I wait until it has fallen on the stones by accident. In the case of the jug, we may be sure that such an accident will happen sooner or later, and therefore, if we are not in a hurry, we may be content to wait until the accident happens, and then we shall know; but in many cases, the precise experience we need is not likely to happen accidentally; and then we must have recourse to experiment. The direct appeal to experience has been shown to be often inconvenient, often dangerous, often impracticable. These defects are great and important; but it has yet another defect, perhaps more important still. The knowledge that we obtain from direct appeal to experience is limited to what now exists or what now happens. From it we can obtain no knowledge of the past or the future. We cannot transport ourselves back into the past, or forward into the future, and observe directly what existed or happened, what will exist or will happen. Neither by observation alone, nor by experiment alone, nor by any combination of observation and experiment alone, can either the past or the future be ascertained. Yet the majority of the problems that confront us in life belong to the past or the future. What was the cause of my child’s illness? What will be the cost of laying new drains? These are types of the common problems of life, To conclude, from any observation or experiment now made, what must have been in the past, or what will be in the future, is an exercise, not of the direct, but of the indirect appeal to experience. All that the direct appeal can give us is what now exists, or what now happens; in short, what is presented to perception. The direct appeal to experience is valid in proportion to the faithfulness with which the experience fulfils the conditions of the problem. If the problem is whether this jug will break if it is dropped on a stone floor, the problem cannot be solved by observation or experiment alone, except by dropping this very jug upon a floor of stone. If I drop another jug upon a stone floor, and argue from the result what the fate of this jug would be under similar experience; or if I drop this jug on a feather bed, or into water, or on a wooden floor or an iron plate, and argue from the result what would happen if I dropped it on a stone floor, I am employing not the direct, but the indirect appeal. The direct appeal requires an experience of the very relation between the very terms that I am seeking to establish. Any departure from these conditions imports an element of indirectness into the appeal. It is true that neither observation nor experiment is often applied, in this sense, to the direct solution of the problem in hand. Both, and especially experiment, are usually made to afford a basis for the indirect appeal; and this teaches us two things—first, the intimate association, in practice, of the direct and the indirect appeal; and second, the immense importance of the indirect appeal to experience, by which the great majority of problems are solved. The indirect appeal to experience, as I conceive its nature, has not hitherto been described, or even recognised, by logicians, either of the Traditional, the Inductive, or the Modern School. No doubt all of them, and especially the two last, do recognise that there are such things as problems, though they do not define a problem, or show in what it consists, or even explicitly allude to problems; and no doubt logicians of each school do propose methods for the solution of certain problems; but they do not recognise what seems to me to be the true nature of the indirect appeal to experience, or that it is the general mode of solving problems—the only mode by which the great majority of problems
be solved. The direct appeal to experience—Immediate Induction, as we
may call it—is not a mode of reasoning, as reasoning is understood in Logic. Observation and experiment are processes in which reasoning is in rudiment; and the validity of observation and experiment depends on the minimisation of reasoning—on the elimination of reasoning, as far as reasoning can be eliminated. The more complete the elimination of reasoning, the more valid and trustworthy is the observation or the experiment. In other words, direct appeal to experience gives results that are trustworthy in proportion as the appeal is direct, and as the indirect appeal is eliminated. The total exclusion of the indirect appeal is impracticable: all that we can do is to reduce it to a minimum.
