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The question has sometimes been asked, Where should we begin in Logic? Particularly within the present century has this difficulty been felt, when the study of Logic has been revived and made intricate by the different purposes of its cultivators.

Where did the founder of Logic begin? Where did Aristotle begin? This seems to be the simplest way of settling where we should begin, for the system shaped by Aristotle is still the trunk of the tree, though there have been so many offshoots from the old stump and so many parasitic plants have wound themselves round it that Logic is now almost as tangled a growth as the Yews of Borrowdale—

An intertwisted mass of fibres serpentine

Upcoiling and inveterately convolved.

It used to be said that Logic had remained for two thousand years precisely as Aristotle left it. It was an example of a science or art perfected at one stroke by the genius of its first inventor. The bewildered student must often wish that this were so: it is only superficially true. Much of Aristotle's nomenclature and his central formulæ have been retained, but they have been very variously supplemented and interpreted to very different purposes—often to no purpose at all.

The Cambridge mathematician's boast about his new theorem—"The best of it all is that it can never by any possibility be made of the slightest use to anybody for anything"—might be made with truth about many of the later developments of Logic. We may say the same, indeed, about the later developments of any subject that has been a playground for generation after generation of acute intellects, happy in their own disinterested exercise. Educational subjects—subjects appropriated for the general schooling of young minds—are particularly apt to be developed out of the lines of their original intention. So many influences conspire to pervert the original aim. The convenience of the teacher, the convenience of the learner, the love of novelty, the love of symmetry, the love of subtlety; easy-going indolence on the one hand and intellectual restlessness on the other—all these motives act from within on traditional matter without regard to any external purpose whatever. Thus in Logic difficulties have been glossed over and simplified for the dull understanding, while acute minds have revelled in variations and new and ingenious manipulations of the old formulæ, and in multiplication and more exact and symmetrical definition of the old distinctions.

To trace the evolution of the forms and theories of Logic under these various influences during its periods of active development is a task more easily conceived than executed, and one far above the ambition of an introductory treatise. But it is well that even he who writes for beginners should recognise that the forms now commonly used have been evolved out of a simpler tradition. Without entering into the details of the process, it is possible to indicate its main stages, and thus furnish a clue out of the modern labyrinthine confusion of purposes.

How did the Aristotelian Logic originate? Its central feature is the syllogistic forms. In what circumstances did Aristotle invent these? For what purpose? What use did he contemplate for them? In rightly understanding this, we shall understand the original scope or province of Logic, and thus be in a position to understand more clearly how it has been modified, contracted, expanded, and supplemented.

Logic has always made high claims as the scientia scientiarum, the science of sciences. The builders of this Tower of Babel are threatened in these latter days with confusion of tongues. We may escape this danger if we can recover the designs of the founder, and of the master-builders who succeeded him.

Aristotle's Logic has been so long before the world in abstract isolation that we can hardly believe that its form was in any way determined by local accident. A horror as of sacrilege is excited by the bare suggestion that the author of this grand and venerable work, one of the most august monuments of transcendent intellect, was in his day and generation only a pre-eminent tutor or schoolmaster, and that his logical writings were designed for the accomplishment of his pupils in a special art in which every intellectually ambitious young Athenian of the period aspired to excel. Yet such is the plain fact, baldly stated. Aristotle's Logic in its primary aim was as practical as a treatise on Navigation, or "Cavendish on Whist". The latter is the more exact of the two comparisons. It was in effect in its various parts a series of handbooks for a temporarily fashionable intellectual game, a peculiar mode of disputation or dialectic,¹ the game of Question and Answer, the game so fully illustrated in the Dialogues of Plato, the game identified with the name of Socrates.

We may lay stress, if we like, on the intellectuality of the game, and the high topics on which it was exercised. It was a game that could flourish only among a peculiarly intellectual people; a people less acute would find little sport in it. The Athenians still take a singular delight in disputation. You cannot visit Athens without being struck by it. You may still see groups formed round two protagonists in the cafés or the squares, or among the ruins of the Acropolis, in a way to remind you of Socrates and his friends. They do not argue as Gil Blas and his Hibernians did with heat and temper, ending in blows. They argue for the pure love of arguing, the audience sitting or standing by to see fair play with the keenest enjoyment of intellectual thrust and parry. No other people could argue like the Greeks without coming to blows. It is one of their characteristics now, and so it was in old times two thousand years ago. And about a century before Aristotle reached manhood, they had invented this peculiarly difficult and trying species of disputative pastime, in which we find the genesis of Aristotle's logical treatises.

