Part 7

The general disbelief in scientific circles that meteorites really came from outer space occurs to him. This disbelief was due, he points out, to the impossibility of producing the phenomena at pleasure in our laboratories. Nevertheless, the disbelief was unjustified. Spirit manifestations may be, he thinks, just such sporadic phenomena. The situation is made worse by the fact that there has undoubtedly been a great deal of fraud in connection with spiritualist phenomena. Eusapia Palladino, for instance, undoubtedly practised deception, “but that is not the last word.” Telepathy puzzles him. If there is such a means of communication, why should Nature have adopted the laborious method of building up our very complicated senses? An antelope in danger from a lion, for instance, depends on his senses and speed. “But would it not be simpler if he could know something telepathically of the lion’s intention, even if it were no more than vague apprehension warning him to be on the move?” He advises the society to continue their investigations, and mentions that it is quality, not quantity, that is so desirable in evidence. He concludes by saying that he fears his attitude, or want of attitude, will be disappointing to some members of the society. He suggests that after forty-five years of hesitation “it may require some personal experience of a compelling kind to break the crust.” He apologises for this. “Some of those who know me best think that I ought to be more convinced than I am. Perhaps they are right.”

There he leaves us. We do not believe more or disbelieve less, yet we are completely satisfied. His massive sincerity, his obvious competence and, above all, that impression of exquisite balance, have charmed us. So far as present evidence is concerned we feel that while he has said nothing he has also said the last word. That is the function of the sceptic.

THE SCIENTIFIC MIND

It is quite common, in reading and in conversation, to find references to the “scientific mind,” but it is difficult to ascertain precisely how this mental structure is supposed to differ from other sorts of mind. The difficulty of defining an object does not, perhaps, affect the probability of the existence of the object; although it is difficult for some people to refrain from concluding that because a man cannot define what he means he does not mean anything. We must suppose that there is some particular kind of mind called the scientific mind, in spite of the fact that the numerous references to it tell us little about it except that it is somewhat extensively disliked. So far as can be judged from a superficial comparison of different references, the “scientific mind” is characterised by an inordinate appetite for facts and an absence of generosity in drawing conclusions from facts. In ordinary times this absence of generosity is dismissed by most people as quibbling, while in time of war it becomes unpatriotic. During the war every Englishman was supposed to believe a great number of things on very slender evidence or even on no evidence. It was considered that a right patriotic feeling not only could, but should, supply the place of evidence, and lead to correct conclusions. The majority of people in every class of the community found themselves able to adopt this method of thought without discomfort, and it became evident that the scientific mind is as rare amongst scientific men as amongst any other men, while those who could not give this supreme proof of patriotism were found pretty evenly distributed amongst the different classes. As a type of mind, therefore, it is not peculiar to scientific men nor do they all possess it. It cannot be regarded as a distinguishing mark of this class. But while a just, cautious temperament need not belong to the man of science as a human being, it might be thought that, as a mental habit, it is necessary to his work. There is much truth in this, although it is not wholly true. Alternative explanations are not always explored by scientists, and if, as sometimes happens, the alternative explanations are wrong, the scientific man may have reached a correct result although he worked in a partisan spirit.

But while the characteristics of what is popularly known as the scientific mind are not peculiar to scientific men, it is true that, in their actual scientific work, these characteristics have a greater survival value than they possess in almost any other kind of work. The extent to which mental habits may be local, confined to some only of a man’s mental activities, has been made apparent by the war. The majority of men’s minds are split up into water-tight compartments in a way truly astonishing, and the various eloquent addresses on the moral value of scientific studies now make melancholy reading. We must assume of scientific men, as of any other class, that such qualities of fairness and deliberation as they exhibit in their work are imposed upon them as conditions of success, and are not, in general, the natural manifestations of an exceptionally delicate moral sensibility. If we adopt William James’ classification of human beings into tender-minded and tough-minded the dividing line runs through the scientific camp as through any other. We see this most clearly in the case of mathematicians, for idealist or empiricist assumptions seem to be equally reconcilable with the results. Such sciences as physics and chemistry seem, at first glance, to be given over to the tough-minded; the official language, as it were, is the language of the tough-minded, but directly controversy arises on a point having philosophical bearings we see the dichotomy establish itself.