This is what Mill had in his mind when he said that what we observe is usually a compound result, of which one tenth may be observation, and the remaining nine tenths inference. ‘I affirm . . . that I saw my brother . . . I only saw a coloured surface . . . and . . . I concluded that I saw my brother.’ In other words, perception is the interpretation of sensory impressions; and in proportion as interpretation enters into perception, in the same proportion enters the liability to error. Interpretation of sensations, and their combination and elaboration into percepts, pertain to Psychology, and are out of place in Logic; but this is one of the points at which the two sciences come into contact. THE direct appeal to experience we have found to be limited in practicability, and restricted in usefulness. By far the greater number of the problems that confront us must be solved, if they are to be solved at all, by the indirect appeal. What, then, is the nature of this appeal? It seeks to solve this problem by appealing to our experience of similar problems. It seeks in experience a similar problem that has been solved; and applies the solution of that problem to the solution of this. The problem is a proposition in which there are two given elements and a missing element, or quæsitum. In the indirect appeal to experience, we search experience for a proposition similar in the given elements; and we adopt into our problem the third element of that proposition as our quæsitum. The similar proposition that is discovered in experience, we will call the premiss. Then the first step in Mediate Induction is to find a premiss. At once we see the radical difference between this process and Inference, or Deduction. Deduction cannot stir a step unless a complete premiss is given. The whole process of Inference is founded and based on a given premiss—on a postulate. Mediate Induction knows nothing of postulates. To Mediate Induction no premiss is given. Its function is, first of all, to find a premiss; and it is in the finding of an appropriate premiss that the skill and acumen of the investigator are first and most displayed. He searches experience; and from experience be selects whatever relation it contains that most resembles, in its homologous elements, the given elements of the problem. The doctor is asked what was the cause of Johnny Jones’ illness? He puts it to himself—‘The problem is, Johnny Jones’ illness is caused by x. I am to find x. I must search experience for a similar case—for a case as like as possible. I must find a case in which a similar illness was traced to a cause, and I may be sure that, if the illnesses are really similar in material respects, and if the true cause of the one illness was discovered, the cause of the other will be the same, or will be similar in material respects.’ He searches experience, and he finds what he wants. He remembers Jenny Brown’s illness, which was, in material respects, similar to Johnny’s; he remembers that Jenny Brown’s illness was traced without doubt to foul drains, to suppurating gums, to faulty diet, or what not; and he concludes, with assured certainty, that Johnny’s illness was due to the same cause, or to one that is similar in material respects, What his warrant is for so concluding, we shall consider presently. For the moment, it is enough to show what the course of the reasoning is. This, then, is the nature of the indirect appeal to experience that I call Induction, or Mediate Induction. When a problem is presented to us that does not admit of solution by direct appeal to experience, we appeal to experience indirectly, by comparing the problem with some previous experience that is similar in material respects. We cannot reproduce Johnny’s illness. If we could, it would not be the same illness, but another one. We cannot set the cause in motion to produce the illness, for ex hypothesi, the cause is unknown. Direct appeal to experience cannot be made. We therefore appeal to experience indirectly, through the medium of some similar problem, the solution of which is known. We search experience for a premiss—for a proposition known to be true in fact, and as like as possible to the problem. We compare the problem with this premiss; and, if they are like in the two given elements of the problem, we conclude that they are like in the third element also. Thus we supply the missing element in the problem, by adopting into it the homologous element of the premiss. The reasoning may be represented thus; the mark || being the sign of assimilation. That this is the actual process of reasoning in the case supposed, no one who follows it, and traces the operations of his own mind, can, I think, have any doubt. At least, it compares in this respect on equal terms with the syllogism; for I have never heard any reason for the assertion, that the syllogism is the common form of all reasoning, except that it is so. Modern Logic, as represented by Mr. Bosanquet, enumerates more than twenty modes of reasoning—ten of judgement, dealing with Simple propositions; and thirteen of Inference, dealing with Compound propositions. I find it difficult to appreciate the niceties of distinction that separate these forms from one another; nor do I find any one of them that is not either Inference as understood in the next Book, or Mediate Induction as here explained. Comparing Induction, as here described, with syllogising, we find the following differences between them:— 1. The syllogism has three terms, and no more than three. The fallacy of four terms is the cardinal fallacy of the syllogism, and ipso facto falsifies any syllogism in which it occurs. The Induction contains four terms, and cannot be constructed with less than four. 2. The syllogism consists of three, and no more than three propositions, all of which must be complete. The Induction consists of two propositions, one of which is incomplete when it enters into the Induction, and is completed by the process of reasoning. Since, however, the assimilation marks can be expressed in words, it is possible to express the Induction in three propositions; but it may be expressed in two, which the syllogism can not. 3. The syllogism contains two premisses; and no syllogism can be constructed with more or less than two. The Induction need contain but one premiss; but Inductions can be constructed with two or with three premisses, as will hereafter be shown. 