To get a proper idea of this debate by Question and Answer, which we may call Socratic disputation after its most renowned master, one must read some of the dialogues of Plato. I will indicate merely the skeleton of the game, to show how happily it lent itself to Aristotle's analysis of arguments and propositions.

A thesis or proposition is put up for debate, e.g., that knowledge is nothing else than sensible perception,² that it is a greater evil to do wrong than to suffer wrong,³ that the love of gain is not reprehensible.⁴ There are two disputants, but they do not speak on the question by turns, so many minutes being allowed to each as in a modern encounter of wits. One of the two, who may be called the Questioner, is limited to asking questions, the other, the Respondent, is limited to answering. Further, the Respondent can answer only "Yes" or "No," with perhaps a little explanation: on his side the Questioner must ask only questions that admit of the simple answer "Yes" or "No". The Questioner's business is to extract from the Respondent admissions involving the opposite of what he has undertaken to maintain. The Questioner tries in short to make him contradict himself. Only a very stupid Respondent would do this at once: the Questioner plies him with general principles, analogies, plain cases; leads him on from admission to admission, and then putting the admissions together convicts him out of his own mouth of inconsistency.⁵

Now mark precisely where Aristotle struck in with his invention of the Syllogism, the invention on which he prided himself as specially his own, and the forms of which have clung to Logic ever since, even in the usage of those who deride Aristotle's Moods and Figures as antiquated superstitions. Suppose yourself the Questioner, where did he profess to help you with his mechanism? In effect, as the word Syllogism indicates, it was when you had obtained a number of admissions, and wished to reason them together, to demonstrate how they bore upon the thesis in dispute, how they hung together, how they necessarily involved what you were contending for. And the essence of his mechanism was the reduction of the admitted propositions to common terms, and to certain types or forms which are manifestly equivalent or inter-dependent. Aristotle advised his pupils also in the tactics of the game, but his grand invention was the form or type of admissions that you should strive to obtain, and the effective manipulation of them when you had got them.

An example will show the nature of this help, and what it was worth. To bring the thing nearer home, let us, instead of an example from Plato, whose topics often seem artificial to us now, take a thesis from last century, a paradox still arguable, Mandeville's famous—some would say infamous—paradox that Private Vices are Public Benefits. Undertake to maintain this, and you will have no difficulty in getting a respondent prepared to maintain the negative. The plain men, such as Socrates cross-questioned, would have declared at once that a vice is a vice, and can never do any good to anybody. Your Respondent denies your proposition simply: he upholds that private vices never are public benefits, and defies you to extract from him any admission inconsistent with this. Your task then is to lure him somehow into admitting that in some cases what is vicious in the individual may be of service to the State. This is enough: you are not concerned to establish that this holds of all private vices. A single instance to the contrary is enough to break down his universal negative. You cannot, of course, expect him to make the necessary admission in direct terms: you must go round about. You know, perhaps, that he has confidence in Bishop Butler as a moralist. You try him with the saying: "To aim at public and private good are so far from being inconsistent that they mutually promote each other". Does he admit this?

Perhaps he wants some little explanation or exemplification to enable him to grasp your meaning. This was within the rules of the game. You put cases to him, asking for his "Yes" or "No" to each. Suppose a man goes into Parliament, not out of any zeal for the public good, but in pure vainglory, or to serve his private ends, is it possible for him to render the State good service? Or suppose a milk-seller takes great pains to keep his milk pure, not because he cares for the public health, but because it pays, is this a benefit to the public?

Let these questions be answered in the affirmative, putting you in possession of the admission that some actions undertaken for private ends are of public advantage, what must you extract besides to make good your position as against the Respondent? To see clearly at this stage what now is required, though you have to reach it circuitously, masking your approach under difference of language, would clearly be an advantage. This was the advantage that Aristotle's method offered to supply. A disputant familiar with his analysis would foresee at once that if he could get the Respondent to admit that all actions undertaken for private ends are vicious, the victory was his, while nothing short of this would serve.

