To Mr. Abbot.

Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1867.

I was very glad to hear again so soon from you on the subjects of our debate, and to know that you still retain so fresh an interest in them in spite of your recent losses and perplexities. Mr. Abbot was at this time a Unitarian clergyman at Dover, New Hampshire. The allusion is to difficulties which arose out of a growing divergence between the opinions held by him and those commonly held by his denomination. These controversies culminated in litigation of a very interesting character, of which an account may be found in the case of Hale v. Everett, 53 New Hampshire Reports, p. 1. ⁴⁵

Your letter interests me very much. It is so full of

suggestive points, and affords so much light to me on the real grounds of our differences, that I hardly feel able in the limited space of a letter to say all I wish to on its various topics. The most profitable discussion is, after all, a study of other minds, — seeing how others see, rather than the dissection of mere propositions. The restatement of fundamental doctrines in new connections affords a parallax of their philosophical stand-points (unless these be buried in the infinite depths), which adds much to our knowledge of one another’s thought.

Concerning the foundation of experientialism, I agree with you “that experience includes more than a heterogeneous mass of particular sensuous impressions, and cannot be explained by a mere ‘law of association’ among such impressions.” Our cognitions are indeed more than the mere chronicles of a sensuous history. There are orders and forms in them which do not come directly from the transient details of sense-perceptions. Indeed, without the constant reaction of the mind through memory upon the presentations of the senses, there could arise nothing worth the name of knowledge. If our memories were only retentive and not also co-operative with the senses, only associations of the very lowest order could be formed. We should not each know the same world, but only each his own world. It is only by the accumulation, the perpetual shifting, and the thoroughgoing comparison of impressions, associating, dissociating, and reassociating them according to laws of understanding, that the order of true cognition is finally brought out of the chaos of sensuous impressions. This order, once established to any degree, exercises a constant control over the senses, and governs our attention in perception. This ferment of the mind, giving rise to an intellectual order, establishes the strongest associations among its elements, and some associations which are insoluble.

This process is not determined solely by the laws of association among the elements of the primitive impressions. There is always an a priori, or mnemonic element involved. Associations, either original to the mind or early established, control the formation of new ones. Of the manifold of a presentation, only parts are retained in the mind and remain adherent to one another; and this selection is determined a priori, by the orders of impressions already experienced, or else by an order inherent in the very nature of the intellect.

The “a priori theory” holds that this final order of cognition belongs to a pre-existent intellectus ipse, and is, in some respects at least, independent of the primitive orders of sense-associations. It holds that the final products of understanding contain elements not contained in the primitive impressions and educible by the permutations of them in reflection. It holds, in other words, that the higher faculties of knowledge are like the organs of sense, already existent and equipped for action prior to the occasions and independently of the matter of knowledge; that thinking is a process performed on the impressions of sense by powers which are not in any way determined by the matter of thoughts, and which consequently add to the result elements not contained in the sense-impressions.

If I understand the form in which you hold to this doctrine, it is that the elements added by understanding are objective ones, not forms of understanding, but facts of experience, which the understanding intuites in sense-impressions. As the material forces of light, heat, sound, pressure, and chemical change, could not of themselves, without the organs of sense, produce the sense-impressions, so neither can these pass on of their own inherent powers into abstract thought, but must come into the form of thought through a pre-existent organ of thought, acting by laws peculiar to itself. The relations of sensible objects — the twoness of two hats, the

superposition of the book on the shelf, and the like matters of thought—are not, according to you, intuited by sense, any more than the color of a sonorous body is intuited by hearing or the tone of a colored body by sight. If we could not be conscious of the two hats without being conscious that they are two, or conscious of the book and the shelf without being conscious that the book is on the shelf, this would only prove that the understanding acts simultaneously with the sense, and that only the vaguest sense-impressions can be cognized without an action of the understanding upon them, to discover their relations.

To this I fully agree. In fact, I would go further, and maintain that there is no cognition by the senses in contradistinction from the mental powers generally. Instead of allowing two orders of independent cognitions, those of the senses and those of the intellect, I would maintain that all cognitions alike involve understanding in some degree, or some relation of the new impression to the previous content of the mind. An impression is cognized only when brought into consciousness; that is, into relations with what we have previously thought or felt or desired.