4. The foundation of the syllogism is the Universal proposition. Without a Universal, there must be an undistributed middle, with all its dire consequences. The Induction is founded on an appeal to experience. It needs a Universal, it is true; but its Universal is very different from that of Traditional Logic. The Universal of Traditional Logic is a postulated universal, and need not be true in fact. It may be wildly impossible. The Universal of Mediate Induction is founded on experience. It must, therefore, be consistent with experience; and every Induction must contain an appeal to experience. 5. The syllogism must have a middle term, common to both premisses. The Induction has no middle term. Those inductions that have but one premiss, cannot have a middle term. 6. According to Traditional Logic, one premiss at least of the syllogism must be affirmative. The single premiss of an induction may be affirmative or negative. The differences between Mediate Inference and Mediate induction are, therefore, profound and far-reaching. In all the respects enumerated above, they differ; but the main difference, the important difference, the difference from which it results that Induction is in daily and hourly use, while Inference is employed on occasion only, is that Inference applies to postulates, and takes no account of Truth or of experience; while Induction rests on experience alone. Whether the postulates of Inference are materially true or not, has nothing to do with the course of the argument, and is of no concern to it. For the purpose of Inference, nothing is too impossible, too absurd, too preposterous, to serve as a postulate. We can argue from the postulate that matter is imponderable, that two straight lines can enclose a space, that virtue is red and the soul it square; and our inferences will be sound if the argument is properly conducted. But Induction knows nothing of postulates. To Induction, the material truth of its premiss is vital. Induction admits those premisses only that are consistent with experience,—that are, or are believed to be, true in fact. A premiss which is at variance with experience, or which has no basis in experience, has no place in Induction. In short, Inference is the maintenance of consistency only; Induction is the discovery of truth—of fact. An Inference may be perfectly valid, in the sense of consisting with its postulate, and may stand every test of consistency that can be applied to it, and yet may be of such a crazy character that we should never dream of founding our conduct on it. If a canary bird cannot live on any diet except one of wild elephants, then I cannot expect to keep a canary bird alive in a cage unless I provide a diet of wild elephants for it. The Inference is plain, rigorous, unescapable. But in spite of the unexceptionable validity of this inference, I should never dream of sending to Africa for a consignment of wild elephants to feed my canary upon. If I want to solve the problem, What the proper diet for a canary is, I must either appeal directly to experience, by trying one diet after another till I find the one that suits; or I must appeal to my experience, or that of others, in similar cases. There is no other alternative. In experience, and in experience alone, is the solution of problems to be found. The conclusion of an Inference is in the premiss that is supplied. The solution of a problem is not in the problem. It must be sought from an extraneous source; and that source is experience. Inference is formal proof: Induction is material proof. Inference finds what is consistent with its postulate, and is indifferent to the truth of the postulate: Induction sets out to discover what is true; and the truth of its premiss is vital. If every man is mortal, and Socrates is a man; then Socrates is mortal. The Inference is irrefragable; and, if the premisses are true in fact, the conclusion is true in fact. But Deduction does not allow me to assume the truth of my premisses. It is this incompetence on the part of Deduction to guarantee the truth of its premisses, that led to the interminable discussions on the nature of Universals, which dominated the Schools for centuries, and which have been revived by Modern Logic. If I want to discover whether Socrates is, in fact, mortal, Inference will not assist me. I must have recourse to Induction. To discover a fact, it is manifestly useless to postulate a premiss, which, ex vi termini, may be true or not. To attain material truth, we must start from material truth. To discover fact, we must have fact to go upon. ‘Oh, but,’ says the logician, ‘I have fact to go upon. It is a fact that all men are mortal, and you cannot gainsay it.’ To this there are four good and sufficient answers. In the first place, it is not a fact. In the second place, if it were a fact, that has nothing to do with the inference. In the third place, if you assume it to be a fact, you have already begged your conclusion. In the fourth place, if it be a fact, you know it to be so, not from your postulate, which may not assert it except tentatively, and as a postulate, but from experience; and there is no appeal to experience in your postulate. If you assume it to be a fact, you assume what is not in the postulate, and you violate a Canon of that very inferential process that you purport to employ. It is not a fact, in the proper sense of fact, that all men are mortal. A fact is a thing done; and all men are not mortal in the sense that their mortality is proved by their death having occurred. A fact is an event that has happened, and the event of the death of all men has not yet happened, or there would be no discussion about it. In literal truth, therefore, it is not a ‘fact’ that all men are mortal. In the second place, whether all men are in fact mortal or not has nothing to do with the process of inference. If all men are mortal and Socrates is a man, he is mortal, no doubt. That is true, and so is it true that if all men are immortal, and Socrates is a man, he is immortal. Both inferences are perfectly valid, but both cannot be founded on fact, and whether either of them is or is not founded on fact, and if so which, makes not the slightest difference to the validity of the inferences. In the third place, if we believe that all men are mortal, in the sense that all men now living will die, it is perfectly clear that there must be some ground in experience for the belief. It is clear that the knowledge that Socrates will die depends, not on the postulated proposition that all men are mortal, but on empirical grounds. In the fourth place, if it is assumed that All men are mortal, this postulate is assumed for the purpose of some argument, and any conclusion derived from it will be as true as the assumption and will have no other authorisation. It is a conventional assumption, on a par with the assumptions about centaurs and jabberwocks, and of neither more nor less validity, as an assumption, than these are. If the assumption goes further, and is assumed to be true in fact, the limits of Deduction are ipso facto exceeded, and we are in another province of reasoning. Now it is necessary that we should state the grounds of the assumption, and once the grounds of an assumption are stated, it ceases to be an assumption. ‘Socrates is mortal’ is an answer to three main questions. Is it Socrates who is mortal? Is it mortality that is an attribute of Socrates? Is or is not Socrates mortal?’ Commonly, the last question is taken to be that to which ‘Socrates is mortal’ is the answer. But this is not explicit enough. It does not express the doubt, if any doubt exists, in the mind of the questioner. What he wants to know, if he wants to know anything on the subject, is whether Socrates will die. If Socrates is already dead, the solution is known. There is then no problem. It is only if he is alive that we can possibly want to know whether he is mortal. Will Socrates die? That is the problem. Formally stated, it is Socrates x (will or will not) die: find x. To solve this problem, how do we proceed? I say that we proceed to find a premiss in experience. We search experience for the relation most resembling the relation stated in the problem. We ask what our experience is of the mortality of beings most like to Socrates. We compare Socrates with other men in the material respect of mortality, and we find, in experience, that, in this respect, men are divisible into two classes—those whose mortality is proved, and those whose mortality is not proved—those who are dead, and those who are alive. Socrates belongs to the latter class. We have precisely as much, and no more, warrant for concluding that Socrates will die, as for concluding that every and any other man now living will die. Our task is, not to bring Socrates into the class of those who are dead, which would result in proceedings against us at the Old Bailey; but to find out how far Socrates, and other living men, can be assimilated, in the material respect of mortality, to those who have demonstrated their mortality by dying. How is this to be done? What have we to go upon? What influences our minds in concluding that Socrates will die? Clearly it is not that all men are mortal, for this is assuming what we have to prove, an assumption quite legitimate, and even necessary, in the Logic of Inference, but preposterous, in the literal sense, in material reasoning. The question is What enables us to assimilate, in respect of mortality, the great multitude of living men with the greater multitude of men who have died? Mill says it is our knowledge of the Uniformity of Nature. Well, for one thing, Nature is not uniform, as Mill admits; but if it be, and if it is from this that we get our assurance that Socrates and other living men will die, whence do we get this knowledge of the Uniformity of Nature? On this, logicians are silent. I say that we get our assurance that Socrates and the rest of us will die from no such vague and inaccurate assumption. If we did, our assurance would be as vague and as inaccurate as the assumption itself; since nothing can be had out of a premiss that is not in it. Our assurance that Socrates and the rest of living mankind will die, is neither vague, except as to time and manner, nor inaccurate. It is precise, and it is true. Whence do we obtain it? I say that we obtain it from experience,—from the uniform experience of mankind for innumerable generations, and in innumerable millions of instances, that no man has permanently escaped death. Given time, no man has failed to exhibit mortality. In other words, the relation between man and mortality is constant in experience. That, and that alone, is our warrant for the conclusion that Socrates will die. But can the relation between man and mortality be said to be