IS THOUGHT POSSIBLE WITHOUT LANGUAGE?
CASE OF A DEAF-MUTE
by
Samuel Porter
(Extracted from The Princeton Review, Jan.-June, 1881, pp. 104-28.)
THE relation of thought to language has engaged the attention of philosophical
thinkers from the earliest times. And now, in the discussion of the Darwinian
theory of evolution, it has come into new prominence, in its bearing upon the
question of the difference between the brute and the human intelligence. This
theory admits a difference only in degree, and not in kind. It does not take the
quite extreme nominalistic ground, which makes a name, or word, to be the
essence of a general notion,—since it claims for the brutes some sort of
capacity for general ideas;—but it fully adopts the dictum of Condillac, that
the art of reasoning is reducible to "Vart de bien parler" is nothing other
than "une langue bien faite." Language it views as an organon, which serves,
however, not as an instrument employed by the reason, but which constitutes, in
its working, the reason itself. In short, the intellectual superiority of man
depends essentially on the possession of language,
and language is the product of faculties which man shares with the brute, only
more highly developed in him. (Darwin: Descent of Man, Part I., Chaps. II. and
VI; Huxley: Hume, Ch. V.) Prof. Max Muller has contended most strenuously, and
with a profuse expenditure of erudition, that the nature of language, as
disclosed by the researches of comparative philology, furnishes a triumphant
refutation of the Darwinian views. The earliest roots are grounded in general
conceptions: the names of objects, such as horse, man, bird, tree, etc., spring
from roots significant of some general attribute of the species or class to
which they are applied. Not only is a general conception the essential
constituent of the word, but it is, he maintains, impossible of existence except
as realized in and by the word—it is the life of which the articulate or other
symbol is the body. And he draws the conclusion that the capability for general
conceptions is a special faculty, differing in kind from anything manifested by
the brutes, and therefore not to be accounted for as the product of evolution.
The argument, however, amounts to just this: that, because language begins with
general ideas, therefore general ideas begin with language. It is plainly a non
sequitur. As an argument, it is, indeed, worse than a failure: the very
interesting and instructive facts adduced by the learned professor may fairly be
taken so as even to lend their weight to the opposite side. What a thing begins
with may be what it springs out of, and may have prior and independent
existence.
In this and in other similar discussions, reference is made to the case of
infant children and to that of uninstructed deaf-mutes. On the Darwinian view,
children and deaf-mutes cannot be accorded the possession of any mental power or
any form of mental action that distinguishes man from the brutes. (Huxley: Hume,
Ch. V.) Prof. Max Muller is, so far, at one with the Darwinians, in that he
ranks the mental processes of children and deaf-mutes in the same class with
those of the
brute-animals. Thus he says (in writings already referred to), "The
uninstructed deaf and dumb, I believe, have never given any signs of reason, in
the true sense of the word." "Brutes" are "irrational beings simply in the
sense of devoid of forming and handling general concepts." And, "according to
those who have best studied the subject, it is perfectly true that deaf and dumb
persons, if left entirely to themselves, have no concepts, except such as can be
expressed by less perfect symbols—and it is only by being taught that they
acquire some kind of conceptual thought and language."
Philosophers of the ultra-nominalist school would, of course, concur in
relegating the mental processes of untaught deaf-mutes to the same category with
those of the brute creation. Archbishop Whately expresses their views in words
as follows:—
"A deaf-mute, before he has been taught a language,—either the
finger-language or reading,—cannot carry on a train of reasoning, any more
than a brute. He differs, indeed, from a brute in possessing the mental
capability of employing language; but he can no more make use of that
capability, till he is in possession of some system of arbitrary general signs,
than a person born blind from cataract can make use of his capacity of seeing
till the cataract is removed. You will find, accordingly, if you question a
deaf-mute who has been taught language after having grown up, that no such
thing as a train of reasoning had ever passed through his mind before he was
taught." (Whately: Lessons on Reasoning, I., VIII.)
The importance of an accurate ascertainment of the facts concerning the mind of
the uninstructed deaf-mute is sufficiently evident. The following narrative is
offered as a contribution for this end. The writer, Mr. Melville Ballard, has
been for years an instructor in the Columbia Institution for Deaf-Mutes, at
Washington, D. C, and is a graduate of the National Deaf-Mute College, the
higher department of the same institution. It will be seen that he himself had,
in his early years,—with no power of clothing his thought in any form of
language,—put clearly before his mind the question concerning the first
beginning of things; and had even, come to a vague notion of a power, of a
nature undefined, as directing the motions of the heavenly bodies.