Here my reader may interject that he could have seen this without any help from Aristotle, and that anybody may see it without knowing that what he has to do is, in Aristotelian language, to construct a syllogism in Bokardo. I pass this over. I am not concerned at this point to defend the utility of Aristotle's method. All that I want is to illustrate the kind of use that it was intended for. Perhaps if Aristotle had not habituated men's minds to his analysis, we should none of us have been able to discern coherence and detect incoherence as quickly and clearly as we do now.

But to return to our example. As Aristotle's pupil, you would have seen at the stage we are speaking of that the establishment of your thesis must turn upon the definition of virtue and vice. You must proceed, therefore, to cross-examine your Respondent about this. You are not allowed to ask him what he means by virtue, or what he means by vice. In accordance with the rules of the dialectic, it is your business to propound definitions, and demand his Yes or No to them. You ask him, say, whether he agrees with Shaftesbury's definition of a virtuous action as an action undertaken purely for the good of others. If he assents, it follows that an action undertaken with any suspicion of a self-interested motive cannot be numbered among the virtues. If he agrees, further, that every action must be either vicious or virtuous, you have admissions sufficient to prove your original thesis. All that you have now to do to make your triumph manifest, is to display the admissions you have obtained in common terms.

Some actions done with a self-interested motive are public benefits.

All actions done with a self-interested motive are private vices.

From these premisses it follows irresistibly that

Some private vices are public benefits.

This illustration may serve to show the kind of disputation for which Aristotle's logic was designed, and thus to make clear its primary uses and its limitations.

To realise its uses, and judge whether there is anything analogous to them in modern needs, conceive the chief things that it behoved Questioner and Respondent in this game to know. All that a proposition necessarily implies; all that two propositions put together imply; on what conditions and to what extent one admission is inconsistent with another; when one admission necessarily involves another; when two necessarily involve a third. And to these ends it was obviously necessary to have an exact understanding of the terms used, so as to avoid the snares of ambiguous language.

That a Syllogistic or Logic of Consistency should emerge out of Yes-and-No Dialectic was natural. Things in this world come when they are wanted: inventions are made on the spur of necessity. It was above all necessary in this kind of debate to avoid contradicting yourself: to maintain your consistency. A clever interrogator spread out proposition after proposition before you and invited your assent, choosing forms of words likely to catch your prejudices and lure you into self-contradiction. An organon, instrument, or discipline calculated to protect you as Respondent and guide you as Questioner by making clear what an admission led to, was urgently called for, and when the game had been in high fashion for more than a century Aristotle's genius devised what was wanted, meeting at the same time, no doubt, collateral needs that had arisen from the application of Dialectic to various kinds of subject-matter.

The thoroughness of Aristotle's system was doubtless due partly to the searching character of the dialectic in which it had its birth. No other mode of disputation makes such demands upon the disputant's intellectual agility and precision, or is so well adapted to lay bare the skeleton of an argument.

The uses of Aristotle's logical treatises remained when the fashion that had called them forth had passed.⁶ Clear and consistent thinking, a mastery of the perplexities and ambiguities of language, power to detect identity of meaning under difference of expression, a ready apprehension of all that a proposition implies, all that may be educed or deduced from it—whatever helps to these ends must be of perpetual use. "To purge the understanding of those errors which lie in the confusion and perplexities of an inconsequent thinking," is a modern description of the main scope of Logic.⁷ It is a good description of the branch of Logic that keeps closest to the Aristotelian tradition.

The limitations as well as the uses of Aristotle's logic may be traced to the circumstances of its origin. Both parties to the disputation, Questioner and Respondent alike, were mainly concerned with the inter-dependence of the propositions put forward. Once the Respondent had given his assent to a question, he was bound in consistency to all that it implied. He must take all the consequences of his admission. It might be true or it might be false as a matter of fact: all the same he was bound by it: its truth or falsehood was immaterial to his position as a disputant. On the other hand, the Questioner could not go beyond the admissions of the Respondent. It has often been alleged as a defect in the Syllogism that the conclusion does not go beyond the premisses, and ingenious attempts have been made to show that it is really an advance upon the premisses. But having regard to the primary use of the syllogism, this was no defect, but a necessary character of the relation. The Questioner could not in fairness assume more than had been granted by implication. His advance could only be an argumentative advance: if his conclusion contained a grain more than was contained in the premisses, it was a sophistical trick, and the Respondent could draw back and withhold his assent. He was bound in consistency to stand by his admissions; he was not bound to go a fraction of an inch beyond them.