Nevertheless, it remains true that while scientific men, as human beings, are of all sorts, they do exhibit, in their own work, a degree of mental honesty which is unusual. It is easy to see that this virtue, at any rate, has a strictly utilitarian basis. A scientific man is honest because he cannot succeed on any other terms in the long run. The experimental verification always looms ahead. He cannot, like the mystic who maintains his opinion in face of the world, take refuge in the deeper insight. His results are communicable and verifiable or they are not science. Philosophies may be constructed which no man can verify and no man can refute. Their authors may, with complete assurance, remain satisfied of their truth and lament the universal blindness of mankind, just as a poet may present a front of unconquerable self-esteem to the ignorant derision of the world. But the whole claim of science is that it is communicable and capable of verification. It is found, as a matter of experience, that results of this kind are not usually obtained unless a certain mental habit is first acquired. It is this mental habit which is usually called the scientific mind. Where it is the outcome of a natural predisposition it may be classed as a moral quality, and, as such, is not peculiar to, or widely distributed amongst, scientific men. But as a tool, as a kind of technique, it is of more obvious value and is more extensively employed in the sciences than in any other human activities.

THE SCIENTIFIC CONTRIBUTION

For something like seventy years science has been the dominant intellectual activity of the Western world. During that period the range of its material has greatly increased until now the scientific method is regarded as the method proper to almost any investigation. Philosophy is still a partial exception, but there is a strong tendency to regard such philosophic problems as are not susceptible to the application of the scientific method as being essentially incapable of solution, or else as incorrectly stated. But although the prestige of science is so great, and the general attitude towards it so reverential, there is still much confusion respecting its function and achievement. Its relations to other human interests and activities are not yet clearly defined. The attempts to define them by allotting to science its “sphere” have proved, in the result, to be so ill-judged that it is now considered safer to waive the question of limitations altogether. The question is not settled. Everything is left open, but it is not therefore assumed that science contains or will contain all we know or all we need to know. Science is not yet the one object of our contemplation: we have a number of interests which still lead separate lives. The separation is not complete. Science, if not openly, then indirectly, has invaded every province of the mind, and even a modern musical composition counts Copernicus as well as Beethoven amongst its ancestors. But it is admitted, of course, that we are not usually reminded of astronomy in listening to music; there is a sense in which music, and many other things, are autonomous. But it is interesting to notice that science, to a greater extent than any other pursuit, can be isolated, although its historical direction has been influenced, of course, by social and political accidents. Science has given generously, but has taken comparatively little, and its few borrowings are in process of being handed back with regret as being, after all, unsuitable.

What, then, is the precise nature and extent of the contribution of science to our total stock? Although we do not intend its practical applications by this question, we cannot wholly ignore them. It is impossible completely to separate the “material” and “spiritual” aspects of life, and the sum of the practical applications of science has even profoundly affected much of our abstract thinking. Where it has not originated questions it has at least made them acute, if by no other process than by creating or transforming social conditions. It is easy to trace the ancestry of whole schools of social philosophy to the steam engine and the dynamo, and it is probable that the influence of future applications will be even more extensive. The morality, art and philosophy of, for example, a disease-less world, where the average span of human life was two or three times its present value, would certainly differ greatly from our own. We cannot, then, ignore the practical applications of science, although they are not, in themselves, pertinent to our question. But when we turn to consider the direct spiritual value of science we are conscious, at the outset, of some hesitation.

It was a common article of the Victorian scientist’s creed that scientific study was, in itself, an “ennobling” and purifying influence. He stressed the complete detachment required, in scientific research, from all prepossessions; the man of science was completely candid, completely docile in face of the facts. Until one became as a little child it was no use entering a laboratory. We have realised since then that scientific men are human, and have their full share of the unfortunate characteristics proper to that state. But it remains true that the scientific ideal of detachment and the scientific ideal of evidence are higher than the corresponding ideals elsewhere. In spite of the evidence furnished by our newspapers we may, if we are optimists, believe that science is gradually infecting the whole community with its conception of these ideals. If this is indeed the case it must be counted a direct and very important moral gain, as an indisputably valuable contribution which may be set over against those somewhat ambiguous practical applications.

