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CHAPTER VIII.

THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF PESSIMISM: (A) THE PESSIMISTS'

INTERPRETATION OF PHYSICAL NATURE.

THE pessimism both of Schopenhauer and of Hartmann is based on the conception of will as the reality of the world. This idea, though in its state of complete formation a metaphysical one, is during the earlier stages of its formation a scientific one. Both Schopenhauer and Hartmann profess to ground their ontological reality on the data of science, and both consider it to be inferrible from the known facts of science that will extends through the whole region of phenomena. The examination of this position is, then, the first part of our task in estimating the scientific basis of pessimism.

For the present I do not inquire what will is, and how far the pessimist's conception of it is a correct one. I assume that by will is meant the spring or source, or one of the springs or sources, of conscious action as discoverable in our own minds, and I only ask whether this commonly understood will is traceable in the facts and laws of the physical world.

Now, the first thing that staggers one in this extension of the idea of will to inanimate nature is that will is an element of the conscious mind, whereas purely physical phenomena are not viewed as having consciousness. Scho

penhauer and Hartmann both see this difficulty and seek to remove it by the hypothesis of an unconscious will, of a will that is outside and below all consciousness. The question, therefore, now becomes: Is there any such thing as an unconscious mental phenomenon: are there any facts resembling those of our conscious minds so far as to be called mental, which yet lack the element of consciousness?

In order to answer this question we must determine what is meant by mind and what by consciousness. By mind, in its scientific sense, is meant our several states of feeling, thought, and volition, all the facts, changes, and processes, which we mark off from those of the extended material world, and of which we are said to be conscious. This point seems to be clear enough. We can never feel any hesitation in calling a sensation of pain or an inspiring idea something mental, or a movement of a tree, or the vibrations of light, something physical. But are we always conscious of mental changes or events? This leads us to examine what is meant by consciousness.

There is one view of consciousness, often put forward, which seems to be specially favourable to the supposition of unconscious mental phenomena. According to this theory, consciousness is distinct from the various contents of the mind, its feelings, desires, &c. Consciousness is to the sensations and thoughts of our minds as the eye to the moving world outside it. It is essentially a knowing or recognising of something, and this process of cognition is explained as the recognition of the particular feeling or other mental state as my state, as a modification of the conscious subject or Ego. Thus, there is such a thing as a sensation of sweet taste, and also the consciousness of this sensation as a feeling of which I am the subject. On this supposition,

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it is easy to imagine that the mental event may pass unnoticed by the 'eye' of consciousness, whether from its fleeting duration or from the pre-occupation of the visual organ. In other words, the feeling may exist, but not be recognised as mine, and so lie outside the boundaries of consciousness properly so called.

Of course, it is possible to give what meaning we like to a word, provided it still covers all the facts commonly denoted by it. Applying this test, we shall find, I think, that consciousness cannot be regarded as the same as selfconsciousness,1 as the mind's knowledge of its own modifications as such. This interpretation may suit some of the facts it does not answer to others. For example, I am suffering from the violent pangs of tooth-ache. At this moment there is nothing like a consciousness of self contained in the mental state. The only element of cognition discoverable is a vague sense that the present feeling is one of pain of a particular intensity. The only thing existing at this moment, so far as I can make out, is a feeling of pain, together with this nascent intellectual activity. Am I, then, unconscious? No one, I fancy, would be bold enough to make the affirmation. So, again, when I am wholly 'lost' in the beauty of a sunset, there is in the mental content of the moment no self-consciousness, no recognition of a subject underlying the present group of feelings and thoughts. Am I, then, unconscious? Certainly not. It must be plain, from these illustrations, that it is impossible to make consciousness synonymous with that complex form of intellectual activity known as self-consciousness. Consciousness may be almost

1 The very coexistence of the two terms, consciousness and self-consciousness, seems to point to a distinction between the things denoted by them.

wholly emotional, with only the faintest discoverable trace of cognitive activity; or, again, it may be intellectual, but wholly objective, in which case the element of selfconsciousness is equally suppressed. The knowledge of a mental state as my state is something non-essential to feeling and to what we call consciousness.1

So much for the attempt to make consciousness coextensive with self-consciousness. There is another view of consciousness, which also, at first sight, tends to make it narrower than mind, and which is certainly more plausible than the doctrine just examined. This is the theory that consciousness is synonymous with attention. The problem of attention is one of the most interesting of the many unsolved questions of psychology, and when its nature is properly understood, it will undoubtedly tend to clear up what is meant by consciousness in its various meanings. It may be admitted at once that attention is the common meaning of the term conscious when used in a loose and popular way. I was quite unconscious of the interruption,' means, when closely examined, 'I did not attend to it.' The impression reached my mind, but did not call off my attention from the object which engaged it at the moment.' Now, this view of consciousness seems at once to point to a distinction between a mental event and the direction of consciousness to it, and so between a mental event and consciousness. But is this necessarily involved in the distinction? I think not. There are two conceivable views of attention. According to one, attention embraces all

1 For a fuller illustration of this position see Mr. Bain's clear and masterly discussion of consciousness (The Emotions and the Will,' p. 539 seq.). The complexity of the idea of self, which is an element of self-consciousness, is well shown in M. Taine's skilful analysis ( De l'Intelligence,' livre troisième, chapitre premier).

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simultaneously-recurring mental states, though with very unequal degrees of force, there being always some point of fixation, so to speak, some sensation or thought which engages a supreme measure of attention. This view has much to support it. Internal observation may discover in the case of the most obscure idea, lurking in the outer zones of the mind, the direction of a certain faint measure of attention, even though this be an exceedingly rapid and fugitive process. If this view is sound, then it obviously follows that consciousness, even when conceived as attention, is as extensive as mental life itself.

This interpretation, however, may be objected to, as unusual and extreme. Let us, then, take the more common view that attention covers but a limited area of the whole mental field present at any given moment; the central regions being highly illuminated, the outer regions becoming darker and darker till we reach a wholly invisible territory. This view, it may be said, surely assumes the existence of sensations and other mental events out of consciousness. No doubt, in the popular sense of the term. But do those who speak in this way really mean that everything lying outside the circle forming, so to speak, the base of the cone of this attention is absolutely unconscious? I think not. For how are we to conceive the voluntary direction of attention to an object in this dark region if there is absolutely no consciousness of it? Careful reflection will show that an impression or idea, when unattended to, still forms an ingredient of our consciousness. The mind is dimly aware

1 I do not here go into the curious question what number of feelings or ideas can be simultaneously embraced by attention. It should be remembered that what we call simultaneous acts of attention commonly involve many swift alternations in the direction of this activity.