The case is an extraordinary one. The only instance on record that makes even
the faintest approach to this is given in an article by the late Dr. H. P. Peet,
in the American Annals of the Deaf and Dumb, Vol. VIII., (Hartford, 1856),
entitled "Notions of the Deaf and Dumb before Instruction." The article reports
the answers to a series of questions that had been proposed to the more advanced
pupils of the New York Institution for the Deaf and Dumb; and to this among
others: "Did you ever try to reflect about the origin of the world or its
inhabitants?" One of the replies, by a girl fifteen years old before coming
under instruction, was, "I tried to think, but could not do it. I thought the
inhabitants came from the South." Another one wrote, "It is impossible for me
to assert whether I had ever tried," &c. All the others stated that they had
not, or to the best of their recollection had not, reflected at all upon the
subject. The Twenty-second Annual Report of the American Asylum (Hartford,
1838) gives replies from pupils to a similar set of questions. To this one, "Had you reasoned or thought about the origin of the world, or the beings and
things it contains?" all the answers were decided negatives.
One well-authenticated instance is as good as a hundred for the purpose of
determining the general capacity of the human mind in the circumstances
supposed. Mr. Ballard is known, to those who know him at all, as a person of
more than common clearness of perception and accuracy and vividness of
recollection, as well as of a most scrupulous regard for truth; and has been
especially careful to include, in this statement, nothing of which he was at all
doubtful. There was apparently, in his case, a somewhat precocious development
of the reflective faculties; which, the otherwise unaided, may have found a favoring circumstance in the isolation which shut him in to the company of his
own thoughts. It is to be here remembered that the education of deaf-mutes
commences ordinarily in immature
age—commonly nowadays at as early an age as six or eight years,—and it is to
be considered that such glimpses of thought in this direction as may not
improbably have been experienced in some instances would not be likely to be
retained in the recollection of after years.
We are not unfrequently told by educated deaf-mutes how, in their early years,
the more striking and inaccessible objects and phenomena of nature awakened
their wonder and curiosity, and were made the subject of various fanciful
explanations, not unlike what may have been the germs of some of the myths that
have obtained prevalence among men unenlightened by science. Their notions of
this sort are interesting and worthy of attention; and are themselves evidence
of a grade of intelligence quite above that of the brutes. Evidence of the like
import is to be observed in the working of the language-making faculty, which,
with the rare exceptions of the idiotic or imbecile, is always exercised by
uneducated mutes, to a greater or less extent, through the medium of gestural
signs. This is not a mere faculty of acquiring and using language; the signs
are, for the most part, originated by themselves, are a creative product of
their own minds, and they afford a more striking exhibition of innate endowment
than does the mere acquisition of language on the part of those who hear and
speak.
It is, however, with particular reference to the question whether thought is possible without language, that attention is now invited to the case of Mr. Ballard, as related in his own words.
NARRATION BY MR. BALLARD
"In consequence of the loss of my hearing in infancy,1 I was debarred from
enjoying the advantages which children in the full possession of their senses
derive from the exercises of the common primary school, from the every-day talk
of their school-fellows and playmates, and from the conversation of their
parents and other grown-up persons.
"I could convey my thoughts and feelings to my parents and brothers by natural
signs or pantomime, and I could understand what they said to me by the same
medium; our intercourse being, however, confined to the daily routine of home
affairs and hardly going beyond the circle of my own observation.
"My mother made the attempt to teach me to articulate by speaking loud close
to my ear, and also by making me look at her lips and try to repeat what she had
uttered. There was many a word of encouragement from the mother and many an
expression of discouragement on the part of the child; and she persevered,
hoping against hope, in this labor of love, until I was five years old, when she
gave it up as a hopeless task. She, however, renewed the attempt occasionally at
different periods afterwards.
"There was one thing to which she ever adhered, in our relations as mother and
child. That was her endeavor for the molding of my character. She did not
indulge me in anything on account of my privation. She did not suffer my
misfortune to lead her to surrender her judgment to the fondness of her
affection. She taught me to treat my brothers and sisters just as they were to
treat me, and especially to respect their property in the playthings which
belonged to them. An uncle of mine remonstrated with her in my behalf, saying
that my brothers would be willing to gratify my humor. She answered him that she
did not wish to have me grow up in the belief that I was a person different from
others, having claims superior to theirs.