A third contribution is to be found in the large store of æsthetic objects provided by science. Many of its theories are objects of surpassing beauty. This is particularly true of the mathematical sciences--indeed, there are a number of mathematicians who have felt impelled to write of their science in a kind of prose-poetry--but it is almost equally true of such a science as Geology. We can contemplate schemes which, in their own way, are as all-embracing as that of the _Divina Commedia_, and it does not detract from their æsthetic charm to know that they are also true. The processes by which the theories are obtained are often as æsthetically important as the theories themselves. A subtle, elaborate and economical piece of reasoning often affords great æsthetic pleasure, none the less real because comparatively few people enjoy it. The fact that the history of a big scientific investigation, such as the Electromagnetic Theory or Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, is not generally regarded as a poem is due merely to an accident of language and education. But we have to admit that most people are affected by these accidents, and that the æsthetic objects provided by science count almost as few admirers as do the “beauties” of chess. If we may judge from the number of popular books and articles dealing with science, there is some hope, however, that this particular contribution is receiving more attention. The results of such increased attention will not be simple, but if it did no more than add fresh æsthetic objects, the contribution would be important.

The fourth contribution of science, both in itself and for its reaction on other interests, is perhaps the most important of all. This contribution is, put briefly, the light thrown by science on man’s place in the universe. Every branch of science conspires directly to this end. With some the emphasis is on the universe as distinct from man; others are concerned chiefly with man himself. To the general mind the result has been to make the universe bigger and man smaller, and this is, perhaps, no unfair summary. It is probably difficult, after hearing a duet sung by an astronomer and a psycho-analyst, not to feel depressed. But, such as it is, there can be no doubt that any conception of man’s destiny that is to command attention must conceive that destiny as played against the background of the scientific cosmos. Whether the vision be that of a prophet, philosopher or poet, it must accept those postulates. The cosmos revealed by science, both in its direct influence upon the mind and in its almost equally direct influence upon religion, philosophy and the arts, is the most important part of the scientific contribution to our spiritual life. So far as philosophers and artists are concerned, this influence is recognised. It is probably desirable that the influence upon philosophy should increase, but in the case of the artist we are faced with a special problem. Its discussion would be interesting, the more so in view of the fact that artists themselves have contributed very little that is helpful to its elucidation. We think it essential to its solution to remember that the artist, like the scientist, starts with facts. But the system within which the facts are related is entirely different in the two cases. The scientific scheme must, of course, be accepted by the artist _en bloc_ if his work is to be more than a pure fantasy. But this is very different from identifying his own scheme with the scientific scheme. That is to fail signally to perceive the limitations of the scientific contribution. An interesting particular case of this problem is to be found in the question of the right relations of the psychological novelist to the science of psycho-analysis. A scientific investigation is often, as we have said, a work of art, but not necessarily a work of literary art. The scientific contribution is very considerable, but offerings from the older benefactors are still gratefully received.

THEORIES AND PERSONALITIES

That a scientific theory is, in some sense, a personal achievement, becomes evident when we study a number of theories lying within the same branch of science. The ordinary belief that science is completely impersonal is certainly not true. And yet it is not easy to see how a scientific theory can express the personality of its author; it is difficult, that is to say, to understand in what way a scientific theory can resemble a work of art. It seems that the fact that a scientific theory must have “objective truth” renders it an altogether different thing from a work of art. It would be more just to say that the element of objective truth radically differentiates a scientific theory from those works of art which are independent of all experience of life--as certain musical compositions may be, for instance. But it is not clear that, in general, works of art are independent of objective truth; all those works of art which assume experience claim assent--they do, in their intention, claim universal assent--to the truth of their assumptions. The serious artist believes his personal vision to be true; he will not, probably, claim “absolute” truth for it, but neither does a scientific theory profess to be absolutely true. And, further, works of art and scientific theories exist to serve the same purpose--to aid _comprehension_. An artist’s chief title to consideration is to be found in the depth and extent of his vision, in the profundity and range, that is to say, of the comprehension he makes possible. The value of a scientific theory is judged by the same criteria. So far, therefore, it would appear that the chief difference between a work of art and a scientific theory is to be found in their subject-matter. It cannot even be said that the subject-matter is arranged to serve different ends in the two cases, for in each case the end which is aimed at is æsthetic satisfaction. Comprehension is one of the elements of what is loosely termed the æsthetic emotion, and it is the most important element. Even when we descend to particulars, and study the quality of similes in poetry, and, indeed, “ornamentation” generally, we shall find the criterion we employ is still the degree of comprehension afforded by the device. But we cannot here work out the analogy in detail. It is sufficient to show that works of art that have a reference to experience, to an external world, in short, are, in important respects, similar to scientific theories.