We thus see how vain it is to look to the Aristotelian tradition for an organon of truth or a criterion of falsehood. Directly and primarily, at least, it was not so; the circumstances of its origin gave it a different bent. Indirectly and secondarily, no doubt, it served this purpose, inasmuch as truth was the aim of all serious thinkers who sought to clear their minds and the minds of others by Dialectic. But in actual debate truth was represented merely by the common-sense of the audience. A dialectician who gained a triumph by outraging this, however cleverly he might outwit his antagonist, succeeded only in amusing his audience, and dialecticians of the graver sort aimed at more serious uses and a more respectful homage, and did their best to discountenance merely eristic disputation. Further, it would be a mistake to conclude because Aristotle's Logic, as an instrument of Dialectic, concerned itself with the syllogism of propositions rather than their truth, that it was merely an art of quibbling. On the contrary, it was essentially the art of preventing and exposing quibbling. It had its origin in quibbling, no doubt, inasmuch as what we should call verbal quibbling was of the essence of Yes-and-No Dialectic, and the main secret of its charm for an intellectual and disputatious people; but it came into being as a safeguard against quibbling, not a serviceable adjunct.

The mediæval developments of Logic retained and even exaggerated the syllogistic character of the original treatises. Interrogative dialectic had disappeared in the Middle Ages whether as a diversion or as a discipline: but errors of inconsistency still remained the errors against which principally educated men needed a safeguard. Men had to keep their utterances in harmony with the dogmas of the Church. A clear hold of the exact implications of a proposition, whether singly or in combination with other propositions, was still an important practical need. The Inductive Syllogism was not required, and its treatment dwindled to insignificance in mediæval text-books, but the Deductive Syllogism and the formal apparatus for the definition of terms held the field.

It was when observation of Nature and its laws became a paramount pursuit that the defects of Syllogistic Logic began to be felt. Errors against which this Logic offered no protection then called for a safeguard—especially the errors to which men are liable in the investigation of cause and effect. "Bring your thoughts into harmony one with another," was the demand of Aristotle's age. "Bring your thoughts into harmony with authority," was the demand of the Middle Ages. "Bring them into harmony with fact," was the requirement most keenly felt in more recent times. It is in response to this demand that what is commonly but not very happily known as Inductive Logic has been formulated.

In obedience to custom, I shall follow the now ordinary division of Logic into Deductive and Inductive. The titles are misleading in many ways, but they are fixed by a weight of usage which it would be vain to try to unsettle. Both come charging down the stream of time each with its cohort of doctrines behind it, borne forward with irresistible momentum.

The best way of preventing confusion now is to retain the established titles, recognise that the doctrines behind each have a radically different aim or end, and supply the interpretation of this end from history. What they have in common may be described as the prevention of error, the organisation of reason against error. I have shown that owing to the bent impressed upon it by the circumstances of its origin, the errors chiefly safeguarded by the Aristotelian logic were the errors of inconsistency. The other branch of Logic, commonly called Induction, was really a separate evolution, having its origin in a different practical need. The history of this I will trace separately after we have seen our way through the Aristotelian tradition and its accretions. The Experimental Methods are no less manifestly the germ, the evolutionary centre or starting-point, of the new Logic than the Syllogism is of the old, and the main errors safeguarded are errors of fact and inference from fact.

At this stage it will be enough to indicate briefly the broad relations between Deductive Logic and Inductive Logic.

Inductive Logic, as we now understand it—the Logic of Observation and Explanation—was first formulated and articulated to a System of Logic by J. S. Mill. It was he that added this wing to the old building. But the need of it was clearly expressed as early as the thirteenth century. Roger Bacon, the Franciscan friar (1214–1292), and not his more illustrious namesake Francis, Lord Verulam, was the real founder of Inductive Logic. It is remarkable that the same century saw Syllogistic Logic advanced to its most complete development in the system of Petrus Hispanus, a Portuguese scholar who under the title of John XXI. filled the Papal Chair for eight months in 1276–7.

A casual remark of Roger Bacon's in the course of his advocacy of Experimental Science in the Opus Majus draws a clear line between the two branches of Logic. "There are," he says, "two ways of knowing, by Argument and by Experience. Argument concludes a question, but it does not make us feel certain, unless the truth be also found in experience."