"My father adopted a course which he thought would, in some measure, compensate
me for the loss of my hearing. It was that of taking me with him, when business
required him to ride abroad; and he took me more frequently than he did my
brothers; giving, as the reason for his apparent partiality, that they could
acquire information through the ear, while I depended solely upon my eye for
acquaintance with affairs of the outside world. He believed that observation
would help to develop my faculties, and he also wished to see me deriving
pleasure from some source.
"I have a vivid recollection of the delight I felt in watching the different
scenes we passed through, observing the various phases of nature, both animate
and inanimate; tho' we did not, owing to my infirmity, engage in conversation.
It was during those delightful rides, some two or three years before my
initiation into the rudiments of written language, that I began to ask myself
the question: How came the world into being? When this question occurred to my
mind, I set myself to thinking it over a long time. My curiosity was awakened as
to what was the origin of human life in its first appearance upon the earth, and
of vegetable life as well, and also the cause of the existence of the earth,
sun, moon, and stars.
"I remember at one time when my eye fell upon a very large old stump which we
happened to pass in one of our rides, I asked myself, "Is it possible that the
first man that ever came into the world rose out of that stump? But that stump
is only a remnant of a once noble magnificent tree, and how came that tree? Why,
it came only by beginning to grow out of the ground just like those little trees
now coming up.' And I dismissed from my mind, as an absurd idea, the connection
between
the origin of man and a decaying old stump.
"For my knowledge of the motives of my parents in their treatment of me
during my childhood, I am indebted to a long recital, given by my mother about
five years ago, of incidents of my early life and the details connected
therewith.
"I have no recollection of what it was that first suggested to me the question
as to the origin of things. I had before this time gained ideas of the descent
from parent to child, of the propagation of animals, and of the production of
plants from seeds. The question that occurred to my mind was: whence came the
first man, the first animal, and the first plant, at the remotest distance of
time, before which there was no man, no animal, no plant; since I knew they all
had a beginning and an end.
"It is impossible to state the exact order in which these different questions
arose, i.e., about men, animals, plants, the earth, sun, moon, &c. The lower
animals did not receive so much thought as was bestowed upon man and the earth; perhaps because I put man and beast in the same class, since I believed that
man would be annihilated and there was no resurrection beyond the grave,—the I
am now told by my mother that, in answer to my question, in the case of a
deceased uncle who
looked to me like a person in sleep, she had tried to make me understand that he
would awake in the far future. It was my belief that man and beast derived their
being from the same source, and were to be laid down in the dust in a state of
annihilation. Considering the brute animal as of secondary importance, and
allied to man on a lower level, man and the earth were the two things on which
my mind dwelled most.
"I think I was five years old, when I began to understand the descent from
parent to child and the propagation of animals. I was nearly eleven years old,
when I entered the Institution where I was educated; and I remember distinctly
that it was at least two years before this time that I began to ask myself the
question as to the origin of the universe. My age was then about eight, not over
nine years.
"Of the form of the earth, I had no idea in my childhood, except that, from a
look at a map of the hemispheres, I inferred there were two immense discs of
matter lying near each other. I also believed the sun and moon to be two round,
flat plates of illuminating matter ; and for those luminaries I entertained a
sort of reverence on account of their power of lighting and heating the earth. I
thought from their coming up and going down, traveling across the sky in so
regular a manner, that there must be a certain something having power to govern
their course. I believed the sun went into a hole at the west and came out of
another at the east, traveling through a great tube in the earth, describing
the same curve as it seemed to describe in the sky. The stars seemed to me to be
tiny lights studded
in the sky.
"The source from which the universe came was the question about which my mind
revolved in a vain struggle to grasp it, or rather to fight the way up to attain
to a satisfactory answer. When I had occupied myself with this subject a
considerable time, I perceived that it was a matter much greater than my mind
could comprehend; and I remember well that I became so appalled at its mystery
and so bewildered at my inability to grapple with it that I laid the subject
aside and out of my mind, glad to escape being, as it were, drawn into a vortex
of inextricable confusion. Tho' I felt relieved at this escape, yet I could not
resist the desire to know the truth; and I returned to the subject; but as
before, I left it, after thinking it over for some time. In this state of
perplexity, I hoped all the time to get at the truth, still believing that, the
more I gave thought to the subject, the more my mind would penetrate the
mystery. Thus, I was tossed like a shuttlecock, returning to the subject and
recoiling from it, till I came to school.
