History of Civilization in England, Vol. 3 of 3

by Henry Thomas Buckle

Still, great as the difference was, the two literatures had, as I have shown, one important point in common. Both were essentially deductive; and the proof of this I have given at considerable length, because, though it has, so far as I am aware, escaped the attention of all previous inquirers, its consequences were of the utmost moment to the fortunes of Scotland, and are, moreover, full of interest to those who, in their investigations of human affairs, desire to penetrate below the mere surface and symptoms of things.

If we take a general view of those countries where science has been cultivated, we shall find that, wherever the deductive method of inquiry has predominated, knowledge, though often increased and accumulated, has never been widely diffused. On the other hand, we shall find that, when the inductive method has predominated, the diffusion of knowledge has always been considerable, or, at all events, has been beyond comparison greater than when deduction was prevalent. This holds good, not only of different countries, but also of different periods in the same country. It even holds good of different individuals in the same period, and in the same country. If, in any civilized nation, two men, equally gifted, were to propound some new and startling conclusion, and one of these men were to defend his conclusion by reasoning from ideas or general principles, while the other man were to defend his by reasoning from particular and visible facts, there can be no doubt that, supposing all other things the same, the latter man would gain most adherents. His conclusion would be more easily diffused, simply because a direct appeal, in the first instance, to palpable facts, strikes the vulgar with immediate effect; while an appeal to principles is beyond their ken, and as they do not sympathize with it, they are apt to ridicule it. Facts seem to come home to every one, and are undeniable. Principles are not so obvious, and, being often disputed, they have, to those who do not grasp them, an unreal and illusory appearance, which weakens their influence. Hence it is that inductive science, which always gives the first place to facts, is essentially popular, and has on its side those innumerable persons, who will not listen to the more refined and subtle teachings of deductive science. Hence, too, we find historically that the establishment of the modern inductive philosophy, with its varied and attractive experiments, its material appliances, and its constant appeal to the senses, has been intimately connected with the awakening of the public mind, and coincides with that spirit of inquiry, and with that love of liberty, which have been constantly advancing since the sixteenth century. We may assuredly say, that scepticism and democracy are the two leading features of this great scientific movement. The seventeenth century, which ushered in the Baconian philosophy, was remarkable for its insubordinate spirit, especially in the country where that philosophy originated, and where it most flourished. In the next age, it was transplanted into France, and there, too, it worked upon the popular mind, and, was, as I have already pointed out, one of the principal causes of the French Revolution.

If we look still closer into this interesting question, we shall find further corroboration of the view, that the inferences of an inductive philosophy are more likely to be diffused than those of a deductive one. Inductive science rests immediately upon experience, or, at all events, upon experiment, which is merely experience artificially modified. Now, an immense majority of mankind, even in the most advanced countries, are, by the constitution of their minds, incapable of seizing general principles and applying them to daily affairs, without doing serious mischief, either to themselves, or to others. Such an application requires not only great dexterity, but also a knowledge of those disturbing causes which affect the operation of all general theorems. The task, being so difficult to perform, is rarely attempted; and average men, possessed of a tolerably sound judgment, do, with good reason, rely mainly on experience, which is to them a safer and more useful guide than any principle, however accurate and scientific it might be. This begets in their minds a prejudice on behalf of experimental inquiries, and a corresponding dislike of the opposite and more speculative method. And it can, I think, hardly be doubted, that one of the causes of the triumph of the Baconian philosophy, is the growth of the industrious classes, whose business-like and methodical habits are eminently favourable to empirical observations of the uniformities of sequence, since, indeed, on the accuracy of such observations the success of all practical affairs depends. Certainly, we find that the overthrow of the purely deductive scholasticism of the Middle Ages has been everywhere accompanied by the spread of trade; and whoever will carefully study the history of Europe, will discern many traces of a connexion between the two movements, both of which are marked by an increasing respect for material and empirical interests, and a disregard of ideal and speculative pursuits.