constant in experience, if there are multitudes of men who have not proved their mortality? Yes, for every man who has died has lived for a certain time before dying, and the men now living resemble in all material respects the men who have died—among other material respects, they resemble those who have died, in that a certain period of living precedes their death. The relation, in men, between living and eventually dying, is constant in the experience of the whole of mankind, without a single permanent exception. It is this constancy in experience that enables, and more than enables, that compels us to conclude, that the relation will continue to be constant in experience. The living men are temporary exceptions to this constancy in experience, but we are unable to regard them as permanent exceptions, because the relation that we have found constant is the eventual sequence of death upon life. There have always been multitudes of temporary exceptions: there has never been a permanent exception; and this undeviating constancy in experience allows, and compels, us to conclude that there never will be a permanent exception, and that Socrates and the rest of us will ultimately die. Is this conclusion warranted? Are we justified in concluding that since, in the experience of mankind, a thing always has been, therefore it always will be? This problem does not belong to Logic. It pertains to Epistemology, and need not be considered here. Those who wish to pursue the subject on these lines will find it treated in my book on Psychology. As far as Logic is concerned, it is enough that constancy in experience does in fact form the ground—the sole ground—of Material, as distinguished from Formal reasoning. Of course, this doctrine is open to the objection that it lays down, as the criterion of certainty, that very inductio per enumerationem simplicem, ubi non reperitur instantia contradictoria, which Bacon put as the weakest form of Induction. In this I do not agree with Bacon. I hold that every one of the truths that we hold as most certain, rests upon the accumulation of instances without exception. Is anything more certain than that all matter gravitates? And on what does this certainty rest, except the accumulation of instances without exception? Is anything more certain than that resistance is never found apart from extension? The certainty rests on the same ground. Why are we certain that the sun will rise to-morrow? Have we any better ground for our belief than the accumulation of instances without exception? How do we know that mutilation and injury of the healthy body will certainly be accompanied by pain? Is it
not from the same unvarying experience? So far from the inductio
per enumerationem simplicem being untrustworthy, it is the ground of every one of our most certain convictions. Of course, Bacon’s aim was to deprecate the reception of simple enumeration as sufficient proof, without searching for contrary instances, and such an aim is wholly laudable; but his maxim has been widely held to mean that simple enumeration cannot under any circumstances give a valid induction, and this opinion, I hold, is wrong. The Deduction by which we prove the consistency of the conclusion, that Socrates is mortal, with the postulates that All men are mortal and Socrates is a man, is stated in the form of a syllogism, thus:— The Induction by which we prove that Socrates will, in fact, die, is as different in form as it is in conclusion. It is this:— Or, in formal propositions, we may state the argument thus:— In this argument will be found certain characters that are common to all Mediate Inductions, and that form the conditions of validity of all such Inductions. If those statements are severally changed from assertions to mandates, they become Canons of Induction; and may be stated thus:— 1. The First Canon of Induction is that the premiss must predicate a relation that is constant in experience, or is subsumable under one that is constant in experience. Constancy in experience, of the relation expressed in the premiss, is the very sine quâ non of assured Induction; for note the effect of its absence. If Cassius is found murdered, why cannot I conclude that, since Brutus murdered Cæsar, therefore it was Brutus who murdered Cassius also? In all respects but the one in question, the argument is valid. Here are all the conditions, save the one in question, of valid Induction. One given element in the problem—the Ratio—is identical with its homologue in the premiss. The other given element in the problem—the Object—is similar is all material respects to its homologue in the premiss. Cassius, like Cæsar is dead. Like Cæsar he died of violence on the Ides of March; like Cæsar, he was stabbed at the foot of Pompey’s statue. In all respects material to the argument, he resembles Cæsar. Why, then, is it unjustifiable to conclude that Brutus killed him? for Brutus unquestionably killed Cæsar. Because, and only because, the relation between Brutus and murdered men is not constant in experience. There are, in experience, many exceptions. Many men have been murdered by persons other than Brutus, and hence it is that the conclusion cannot be drawn. If no one in the history of the world had ever been murdered except by Brutus, and if Brutus had been known to murder many people besides Cæsar, the suggestion would be very strong indeed that Cassius was killed by Brutus, and the onus would lie on Brutus of proving that he did not kill Cassius; but as matters stand—experience being what it is—if the fact that Brutus killed Cæsar is the only evidence in support of his having murdered Cassius, the magistrate would have no alternative but to dismiss the charge. But does not this prove too much? How