Since, then, a work of art, although conditioned by experience, may nevertheless be a personal achievement, we need have no _a priori_ objection to conceding personality to a scientific theory. In each case it is the method of transformation from what we may call the raw material to the finished product which is the personal thing. The artist’s raw material, whether it be the Thames in a fog, a number of incidents from Holinshed, or the lives of the inhabitants of a Russian village, is no more and no less common property than are the _données_ from which a scientific man constructs a theory; the end product, also, in each case, claims universal assent and bestows comprehension. What is personal is the law of transformation by which the one objective thing is changed into the other objective thing. The law of transformation is different for each individual mind, and this is as true of scientific men as of any other sort of men. In this sense, then, both works of art and scientific theories are personal achievements. A history of science written from this point of view would be instructive. It would be interesting to trace the personal element in each great scientific achievement, to show what kinds of personalities have dominated us, to see what meaning _eccentricity_ can have as applied to the thought of a scientific man. But although a detailed history of this kind has not yet been written, certain _national_ differences have long been recognised.

There is almost as marked a difference between English and French science as between English and French literature. The English scientific mind is, on the whole, intuitive, mobile, illogical, and very prone to imagery of a curiously practical kind. The French scientific mind, on the other hand, likes to simplify the complicated reality to as few terms as possible, and then to build up an impeccable logical edifice. Maxwell was a very fine type of the great English man of science, but we have Poincaré’s authority for saying that the great _Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism_ awakens in the French reader feelings of distrust. So far from finding an impeccable logical structure, he finds that different parts of the book are written from different points of view, and that these points of view are even irreconcilable with one another. Maxwell’s liking for immensely complicated mechanical models, designed to illustrate some abstruse equation, is also a stumbling-block to the French reader. What are such models supposed to prove? Surely Maxwell did not suppose that the æther contained trains of geared wheels with “idle wheels” in between? What mysterious satisfaction did he derive from such unnecessary and irrelevant pictures? But this curious liking for models is characteristic of the English school, and it is a characteristic that Continental physicists have never been able to understand. It is doubtless a manifestation of the English reluctance to get out of touch with experience. The English man of science trusts logic much less than he trusts experience. The Frenchman has much less respect for experience. He is willing to simplify in a way which, to the English mind, is almost outrageous--to see the Universe as a collection of little billiard balls with forces varying inversely as the square of the distance. And on such assumptions he is willing to proceed as far as logic can take him. There is, indeed, a school in France which asserts that all we can ever know of the Universe is its equations; we can never know what they “mean” in the English sense. From the æsthetic point of view there is no doubt that the French method is to be preferred. We can all share Lagrange’s satisfaction when he says, in the Avertissement to his _Mécanique Analytique_: “Je me suis proposé de réduire la théorie de cette Science, et l’art de résoudre les problèmes qui s’y rapportent, à des formules générales, dont le simple développement donne toutes les équations nécessaires pour la solution de chaque problème.” But we must remember that when the interest is chiefly in the “développement” the assumptions may remain uncriticised. The English way is to hold the assumptions tentatively, and to be always open to the suggestions of experience. The German way, which, if we are to judge by the work of Riemann and Einstein, seems to be to concentrate an immense critical apparatus on the assumptions, is equally interesting. The “philosophic” tendency which is supposed to characterise German thought in other departments, is certainly apparent in its science. The three tendencies are sufficiently marked to constitute national differences and suggest that a detailed analysis of individual achievements would yield equally interesting results.

THE IDEAL SCIENTIFIC MAN