"I remember that my mother once told me about a being up above, pointing her
finger towards the sky and with a solemn look on her countenance. I do not
recall the circumstance which led to this communication. When she mentioned the
mysterious being up in the sky, I was eager to take hold of the subject, and
plied her with questions concerning the form and appearance of this unknown
being, asking if it was the sun, moon, or one of the stars. I knew she meant
that there was a living one somewhere up in the sky ; but when I realized that
she could not answer my questions, I gave it up in despair, feeling sorrowful
that I could not obtain a definite idea of the mysterious living one up in the
sky.
''One day, while we were haying in a field, there was a series of heavy
thunder-claps. I asked one of my brothers where they came from. He pointed to
the sky and made a zigzag motion with his finger, signifying lightning. I
imagined there was a great man somewhere in the blue vault, who made a loud
noise with his voice out of it; and each time I heard2 a thunder-clap I was
frightened, and looked up at the sky, fearing he was speaking a threatening
word.
"In the year after my admission into the school for deaf-mutes, at Hartford, Conn., I learned a few sentences every Sunday, such as 'God is great,' 'God is
wise,' 'God is strong,' 'God is kind,' etc., and tho' I studied those simple
words, I never acquired any idea of God as the Creator. I attended the chapel
services, but they were almost unintelligible, owing to my imperfect knowledge
of the sign-language as employed in the Institution. The second year I had a
small catechism containing a series of questions and answers. The first question
was, 'Who made this watch?' Answer: 'A man made it.' Second question: 'Who made
that house?' Answer: 'Some men built it.' Third question: 'Who made the sun?'
Answer: 'God created the sun, moon and stars.' Fourth question: 'Who made the
earth?' Answer: 'God created the earth, sea, trees, grass and vegetables.'
"This method of proceeding from the lower stages of intelligent construction to
the act of creation began to clear away, in my mind, the mystery of the origin
of the universe. I was now able to understand well the sign-language used by my
instructors in their explanations. While the creation of the heavens and the
earth was being related to us, the Creator was described as a great invisible
spirit, seeing and knowing all things, and at whose creative word the world
sprang into existence. As this truth was dawning on my mind, I felt a sensation
of awe at the magnitude of the work done by the one ruling mind. From the
uncertain perplexing round of speculation in which I had been groping back and
back through the dark depths of time, seeking to discover the origin of the
universe, I found myself translated into a world of light, wherein my mind was
set at rest on this great question; and I felt as tho' I had become a new
being. This revelation of the truth seemed to give a new dignity to everything,
as deriving its existence from an almighty and wise Creator; and it seemed to
elevate the world to a higher and more honorable place.
"It may be said, and perhaps to my reproach, that my inquiring disposition ought to have been satisfied. It was not so ; for when I had learned of the creation of the universe by the one great ruling spirit, I began to ask myself whence came the Creator, and set myself to inquiring after his nature and origin. While I revolve this question, I ask myself, "Shall we ever know the nature of God and comprehend his infinity after we enter his kingdom?" And would it not be better for us to say with the patriarch of old, ''Canst thou by searching find out God?"
"Melville Ballard."
That there may be no uncertainty as to how far Mr. Ballard may have been aided
by signs in his early mental processes, I will add some facts obtained from him
by personal inquiry. There were two brothers, of an age not far from his own,
with whom he was accustomed to communicate freely by signs, as well as with his
mother and sisters, and to some extent his father. A considerable vocabulary of
signs, determinate and fixed in form, while retaining the natural significance
of their origin, had by degrees grown up and become together with purely natural
pantomime the established means of communication. Thus, there were signs, not
only for the more common actions of men and animals, but for most of the
surrounding objects, animate and inanimate; the signs . for objects were
derived, for the most part, from some characteristic peculiarity of action and
movement, or from some feature pertaining to the shape and figure of the object.
The signs for actions, as well as for objects, were specific rather than generic; thus, there was no general sign for kill, or for make. Qualities were
indicated, so far as they could be, by significant action; color by pointing to
some object,—to the shirt-bosom, ordinarily, for white. Number of days was so
many sleeps; years were winters, described by the snow falling and accumulating
and then wasting away. Years of age were marked as stages of growth or of
increase of stature. There were, however, no specific signs by which time future
was distinguished from time past, the circumstances of the case being,
ordinarily, the only means of indication. The occasion for noting periods and points of time would commonly have
reference to the future. There were no signs for past or future time.
