Читать книгу Preliminary Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy - John F. W. Herschel - Страница 10

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OF EXPERIENCE AS THE SOURCE OF OUR KNOWLEDGE.—OF THE DISMISSAL OF PREJUDICES.—OF THE EVIDENCE OF OUR SENSES.

(66.) Into abstract science, as we have before observed, the notion of cause does not enter. The truths it is conversant with are necessary ones, and exist independent of cause. There may be no such real thing as a right-lined triangle marked out in space; but the moment we conceive one in our minds, we cannot refuse to admit the sum of its three angles to be equal to two right angles; and if in addition we conceive one of its angles to be a right angle, we cannot thenceforth refuse to admit that the sum of the squares on the two sides, including the right angle, is equal to the square on the side subtending it. To maintain the contrary, would be, in effect, to deny its being right angled. No one causes or makes all the diameters of an ellipse to be bisected in its centre. To assert the contrary, would not be to rebel against a power, but to deny our own words. But in natural science cause and effect are the ultimate relations we contemplate; and laws, whether imposed or maintained, which, for aught we can perceive, might have been other than they are. This distinction is very important. A clever man, shut up alone and allowed unlimited time, might reason out for himself all the truths of mathematics, by proceeding from those simple notions of space and number of which he cannot divest himself without ceasing to think. But he could never tell, by any effort of reasoning, what would become of a lump of sugar if immersed in water, or what impression would be produced on his eye by mixing the colours yellow and blue.

(67.) We have thus pointed out to us, as the great, and indeed only ultimate source of our knowledge of nature and its laws, EXPERIENCE; by which we mean, not the experience of one man only, or of one generation, but the accumulated experience of all mankind in all ages, registered in books or recorded by tradition. But experience may be acquired in two ways: either, first, by noticing facts as they occur, without any attempt to influence the frequency of their occurrence, or to vary the circumstances under which they occur; this is OBSERVATION: or, secondly, by putting in action causes and agents over which we have control, and purposely varying their combinations, and noticing what effects take place; this is EXPERIMENT. To these two sources we must look as the fountains of all natural science. It is not intended, however, by thus distinguishing observation from experiment, to place them in any kind of contrast. Essentially they are much alike, and differ rather in degree than in kind; so that, perhaps, the terms passive and active observation might better express their distinction; but it is, nevertheless, highly important to mark the different states of mind in inquiries carried on by their respective aids, as well as their different effects in promoting the progress of science. In the former, we sit still and listen to a tale, told us, perhaps obscurely, piecemeal, and at long intervals of time, with our attention more or less awake. It is only by after-rumination that we gather its full import; and often, when the opportunity is gone by, we have to regret that our attention was not more particularly directed to some point which, at the time, appeared of little moment, but of which we at length appretiate the importance. In the latter, on the other hand, we cross-examine our witness, and by comparing one part of his evidence with the other, while he is yet before us, and reasoning upon it in his presence, are enabled to put pointed and searching questions, the answer to which may at once enable us to make up our minds. Accordingly it has been found invariably, that in those departments of physics where the phenomena are beyond our control, or into which experimental enquiry, from other causes, has not been carried, the progress of knowledge has been slow, uncertain, and irregular; while in such as admit of experiment, and in which mankind have agreed to its adoption, it has been rapid, sure, and steady. For example, in our knowledge of the nature and causes of volcanoes, earthquakes, the fall of stones from the sky, the appearance of new stars and disappearance of old ones, and other of those great phenomena of nature which are altogether beyond our command, and at the same time are of too rare occurrence to permit any one to repeat and rectify his impressions respecting them, we know little more now than in the earliest times. Here our tale is told us slowly, and in broken sentences. In astronomy, again, we have at least an uninterrupted narrative; the opportunity of observation is constantly present, and makes up in some measure for the impossibility of varying our point of view, and calling for information at the precise moment it is wanted. Accordingly, astronomy, regarded as a science of mere observation, arrived, though by very slow degrees, to a state of considerable maturity. But the moment that it became a branch of mechanics, a science essentially experimental, (that is to say, one in which any principle laid down can be subjected to immediate and decisive trial, and where experience does not require to be waited for,) its progress suddenly acquired a tenfold acceleration; nay, to such a degree, that it has been asserted, and we believe with truth, that were the records of all observations from the earliest ages annihilated, leaving only those made in a single observatory27, during a single lifetime28, the whole of this most perfect of sciences might, from those data, and as to the objects included in them, be at once reconstructed, and appear precisely as it stood at their conclusion. To take another instance: mineralogy, till modern times, could hardly be said to exist. The description of even the precious stones in Theophrastus and Pliny are, in most cases, hardly sufficient to identify them, and in many fall short even of that humble object; more recent observers, by attending more carefully to the obvious characters of minerals, had formed a pretty extensive catalogue of them, and made various attempts to arrange and methodize the knowledge thus acquired, and even to deduce some general conclusions respecting the forms they habitually assume: but from the moment that chemical analysis was applied to resolve them into their constituent elements, and that, led by a happy accident, the genius of Bergmann discovered the general fact, that they could be cloven or split in such directions as to lay bare their peculiar primitive or fundamental forms, (which lay concealed within them, as the statue might be conceived encrusted in its marble envelope,)—from that moment, mineralogy ceased to be an unmeaning list of names, a mere laborious cataloguing of stones and rubbish, and became, what it now is, a regular, methodical, and most important science, in which every year is bringing to light new relations, new laws, and new practical applications.