The relation between all this and the popular tendency of induction is obvious. For one person who can think, there are at least a hundred persons who can observe. An accurate observer is, no doubt, rare; but an accurate thinker is far rarer. Of this the proofs are too abundant to be disputed. Indeed, no one can mix with his fellow-creatures, without seeing how much more natural it is for them to notice than to reflect; and how extremely unusual it is to meet with any one whose conversation, or whose writings, bear marks of patient and original thought. And, inasmuch as thinkers are more prone to accumulate ideas, while observers are more prone to accumulate facts, the overwhelming predominance of the observing class is a decisive reason why induction, which begins with facts, is always more popular than deduction, which begins with ideas. It is often said, and probably with truth, that all deduction is preceded by induction; so that, in every syllogism, the major premiss, however obvious and necessary it may appear, is merely a generalization of facts, or record of what the senses had already observed. But this opinion, whether true or false, does not affect what I have just stated, because it concerns the origin of our knowledge, and not its subsequent treatment; that is to say, it is a metaphysical opinion, rather than a logical one. For, even supposing that all deduction rests ultimately on induction, it is, nevertheless, certain that there are innumerable cases in which the induction takes place at so early a period of life that we are unconscious of it, and can by no effort recall the process. The axioms of geometry afford a good specimen of this. No one can tell when or how he first believed that the whole is greater than its part, or that things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another. All these preliminary steps are concealed from us, and the strength and dexterity of deduction are displayed in the subsequent steps by which the major premiss is adjusted, and, as it were, fitted to the minor. This often requires great subtlety of thought, and, in every instance, the external world is put aside, and lost sight of. The process, being ideal, has no concern, either with observations or experiments. The suggestions of the senses are shut out, while the mind passes through a long train of successive syllogisms, in which each conclusion is turned into the premiss of a new argument, until, at length, an inference is deductively obtained, which, to those who merely hear it enunciated, seems to have no connexion with the first premisses, though, in reality, it is the necessary consequence of them.

A method, so recondite, and so hidden from the public gaze, can never command the public sympathy. Unless, therefore, the human mind should undergo some remarkable change in its nature as well as in its resources, the sensuous process of working upwards from particular facts to general principles, will always be more attractive than the ideal process of working downwards from principles to facts. In both cases, there is, no doubt, a line of argument essentially ideal; just as, in both cases, there is an assemblage of facts essentially sensuous. No method is pure, or stands entirely by itself. But, inasmuch as, in induction, the facts are more prominent than the ideas, while, in deduction, the ideas are more prominent than the facts, it is evident that conclusions arrived at by the former plan will, as a general rule, obtain a wider assent than conclusions arrived at by the latter plan. Obtaining a wider assent, they will produce more decisive results, and will be more likely to shape the national character and influence the course of national affairs.

The only exception to this, is theology. There, the inductive method, as I have already observed, is inapplicable, and nothing remains but deduction, which is quite sufficient for the purposes of the theologian. For, he has a peculiar resource which supplies him with general principles, from which he can argue; and the possession of this resource forms the fundamental difference between him and the man of science. Science is the result of inquiry; theology is the result of faith. In the one, the spirit of doubt; in the other, the spirit of belief. In science, originality is the parent of discovery, and is, therefore, a merit; in theology, it is the parent of heresy, and is, therefore, a crime. Every system of religion the world has yet seen, recognizes faith as an indispensable duty; but to every system of science it is a hindrance, instead of a duty, inasmuch as it discourages those inquisitive and innovating habits on which all intellectual progress depends. The theologian, thus turning credulity into an honour, and valuing men in proportion as they are simple-minded and easy of belief, has little need to trouble himself with facts, which, indeed, he sets at open defiance, in his eagerness to narrate portentous, and often miraculous, events. To the inductive philosopher such a license is forbidden. He is obliged to ground his inferences on facts which no one disputes, or which, at all events, any one can either verify for himself, or see verified by others. And if he does not adopt this course, his inferences, be they ever so true, will have the greatest difficulty in working themselves into the popular mind, because they will savour of a subtlety and refinement of thought, which, more than any thing else, predisposes common understandings to reject the conclusions at which philosophers arrive.