One or two incidents which Mr. Ballard relates will serve the present purpose
better than any general statements. His brother once told him of an occurrence
which he had just read the account of, from a newspaper, to others of the
family. A man, while out hunting, discovered a squirrel and was preparing to
fire at it, when the dog, in his excited capering, struck the trigger of the
gun, and the man was killed. Young Ballard understands the story perfectly, and
soon after tries to make it known by signs to the boys of the neighboring
school, but without success; he then runs home, and brings the paper and shows
them the paragraph, having asked his mother to point out and mark it. Again:
his mother conveyed to him the idea that he was to go from home to a distant
place for instruction in school, also of his return (for the vacation)", after
the following fashion:—You go far yonder; ride day night; read-book; write; write fold [as a letter]; I unfold read glad; snow [falling flakes cold
white] piled-up [hand gradually raised from near the ground] waste-away [hand
gradually lowered,—that is to say, after one winter] you come-back glad.
That the train of thought pursued by Mr. Ballard in his boyhood, as he relates,
was not dependent on the aid of signs of any kind, verbal or not verbal, is
evident, not only from the scantiness of his vocabulary of signs, but from the
fact that he did not make his thought the subject of communication with any one,
and that the endeavors of his mother to give him some ideas of the Supreme Being
and of a life beyond the grave were an entire failure.
It is clear that the mental processes he describes were of a high order of
conceptual thought. They involved the possession and the handling of general
notions,—notions, not only of men and animals, but of things as related by
succession in a series, and of time as past, and of things as beginning and
ceasing to exist. The attributes thus involved were distinctly and definitely
apprehended.
The idea of a series of events or things running back indefinitely belongs
clearly to thought of the higher order. It embraces in one view an indefinite
number of particulars. The members of the series are not, and cannot be for the
most part, represented individually and severally; but are apprehended merely as
things similar to the small portion that are known and represented individually.
They are apprehended also as having individual differences that are specifically
unknown. There is in this way brought into exercise what we may call the
compendious mode of thought: and this it is which distinguishes the higher from
the lower operations of the intellect; and it obviously surpasses the capacity
of the brutes.
In the matter of general notions, as this term is commonly applied, we are to
distinguish two operations, of a widely different order. Merely to recognize a
thing newly presented as similar to a thing or things previously known, and in
this sense of the same class, is an operation of the lower order. But a thought
such as finds expression in a general proposition—that is to say, in a
proposition that predicates something of a whole class of objects, or of an
indefinite portion of a class—is of a higher and quite different order. The
former cannot be denied to the brutes, and it makes up a large part of the
ordinary thinking of men. The distinctive characteristic of the latter is that
it brings into exercise what I have described as the compendious mode of
thought. Whenever we employ a general proposition of even the simplest character—such, for instance, as. All men are mortal; All sheep eat grass; Some men
are unwise; Some sheep are black,—we embrace, in a comprehensive survey, an
indefinite number of objects, which cannot by any possibility be all at one time
individually represented—which we apprehend only collectively as an assemblage
of things similar to what we have known individually and at the' same time differenced by peculiarities that are not definitely known or represented.
In any use of general words, just so far as the object or objects signified are
regarded as appertaining to a class indefinite in the number and the variety of
the things it embraces, just so far, and so far only, is the operation of the
higher order as above described. Such action belongs to what Leibnitz designated
as symbolical knowledge, in his division of knowledge into symbolical and
intuitive. Even individual objects that are cognized as highly complex in their
composition—as, for instance, a polygon of a thousand sides—can be apprehended
all at once only compendiously or symbolically, and not intuitively. Indeed, every complex object of sense-perception may, for the human intellect, be
made an object of this kind of cognition. Not till we come to a full
understanding of the nature and import of symbolical cognition, and duly
emphasize this element and assign to it its rightful place in the operations of
the mind, can we justly distinguish between what is peculiar to man and what he
has in common with lower forms of intelligence.
There are, indeed, different grades of general notions, according as the points
of similarity on which they depend are more or less obvious—more or less
easily apprehended, or by faculties of a lower or higher order. The notion of a
horse or of a tree is more easily formed than the more generic notion of an animal
or of a plant; and far more easily than the notions expressed by such terms as
beautiful, wise, true, just, convenient, hurtful, civilized, and others that
depend on still more tenuous similarities. But the difficulty lies wholly in the
recognition or apprehension of the points of similarity. The difference, if not
throughout a matter simply of degree, yet stands upon no single broad line of
demarcation. Some resemblances are obtrusive, and obvious to sense-perception
and the lowest forms of the understanding: others are more subtle and require a
higher development of the intellect or sensibilities, or imply faculties and
endowments, it may be, of a distinctly higher nature, in order to apprehend
them. The process, in the formation of the general notion, is, however, always
the same, except as regards
the initial step, namely, the recognition of the resemblance. This once
attained, the process of classification, and that of handling the notions thus
formed, is in all cases, and may be in all respects, the same. Unless we can
find a dividing line that marks off plainly classes of a lower from those of a
higher order, we cannot make a distinction between representation and concept,
as grounded in the nature or character of the classes to which the notions
correspond. Objects the most concrete and the most obvious to sense are subject
to the higher functions of thought as well as to the lower operations of
intelligence.