Nevertheless, I regard as valid the distinction of intuitive and abstract cognitions. The first we have without any consciousness of its cause; that is, without any other mental facts preceding and generating it in a recognizable general process, of which we may be reflectively conscious. Abstract cognitions we have as consequent upon others, and may attend to the process of their generation. In both, there is a sensuous basis, though not one separately cognizable. I can realize in thought a relation, like superposition, only by imagining things in this relation, — that is, by having subjectively determined sense-impressions of some things superposed on other things; and I arrive at the abstract notion of superposition by attending to compound objects which

resemble each other in this respect, like my hat on my head, the book on the shelf, the inkstand on the table, &c. I maintain that relations which can by abstraction be thought as in objects, must exist in objects as intuited, and also that the intuition must be more or less understood,—brought under classes, or associated with previous experience, in order to be properly cognized at all.

You would regard the color and the shape of an object as intuited by two distinctly different modes of mental action. The sense of sight cognizes the color, the understanding the shape ; for the shape can only be cognized by comparison with abstract forms, which “brings the object into relation” with other objects. But I maintain that the color of the object is cognized in precisely the same way, as being like or unlike the color of other objects. The color announces itself, — is presented to consciousness, by rousing all the colors of memory which similitude or contrast can by association connect with it. This is a process of which we are distinctly conscious only in its effect, as when we name the color. Without some movement towards this reasoning, there is no attention to the color, no cognition, no effective intuition. When this movement is also cognized as a process of thought, the cognition ceases to be intuitive, — is the result of conscious understanding,—but is none the less a movement of impressions, either objectively or subjectively determined, which are as sensuous as color. It is true, as you say, that “in the book singly, or in the shelf singly, there is no relation of superposition;” but the fact that you can attend to them singly, abstracting the relation, does not prove that, after being presented, they need to be “brought into relation” by an act of understanding. It is by an abstractive act, indeed, that you attend to them singly and out of the relation which is as much in the sensuous intuition of them as their colors or shapes. It is a favorite formula with me that there are two

kinds of memory or reminiscence, — the memory of representation and the memory of judgment. In the first, we recognize singular facts of experience individually; in the second, in their generalized results. In the first, through the pictures of imagination; in the second, by the language of abstract thought. Every item of experience adds to the cogency of a common-sense judgment, though not distinctly recognized or consciously added to the weight of evidence. But, if it is recognized as a ground of evidence, it must be as an instance of a rule, or as a fact similar to other facts. For what is it in the intuition which is cognizable, unless it be its likeness or unlikeness to other intuitions? The book on the shelf, the hat on the head, the inkstand on the table, are similar compound or plural objects in respect to the relation of superposition. This similitude is not apprehended by the senses independently of mental operations; but neither is the color nor the weight nor the texture of these objects apprehended by the senses, independently of memory, imagination, and abstraction.

What you call intellectual intuition. I should regard as belonging to all cognitions alike. Indeed, the distinction between the intuitive and the non-intuitive knowledges is rather a logical than a psychological one. Cognitions which cannot be analyzed by introspection are called intuitions. These are the data, the axioms, the premises of logical processes, and the conclusions of such processes, being distinctly exhibited as consequent on other cognitions, are non-intuitive, derivative knowledges. But no amount of introspection can analyze a cognition down to the bare, unrelated data of the senses, strictly speaking; for this would be to dissolve all the links which bind the sensuous impression to consciousness, and to extrude it from the mind altogether.

But we may hypothetically descend to such a basis of knowledge. In accordance with physiological science, we

may suppose, with Mill and Bain, that the higher mental faculties are formed by experience, that consciousness is a growth out of such primitive elements, a growth governed by laws of association, at first wholly chronological, or by the association of contiguity, — and afterwards more and more dependent, through memory, on associations of likeness and unlikeness. Though this theory has not yet shown itself competent to explain all mental phenomena satisfactorily, it has not been shown to be incompetent to this end, and seems to me in all respects a legitimate hypothesis.

It seems to me that the experiential philosophy is far from ignoring, as you affirm, the distinction of the “must” and the “is,” though it doubtless makes less account of the distinction than the a priori school. The fact itself, that some of our beliefs are unconditional and do not admit, so far as we can conceive, of any exceptions, is recognized fully and explained by this school on their principles. The range of our beliefs is determined in its capacity beforehand, by the range of our conceptive powers. But our conceptions are not limited to the range of beliefs in general, though in some matters we cannot conceive the contradictory of what we believe. The belief is then said to be necessary. This is the phenomenon to be explained. The doctrine that our conceptive powers are acquired by experience, as well as our beliefs, does not ignore this problem, though it makes it a less fundamental one in philosophy. If the testimony of all our experiences, including those which have fashioned language and our conceptive powers, be in favor of any proposition; this has all the marks of what is called Universality. “The universal is more than the general,” as you justly say, since conscious generalization must form a predication in terms which have previously been separated in our conceptions of them. Thus, in “all matter has weight,” the term “matter” connotes

attributes which we can conceive without thinking of weight. But “all bodies are extended,” unites terms each of which would be inconceivable without the other. Bodies may have other properties besides extension; but these cannot be conceived of, separated from extension. When language is exactly adequate to express a fact which is invariable and unconditional in our experience, it expresses what is called a universal truth.