From the facts and arguments contained in this and the preceding chapter, the reader will, I trust, be able to see why it was that the Scotch intellect, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was preëminently deductive; and also why it was that, in the eighteenth century, the Scotch literature, notwithstanding its brilliancy, its power, and the splendid discoveries of which it was the vehicle, produced little or no effect on the nation at large. That literature, by its bold and innovating character, seemed peculiarly fitted to disturb ancient prejudices, and to rouse up a spirit of inquiry. But its method, both of investigation and of proof, was too refined to suit ordinary understandings. Therefore, upon ordinary understandings it was inoperative. In Scotland, as in ancient Greece, and in modern Germany, the intellectual classes, being essentially deductive, have been unable to influence the main body of the people. They have considered things at too great an altitude, and at too great a remove. In Greece, Aristotle alone had a true idea of what induction really was. But even he knew nothing of crucial instances and the theory of averages, the two capital resources of that inductive philosophy which we now possess. Neither did he, nor any of the great German philosophers, nor any of the great Scotch philosophers, attach sufficient importance to the slow and cautious method of gradually rising from each generalization to the one immediately above it, without omitting any intermediate generalizations. On this method, Bacon, indeed, insists too strongly, since many most important discoveries have been made independently of it, or, I should rather say, in contradiction to it. But it is a wonderful weapon, and none except men of real genius can dispense with its use. And when they do dispense with it, they cut themselves off from the general sympathies of their age and country. For, these small and proximate generalizations, which they neglect, are precisely those parts of philosophy which, being least removed from the region of visible facts, are best understood by the people, and, therefore, form the only common ground between thinkers and practitioners. They are a sort of middle term, which, being comprehended by both classes, is accessible to either. In all deductive reasoning, this intermediate, and, if I may so say, neutral, territory disappears, and the two classes have no meeting-place. Hence it is, that the Scotch philosophy, like the German philosophy, and like the Greek philosophy, has had no national influence. But in England, since the seventeenth century, and in France, since the eighteenth century, the prevailing philosophy has been inductive, and has, therefore, not only affected the intellectual classes, but also moved the public mind. The German philosophers are far superior, both in depth and in comprehensiveness, to the philosophers either of France or of England. Their profound researches have, however, done so little for their country, that the German people are every way inferior to the French and English people. So, too, in the philosophy of ancient Greece, we find a vast body of massive and original thought, and, what is infinitely better, we find a boldness of inquiry and a passionate love of truth, such as no modern nation has surpassed, and few modern nations have equalled. But the method of that philosophy was an insuperable barrier to its propagation. The people were untouched, and went grovelling on in their old folly, a prey to superstitions, most of which the great thinkers despised, and often attacked, but could by no means root out. Bad, however, as those superstitions were, we may confidently say that they were less noxious, that is, less detrimental to the happiness of man, than the repulsive and horrible notions advocated by the Scotch clergy, and sanctioned by the Scotch people. And on those notions the Scotch philosophy could make no impression. In Scotland, during the eighteenth century, superstition and science, the most irreconcilable of all enemies, flourished side by side, unable to weaken each other, and unable, indeed, to come into collision with each other. There was co-existence without contact. The two forces kept apart, and the result was, that, while the Scotch thinkers were creating a noble and most enlightened literature, the Scotch people, refusing to listen to those great masters of wisdom which their country possessed, remained in darkness, leaving the blind to follow the blind, and no one there to help them.

It is, indeed, curious to observe how little effect was produced by the many great works written by Scotchmen in the eighteenth century. If we except the Wealth of Nations, I can hardly call to mind one which has perceptibly influenced public opinion. The reason of this exception may be easily explained. The Wealth of Nations restricted the action of government within narrower limits than had ever been assigned to it by any other book of great merit. No previous political writer of admitted genius, had left so much to the people, and had demanded for them so much liberty in managing their own affairs, as Adam Smith did. The Wealth of Nations, being thus eminently a democratic book, was sure to find favour in Scotland, which was eminently a democratic country. Directly men heard its conclusions, they were prejudiced in favour of its arguments. So, too, in England, that love of liberty, which for many centuries has been our leading characteristic, and which does us more real honour than all our conquests, all our literature, and all our philosophy put together, invariably causes a popular bias on behalf of any claim to freedom. We, therefore, notwithstanding the activity of interested parties, were predisposed to the side of free trade, as one of the means of letting each man do what he liked with his own. But to imagine that ordinary minds are capable of mastering such a work as the Wealth of Nations, and of following without confusion its long and intricate arguments, is simply absurd. It has been read by tens of thousands of persons, who accept its conclusions because they like them; which is merely saying, because the movement of the age tends that way. The other great work of Adam Smith, namely, the Theory of Moral Sentiments, has had no influence except on a very small class of metaphysicians, although its style is, as some think, superior to the Wealth of Nations, and it is certainly easier to understand. It is, moreover, much shorter, which, to most readers, is no small recommendation; and it deals with subjects of great interest, which come home to the feelings of all. But the age, not caring for its conclusions, neglected its arguments. On the other hand, the Wealth of Nations harmonized with the general tendency, and its success was supreme. It quickly moved, not only philosophers, but even statesmen and politicians, who eventually put into force its leading recommendations, though, as their laws and their speeches abundantly prove, they have never succeeded in mastering those great principles which underlie it, and of which the freedom of trade is but a minor accessory.