Essays in Rationalism

by Charles Robert Newman

Having long ago defined First Principles of sensuous experience, I find there is a difficulty attached to the other kind of first principles derived from the various use of the word reason—which I will say betrayed me into a wrong inference in the concluding paragraph of my last letter.

Locke, in the 17th chapter of his fourth book, confesses that this word, in the proper use of the English language, is liable to bear several senses. Due discrimination in such a case, and a cautious avoidance of the dangers to which philosophy is exposed, and has so amply incurred, from this kind of source might, above all, have been, expected from Locke, since he was the first who inculcated it, and is generally remarkable for the observance of his own precepts in this matter. Hence the charge I have now got to bring against him is a little surprising.

Indeed, it might be asserted that his position and circumstances do not seem very readily to bear the entire responsibility of some of his proceedings. Perhaps he might be characterised as a writer of somewhat humorous idiosyncracy in respect to tendency to fixed ideas. His lapses, indeed, are not many, but they are highly significant, as I shall have occasion in more than one instance to show, and among these must evidently be reckoned that I am now going to notice, since it imports the wrong definition of a word of such cardinal meaning.

In defining the word reason, in its proper and specific sense wherein it is used to denote a certain well-known quality of the human mind—that is, as approvedly ascertained and appreciated under this name, as are certain weights and measures under those of pound, gallon, or mile, he assigns a meaning to it that comes short of the proportions thus justly prefigured as belonging to it. He confounds reason with reasoning—that is, he emerges the entire faculty or modus operandi, to which we give the name of reason, in that partial exercise of its function to which we give the name of reasoning. He says that, in matters of certainty, such as the proof of any of Euclid’s theorems, the acts by which the mind ascertains the fit coherence of the several links in the chain of reasoning are acts of reason. Granted.

Also, that in weighing probabilities, a similar coherence is similarly verified by reason. Granted—with liberty of comment that these arts of reason, in either of the two cases have, by the approved practice of language, received the name of reasoning.

But he further signifies—that is, he does not expressly affirm, but, with equivalent certification, he implicitly asserts, and inferentially states that, in examining such a proposition as the following:—“What is, is” (an examination to which confessedly no reasoning is attached), the act by which the mind assents to the truth of this statement is not to be described as an act of reason. He adopts a different phraseology, and calls it intuition.

Observe, my objection is not that he invests the idea with this new name, but that he disparages its old one. I do not object to your calling a spade a shovel, under a certain view of its use, but it remains still necessary that you should admit that a spade is, in the full sense of the word, a spade.

Indeed, I will incidentally remark that I suspect the word “intuition” has been a very good addition to our vocabulary, and I suppose its proper import might be represented as follows:—Reason has two modes of his exercise, the one is called reasoning, and the other intuition. Intuition is the decision of reason on one single point; reasoning—a word proper to demonstrative truth—seems to be nothing more than intuition looking not merely at one point, but at several points successively. So that intuition and reasoning would constitute the self-same function of reason, and the difference in their meanings would be solely owing to the difference in the circumstances under which that function is exercised.

Observe, that I am here only venturing to speculate, and am now returning from that digression.

Whether or not Locke is herein psychologically consistent with himself; whether, indeed, his real theory is not that which I have just conjecturally intimated, is another question, which I shall defer to a future occasion; but whether or not he herein opposes the ordinary, prevailing, and inveterate use of language, which is what I am charging him with doing, and whether or not he has justifiable ground for this innovation which I am denying that he has, are points that must be tried by the ordeal of these three considerations. How are we accustomed to speak? How are we accustomed to write? and what sort of a call for changing our customs in either of these particulars is that which constitutes a genuine call to do so?