You say that, in reading such explanations as this, you are “continually conscious of an unsatisfied expectation.” You wish to know not the “how,” but the “why” of the matter; that is, I suppose, you demand to know why you must believe certain facts, not simply how such beliefs are generated. But it seems to me that the “why” of the “must” is a contradiction of terms, when the “must” is an ultimate premise. There are two kinds of necessity in propositions, — a deductive necessity which contains the “why,” and a logically fundamental necessity which excludes any question of fact. The Pythagorean proposition is as necessary as any axiom of geometry; but reasons for it are required to compel assent. Assent to a belief can be compelled only by other beliefs, in themselves irresistible, and brought to bear on the proposition by the irresistible connection of beliefs or by logical laws. The a priori school founds philosophy on such beliefs and laws, maintains their eternal and indestructible existence as mental facts, and refuses to listen to any explanation of how the mental facts might be generated as an inductive consequence of the actual orders of concrete, sensible experience, and be made apodeictic by the limits in the conceptive faculties, which are also determined by experience.

I do not understand that Mr. Mill accepts the distinction of phenomena and noumena as a valid division of real existences. On the contrary, he only accepts the question implied

in the distinction, and decides that noumena are non-existent to us. The discrimination is a valid one, even if noumena do not exist at all. To say that phenomena are all that exists is to say that, in knowing phenomena, we know all the natures that exist. To affirm the existence of noumena is — at any rate to the positivist—to affirm that something exists of an incognizable nature. Mr. Mill is surely not guilty of accepting “that pernicious theory of Dinge an sich,” in simply entertaining a question of them, and dismissing them to the limbo of incognizability. On the contrary, he thereby signalizes that important doctrine of positivism,—the relativity of knowledge,—that the only objects immediately known are really mental states, effects in us which we attribute, according to their connections, either to a self or to an external world, without further capacity for knowing more about their subjects.

You appear to me to use the words “noumena” and “objects” in rather unusual senses, when, in the first place, you say that “noumena are known in phenomena, which are their manifestation.” You define a noumenon as the something which appears, the phenomena being “only appearances.” I had supposed the phenomenon itself to be the something which appears and disappears, and the noumenon to be a supposed permanent reality, which, if known, could not be known by the occasional appearance and disappearance of phenomena, but only by the “pure intelligence.” Hence, their name. Noumena should not be confounded with “the permanent possibilities of phenomena,” which arc determined by the general laws of phenomena, and represented by our expectations and anticipations; for, by definition, noumena are actual permanences, which, if known, are known absolutely, — that is, immediately as they are, as permanent immutable entities. Laws are permanent, and are really the grounds of our expectations; but laws are abstractions, not

“things in themselves.” If the laws or relations of phenomena were immediately known, — that is, independently of the frequency of occurrence and the individual likenesses of phenomena, — then we should have an a priori and immediate knowledge of the immutable and the necessary, or a knowledge of noumena.

Secondly, you surprise me by asking if Idealism is not “the very negation of objective science?” By objective science, I understand the science of the objects of knowledge, as contradistinguished from the processes and faculties of knowing. Does Idealism deny that there are such objects? Is not its doctrine rather a definition of the nature of these objects than a denial of their existence? There is nothing in positive science, or the study of phenomena and their laws, which Idealism conflicts with. (See Berkeley.) Astronomy is just as real a science, as true an account of phenomena and their laws, if phenomena are only mental states, as on the other theory.

You say that “the facts and laws of the universe recorded in Humboldt’s ‘Cosmos’ were in no wise conditional on the existence of Humboldt’s mind, or of any other human mind.” I readily admit that little or nothing characteristic of an individual mind like Humboldt’s would be likely to appear among the recorded facts and laws of the universe; yet these facts and laws are accounts of things seen and heard and weighed and smelt and tasted. They are the orders of invariable and unconditional sequences and coexistences among the sensations of colors and sounds and pressures and odor and savors, none of which could exist without a mind. These facts and laws, you say, “survive the death of generation after generation of scientific men;” but, as they describe what only eyes can see and ears hear, some sort of minds, human or other, scientific or vulgar, are essential to their continued existence. What would be those aspects of the heavens which astronomers

observe and predict, if no minds were in existence? Nothing surely but a potentiality. A statement of what can be seen under given circumstances must surely include the circumstances of the presence of eyes with a mind to see.