is the Canon, that the relation expressed in the premiss must be constant in experience, consistent with the argument about the cause of Johnny’s illness? In this instance, a conclusion which we feel to be valid, is drawn from a premiss stating a single instance only; and how can it be said that any single instance is constant in experience, any more than the single instance of Brutus killing Cæsar? The difference is that the causation of the illness was not inferred from that premiss alone. Lurking in the background of the mind is another premiss, which is not explicitly mentioned in the argument, but which is in the argument, and is essential to the argument. It is there, ready to come forward and assert itself if, and when, called upon. It would be impossible to argue from one case of causation to another, unless it were assumed that, in experience, causation is constant; that the same cause always produces the same effect, and the same effect is always due to the same cause. This relation between cause and effect is, in fact, constant in experience, and hence material reasonings based on it are valid, if valid in other respects. Then Induction, like syllogising, does, after all, require two premisses? Not necessarily. If the individual relation, expressed in the premiss, is not itself constant in experience, it must be subsumed under a more comprehensive relation that is constant; but if the constancy in experience inheres in the very relation of the premiss itself, then this premiss alone is sufficient to warrant the conclusion. Since the mortality of men is constant in experience, I can safely conclude, from this premiss alone, that Socrates, or any other man, or any number of men, are mortal; but, when the constancy in experience is not expressed in the premiss, but is assumed, something further in the nature of a premiss is evidently required. Let us take another case. I see a snake, the like of which I have seen but once before in my life, and that was yesterday, when a similar snake bit my dog, which died in ten minutes. That snake I killed; and on seeing this one, which is precisely similar in appearance, I conclude at once that it is venomous. What is the process of reasoning, and what is its warrant? The conclusion is irrefragable; and if I were to disregard it, I should pay with my life for my indiscretion. There is no Universal, in the sense attached to that word by Traditional Logic, in the reasoning. I cannot afford to wait until I have collected all the individuals that exist of that species, including the one now under observation; procured each of them to bite an animal; and observed whether the bitten animals live or die. This is the only way known to Traditional Logic of obtaining a Universal, and, without a Universal, Traditional Logic is powerless. When I had completed the laborious task, then, and not till then, should I be in a position to argue And this conclusion could not be reached until I had actually determined by experiment, in the case of this very snake, that it is venomous. The Universal would, therefore, be not only impracticable, but utterly superfluous, and redundant, and unnecessary. In practice I do not employ any method so absurd. I employ Induction, and I say, ‘This snake resembles precisely that which I found yesterday to be venomous; therefore this snake also is venomous.’ This argument is in almost the same form as the argument that, since Brutus killed Cæsar, therefore he killed Cassius also; the only difference being the unimportant difference that, in the case of the snake, the quæsitum is the ratio; while, in the other, it is the subject. Yet the one is felt to be irrefragably valid, and the other to be utterly unwarranted. What is it that makes this difference? Mill tells us that it is the uniformity of Nature. We can argue from the venomousness of one snake to the venomousness of the other, because in this case Nature is uniform. We cannot argue from the killing of Cæsar by Brutus to the killing of Cassius by Brutus, because in this case Nature is not uniform. The shapes of flowers of one species are uniform, but those of different species are not uniform; and the shapes of clouds are never uniform. The sequence of night upon day, and of summer on winter, is uniform; but the sequence of rain upon wind, or of wind upon sunshine, is not uniform. Logicians admit, in the words of Mill, that ‘The course of Nature is not only uniform, it is infinitely various.’ But in certain respects, surely, Nature is uniform. One of the favourite instances given in the text books of Logic, of the Uniformity of Nature, is the permanence and intransmutability of the elements. Alas! it is now discovered that certain of the elements are transmutable! To rest the validity of reasoning on the Uniformity of Nature, and in the same breath to admit that Nature is not uniform, is a proceeding the like of which is scarcely to be found outside a book on Logic. It is true, however, that Nature is uniform in certain respects, and that in those respects it is safe to rest our arguments on the uniformity; but until we have some criterion that enables us to determine in what respect Nature is uniform and in what it is not, the uniformity, where it exists, is of no value. Is there such a criterion? If there be, logicians are not agreed about it. Some, indeed, offer as a criterion the Laws of Thought. Others regard the Uniformity of Nature as based on induction from uninterrupted experience; and these I believe are right; though why they should rest the validity of argument on an imaginary and non-existent Uniformity of Nature, which they infer from uninterrupted experience, rather than on the uninterrupted experience itself, I do not understand.