(68.) Experience once recognized as the fountain of all our knowledge of nature, it follows that, in the study of nature and its laws, we ought at once to make up our minds to dismiss as idle prejudices, or at least suspend as premature, any preconceived notion of what might or what ought to be the order of nature in any proposed case, and content ourselves with observing, as a plain matter of fact, what is. To experience we refer, as the only ground of all physical enquiry. But before experience itself can be used with advantage, there is one preliminary step to make, which depends wholly on ourselves: it is the absolute dismissal and clearing the mind of all prejudice, from whatever source arising, and the determination to stand and fall by the result of a direct appeal to facts in the first instance, and of strict logical deduction from them afterwards. Now, it is necessary to distinguish between two kinds of prejudices, which exercise very different dominion over the mind, and, moreover, differ extremely in the difficulty of dispossessing them, and the process to be gone through for that purpose. These are—

1. Prejudices of opinion.

2. Prejudices of sense.

(69.) By prejudices of opinion, we mean opinions hastily taken up, either from the assertion of others, from our own superficial views, or from vulgar observation, and which, from being constantly admitted without dispute, have obtained the strong hold of habit on our minds. Such were the opinions once maintained that the earth is the greatest body in the universe, and placed immovable in its centre, and all the rest of the universe created for its sole use; that it is the nature of fire and of sounds to ascend; that the moonlight is cold; that dews fall from the air, &c.

(70.) To combat and destroy such prejudices we may proceed in two ways, either by demonstrating the falsehood of the facts alleged in their support, or by showing how the appearances, which seem to countenance them, are more satisfactorily accounted for without their admission. But it is unfortunately the nature of prejudices of opinion to adhere, in a certain degree, to every mind, and to some with pertinacious obstinacy, pigris radicibus, after all ground for their reasonable entertainment is destroyed. Against such a disposition the student of natural science must contend with all his power. Not that we are so unreasonable as to demand of him an instant and peremptory dismission of all his former opinions and judgments; all we require is, that he will hold them without bigotry, retain till he shall see reason to question them, and be ready to resign them when fairly proved untenable, and to doubt them when the weight of probability is shown to lie against them. If he refuse this, he is incapable of science.