You ask to be admitted to my confidence by learning from me my speculative beliefs concerning the existence of a God and the immortality of the soul, and promise not to be shocked by any revelations I may make. The verdict of “not proven” is the kind of judgment I have formed on these matters; but not on that account am I warranted in taking up a position against the general opinion of my fellow-citizens, for this would be to become as illogical as the most confident among them. Atheism is speculatively as unfounded as theism, and practically can only spring from bad motives. I mean, of course, dogmatic atheism. A bigoted atheist seems to me the meanest and narrowest of men. In fact, practical considerations determine that a state of suspended judgment on these themes is the state of stable equilibrium. I have no desire to wake into a strange, unknown future life, and I can discover no valid reasons for any confidence in such a waking. As purely speculative or scientific doctrines, these demand assent no more cogently than a theory that some distant planet is inhabited, or, better still, that the planet is largely composed of granite or some other stated substance,—for we might have a sentimental bias in favor of an inhabited planet.

Practical grounds are really the basis of belief in the doctrines of theology. The higher moral sentiments have attached themselves so strongly to these traditions that doubts of them seem to the believers like contempt for all that is noble or worthy in human character. This paralogism even goes so far as to declare man’s life utterly worthless, unless it is to be prolonged to infinity; that is, I suppose, the worth of any part — say a year’s life — is infinitesimal, even if filled

with the purest enjoyments, the noblest sympathies, and the most beneficent activities. In whichever conclusion respecting a future life I might seek at last to cease from questioning and to wilfully resolve my doubts, I should never cease to repudiate such a view of the value of the present human life.

You perceive that on practical grounds I openly dissent from orthodoxy, but I may appear to you to evade the speculative questions. I do not think that I do; for though I may not consistently hold on all occasions the even balance of judgment and the open mind, which I think as proper in such matters as in all others, it is at any rate my design to do so. Whichever way we yield assent, we feel ourselves carried, not by evidence, but by the prejudices of feeling. We fall into one or another form of superstitious belief. Suspension of judgment appears to me to be demanded, therefore, not merely by the evidence, but as a discipline of character, — that faith and moral effort may not waste themselves on idle dreams, but work among the realities of life. Practical theism, if it means, as it ordinarily does, the exclusion from the mind of all evidence not favorable to received religious doctrines, seems to me to put religious sentiment in a false position, — one incompatible, not only with intellectual freedom, but with the soundest development of religious character, — with that unreserved devotion to the best we know, which tries all things, and holds fast to that which is good.

Very few men could confess a belief in a God or a disbelief in one, without expressing more than their speculative convictions. So far from being like their opinions on the law of gravitation, it would almost necessarily be with feelings of exultation, enthusiasm, and hope, or with bitterness, contempt, or despair, — so strong are the associations of feeling attached to this word. Nevertheless, it is a doctrine of positivism that the real interests of moral and religious culture, no less than those of scientific knowledge, are quite independent in fact

(and might be made so in education) of these doctrines and associations. And this is also my belief.

I sincerely regret to learn from you that your views have brought you into such difficulties as to render it necessary to give up your profession. Would teaching private pupils, fitting boys for college, be an employment you would like? It is one of the most remunerative to those who are in the way to get it; and, although I am not in that way, I think it would not be difficult to find such employment. I should be happy to use all my influence to this end. I am told that there is a good opportunity at present to start a school for young ladies in Boston; for, though there are several excellent schools kept by ladies, there are none equal to Professor Torrey’s, which he gave up when he came to Cambridge.

But I hope that I have misunderstood you, and that you will be able to continue, as a religious instructor, to exemplify how irrelevant metaphysics really are to the clergyman’s true influence, — quite as much so, I think, as to that of the scientific teacher. The pursuit of philosophy ought to be a side study. Nothing so much justifies that shameful assumption by ecclesiastical bodies of control over speculative opinions as the inconsiderate preaching of such opinions, in place of the warnings, encouragements, sympathies, and persuasions of the true religious instructor. The lessons which he has to deliver are really very easy to understand, but hard to live up to. To help to live up to the true ideals of life seems to me the noblest, if not the only, duty of the preacher.