On this basis the old Logic may be clearly distinguished from the new, taking as the general aim of Logic the protection of the mind against the errors to which it is liable in the acquisition of knowledge.

All knowledge, broadly speaking, comes either from Authority, i.e., by argument from accepted premisses, or from Experience. If it comes from Authority it comes through the medium of words: if it comes from Experience it comes through the senses. In taking in knowledge through words we are liable to certain errors; and in taking in knowledge through the senses we are liable to certain errors. To protect against the one is the main end of "Deductive" Logic: to protect against the other is the main end of "Inductive" Logic. As a matter of fact the pith of treatises on Deduction and Induction is directed to those ends respectively, the old meanings of Deduction and Induction as formal processes (to be explained afterwards) being virtually ignored.

There is thus no antagonism whatever between the two branches of Logic. They are directed to different ends. The one is supplementary to the other. The one cannot supersede the other.

Aristotelian Logic can never become superfluous as long as men are apt to be led astray by words. Its ultimate business is to safeguard in the interpretation of the tradition of language. The mere syllogistic, the bare forms of equivalent or consistent expression, have a very limited utility, as we shall see. But by cogent sequence syllogism leads to proposition, and proposition to term, and term to a close study of the relations between words and thoughts and things.

Footnote 1: We know for certain—and it is one of the evidences of the importance attached to this trivial-looking pastime—that two of the great teacher's logical treatises, the Topics and the Sophistical Refutations, were written especially for the guidance of Questioners and Respondents. The one instructs the disputant how to qualify himself methodically for discussion before an ordinary audience, when the admissions extracted from the respondent are matters of common belief, the questioner's skill being directed to make it appear that the respondent's position is inconsistent with these. The other is a systematic exposure of sophistical tricks, mostly verbal quibbles, whereby a delusive appearance of victory in debate may be obtained. But in the concluding chapter of the Elenchi, where Aristotle claims not only that his method is superior to the empirical methods of rival teachers, but that it is entirely original, it is the Syllogism upon which he lays stress as his peculiar and chief invention. The Syllogism, the pure forms of which are expounded in his Prior Analytics, is really the centre of Aristotle's logical system, whether the propositions to which it is applied are matters of scientific truth as in the Posterior Analytics, or matters of common opinion as in the Topics. The treatise on Interpretation, i.e., the interpretation of the Respondent's "Yes" and "No," is preliminary to the Syllogism, the reasoning of the admissions together. Even in the half-grammatical half-logical treatise on the Categories, the author always keeps an eye on the Syllogistic analysis.

Footnote 2: Theætetus, 151 E.

Footnote 3: Gorgias, 473 D.

Footnote 4: Hipparchus, 225 A.

Footnote 5: In its leading and primary use, this was a mode of debate, a duel of wits, in which two men engaged before an audience. But the same form could be used, and was used, notably by Socrates, not in an eristic spirit but as a means of awakening people to the consequences of certain admissions or first principles, and thus making vague knowledge explicit and clear. The mind being detained on proposition after proposition as assent was given to it, dialectic was a valuable instrument of instruction and exposition. But whatever the purpose of the exercise, controversial triumph, or solid grounding in the first principles—"the evolution of in-dwelling conceptions"—the central interest lay in the syllogising or reasoning together of the separately assumed or admitted propositions.

Footnote 6: Like every other fashion, Yes-and-No Dialectic had its period, its rise and fall. The invention of it is ascribed to Zeno the Eleatic, the answering and questioning Zeno, who flourished about the middle of the fifth century B.C. Socrates (469–399) was in his prime at the beginning of the great Peloponnesian War when Pericles died in 429. In that year Plato was born, and lived to 347, "the olive groves of Academe" being established centre of his teaching from about 386 onwards. Aristotle (384–322), who was the tutor of Alexander the Great, established his school at the Lyceum when Alexander became king in 336 and set out on his career of conquest. That Yes-and-No Dialectic was then a prominent exercise, his logical treatises everywhere bear witness. The subsequent history of the game is obscure. It is probable that Aristotle's thorough exposition of its legitimate arts and illegitimate tricks helped to destroy its interest as an amusement.

Footnote 7: Hamilton's Lectures, iii. p. 37.