(71.) Our resistance against the destruction of the other class of prejudices, those of sense, is commonly more violent at first, but less persistent, than in the case of those of opinion. Not to trust the evidence of our senses, seems, indeed, a hard condition, and one which, if proposed, none would comply with. But it is not the direct evidence of our senses that we are in any case called upon to reject, but only the erroneous judgments we unconsciously form from them, and this only when they can be shown to be so by counter evidence of the same sort; when one sense is brought to testify against another, for instance; or the same sense against itself, and the obvious conclusions in the two cases disagree, so as to compel us to acknowledge that one or other must be wrong. For example, nothing at first can seem a more rational, obvious, and incontrovertible conclusion, than that the colour of an object is an inherent quality, like its weight, hardness, &c. and that to see the object, and see it of its own colour, when nothing intervenes between our eyes and it, are one and the same thing. Yet this is only a prejudice; and that it is so, is shown by bringing forward the same sense of vision which led to its adoption, as evidence on the other side; for, when the differently coloured prismatic rays are thrown, in a dark room, in succession upon any object, whatever be the colour we are in the habit of calling its own, it will appear of the particular hue of the light which falls upon it: a yellow paper, for instance, will appear scarlet when illuminated by red rays, yellow when by yellow, green by green, and blue by blue rays; its own (so called) proper colour not in the least degree mixing with that it so exhibits.

(72.) To give one or two more examples of the kind of illusion which the senses practise on us, or rather which we practise on ourselves, by a misinterpretation of their evidence: the moon at its rising and setting appears much larger than when high up in the sky. This is, however, a mere erroneous judgment; for when we come to measure its diameter, so far from finding our conclusion borne out by fact, we actually find it to measure materially less. Here is eyesight opposed to eyesight, with the advantage of deliberate measurement. In ventriloquism we have the hearing at variance with all the other senses, and especially with the sight, which is sometimes contradicted by it in a very extraordinary and surprising manner, as when the voice is made to seem to issue from an inanimate and motionless object. If we plunge our hands, one into ice-cold water, and the other into water as hot as can be borne, and, after letting them stay awhile, suddenly transfer them both to a vessel full of water at a blood heat, the one will feel a sensation of heat, the other of cold. And if we cross the two first fingers of one hand, and place a pea in the fork between them, moving and rolling it about on a table, we shall (especially if we close our eyes) be fully persuaded we have two peas. If the nose be held while we are eating cinnamon, we shall perceive no difference between its flavour and that of a deal shaving.

(73.) These, and innumerable instances we might cite, will convince us, that though we are never deceived in the sensible impression made by external objects on us, yet in forming our judgments of them we are greatly at the mercy of circumstances, which either modify the impressions actually received, or combine them with adjuncts which have become habitually associated with different judgments; and, therefore, that, in estimating the degree of confidence we are to place in our conclusions, we must, of necessity, take into account these modifying or accompanying circumstances, whatever they may be. We do not, of course, here speak of deranged organization; such as, for instance, a distortion of the eye, producing double vision, and still less of mental delusion, which absolutely perverts the meaning of sensible impressions.

(74.) As the mind exists not in the place of sensible objects, and is not brought into immediate relation with them, we can only regard sensible impressions as signals conveyed from them by a wonderful, and, to us, inexplicable mechanism, to our minds, which receives and reviews them, and, by habit and association, connects them with corresponding qualities or affections in the objects; just as a person writing down and comparing the signals of a telegraph might interpret their meaning. As, for instance, if he had constantly observed that the exhibition of a certain signal was sure to be followed next day by the announcement of the arrival of a ship at Portsmouth, he would connect the two facts by a link of the very same nature with that which connects the notion of a large wooden building, filled with sailors, with the impression of her outline on the retina of a spectator on the beach.

(75.) In captain Head’s amusing and vivid description of his journey across the Pampas of South America occurs an anecdote quite in point. His guide one day suddenly stopped him, and, pointing high into the air, cried out, “A lion!” Surprised at such an exclamation, accompanied with such an act, he turned up his eyes, and with difficulty perceived, at an immeasurable height, a flight of condors soaring in circles in a particular spot. Beneath that spot, far out of sight of himself or guide, lay the carcass of a horse, and over that carcass stood (as the guide well knew) the lion, whom the condors were eyeing with envy from their airy height. The signal of the birds was to him what the sight of the lion alone could have been to the traveller, a full assurance of its existence.