The true reason that we can argue from ‘That snake was venomous,’ to ‘This snake, which is exactly like that, is venomous’; while we cannot argue from ‘Brutus killed Cæsar’ to ‘Brutus killed Cassius,’ seems to me to be this: Behind the first argument lurks the supplementary premiss, not that ‘Nature is uniform,’ but that ‘In experience, the relation between the appearance of snakes, and their venomousness, is constant’; or ‘The experience that snakes that are alike in appearance are alike in structure and qualities, is constant.’ The inference that, since that snake was venomous, this snake, which exactly resembles that, is venomous, does not rest solely on the likeness between the snakes. It rests upon a constancy in experience. Constancy of what? A single instance is not constancy, in any proper sense; and a single instance is all we have, so far, to go upon. The second, the underlying, the silent premiss, which validates the reasoning, is that the relation between the first snake and its venomousness belongs to a class, or is subsumable under a relation, that is constant in experience. It is not merely that the relation between the appearance of snakes and their venomousness is constant in experience. I could, and should, draw the same inference if I had never seen or heard of any snake except the one that bit my dog yesterday, and this one. The underlying premiss is far wider and more comprehensive than this. It is that the appearance of all animals is an index to their other properties—nay, it is wider, much wider, still. The appearance, not only of all animals, but of all organic beings; not only of all organic beings, but of all bodies whatever, is an index to their properties. The experience, not only of ourselves, but of the whole human race, is constant, that the more closely things resemble one another in some properties, the more closely, on the whole, do they resemble one another in other properties. The conclusion, that the second snake was venomous, was felt at once to be irrefragable. It was not merely arrived at without difficulty, but was thrust and forced upon me. We now see why it was so readily accepted—why it was inescapable. It. rested on a generalisation—on a constancy in experience—of boundless extent. In every Induction,, the relation expressed in the premiss must be itself constant in experience, as in the case of the mortality of man; or it must be subsumable under a relation that is constant in experience, as in the case of the venomousness of the snake. It may, indeed, be plausibly argued that every premissed relation must, or may, be subsumable under one more comprehensive. Even the argument from the mortality of man does not rest upon the constancy of that relation alone. The relation may be subsumed under a wider relation—that, not only of man, but of all animals, of which man is but one, to mortality. Nor does the subsumption end here. We have at the back of our minds, unavowed, latent, tacit, but ready in reserve to be called into action if necessary, the still wider relations, still constant in experience, that all organic beings, animal and vegetable, are mortal; and that all material things are subject to decay and dissolution. In this sense, the contention of Traditional Logic is true, that all reasoning—all Empirical reasoning—rests upon a Universal. ConstanTABLE XIII.
TABLE OF TERMS.
CLASSIFICATION.
2. They must together include all the things to be classified.
3. They must include nothing that is not in the group of things to be classified.THE CATEGORIES.
CHAPTER XI
NEGATIVE TERMS
CHAPTER XII
MODES OF DENIAL
INCONSISTENCY OF TERMS.
Quantitative Terms.
DENIAL OF THE SINGULAR QUANTITY.
DENIAL OF COLLECTIVE QUANTITY.
DENIAL OF DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITY.
THE TRADITIONAL SQUARE OF OPPOSITION.
SQUARE OF OPPOSITION OF MAXIMAL DISTRIBUTIVE QUANTITIES.
SQUARE OF OPPOSITION OF MINIMAL C0LLECTIVE QUANTITIES.
THE SQUARE OF OPPOSITION OF MAXIMAL C0LLECTIVE QUANTITIES.
THE SQUARE OF OPPOSITION OF INDEFINITE COMPARATIVE QUANTITIES.
THE SQUARE OF OPPOSITION OF THE UNIVERSAL RESIDUAL QUANTITY.
THE SQUARES OF OPPOSITION OF PURPOSIVE QUANTITIES.
Qualitative Terms.
INCONSISTENCY OF RATIOS.
BOOK II
EMPIRICAL REASONING
CHAPTER XIII
EMPIRICAL REASONING
CHAPTER XIV
THE INDIRECT APPEAL TO EXPERIENCE
MEDIATE INDUCTION.