On the subject of conceptual knowledge, there are sundry traditional
prepossessions that have too long survived and still wait to be swept away. The
nominalist contends that, as nothing exists, so nothing can be conceived, but
individual objects. We cannot conceive of a triangle that is neither
right-angled, acute-angled, nor obtuse-angled; neither equilateral, isosceles,
nor scalene;—nor can we conceive of a horse that is of neither this nor that color, figure, &c. Now, while we cannot think of a triangle as being neither
equilateral, isosceles, nor scalene, we can think of a group of three triangles
that are severally equilateral, isosceles and scalene; and we can think of an
individual triangle as one of this group, and yet indeterminate as to which one.
We can, further, think of a group made up of an indefinite number of triangles,
all alike as triangular figures, but all unlike and differenced as individual
triangles,—the group embracing all possible triangles, and the number and the
individual differenced being of course not all distinctly apprehended. We can
think of a single triangle as a some one indeterminate individual in such a
group, that is to say, as either this or that definitely represented, or as some
other quite indeterminately apprehended. It is not more difficult to think of a
group of things than of a single thing, especially if the thing be at all
complex—and every individual thing is so in a greater or less degree. And the
notion of what we call an individual thing is a product of the mind's operation,
as truly as that of a group of things. A concept, then, may be defined as the
notion of a group of things that are recognized as related by certain common
features of similarity, and are apprehended as indefinite in number and in
respect to individual variations. When we think of a single thing as coming
under a concept, as simply one of a certain class, but otherwise indefinite,
there comes into exercise, over and above the symbolical or compendious
operation, what, for want of any established designation, we may venture to call
the alternative, or perhaps better, the disjunctive, mode of thought,—the
thing being apprehended as either this, that, or the other, but undetermined as
to which it may be, or as perhaps some one of many others that are not at all
represented. So also is it when we think of some, as a not individualized, an
indeterminate, portion of a class.
The element of indefiniteness in the concept, as just now defined involves
the disjunctive mode of thought.
In symbolical cognition, we have a kind of knowledge that is separated by a wide
chasm from all that is of a lower kind, and with no steps for a gradual passage
from one to the other.
There is, however, something about such cognition that seems paradoxical, and
which perhaps no analysis may be able fully to explain. An essential part of the
object of such cognition is known merely as a something that might be distinctly
represented and intuitively known. To know a thing in this way is to know it, in
some sense, as a thing that we do not know. A part of the object of symbolical
knowledge is consciously unknown. We have what is quite similar in the case of
efforts of the memory. We do indeed know something about what we are trying to
remember, but there is still something that we do not know, and of which we have
a notion or knowledge as a thing unknown. It may perhaps be said that, in this
part of the object, the notion we have of an unknown something is, itself,
simply an extremely general notion. This, however, cannot be admitted: for it
would be a self-evident absurdity to explain a general notion, as such, by
representing it as composed in part of a general notion of a particular kind or
of any kind,—the absurdity of a circle in definition. But, if the element
which I
have tried to describe, and have pointed out as involved in all rational
thinking, should prove to be, after all, inexplicable and mysterious, it is yet
real; and is not to be ignored, even if we cannot explain it to full
satisfaction. The solution of the difficulty seems to me, however, to be this:
that what, by an after act of reflection, may be brought under a general notion
is, in and during the act of symbolical cognition, apprehended simply as an
individual thing related to actual and possible knowledge as above explained;—and it is known as a thing that is unknown: that is to say, is known
positively, as a thing related in the way mentioned, and negatively, as a thing
not more specifically known or represented, and thus in this sense unknown.
In the ordinary handling of general conceptions, it is not necessary to have a
perfectly distinct apprehension or knowledge of the points of similarity on
which the conception is grounded,—that is to say, of the content of the
concept. It is only requisite that the apprehension be so clear as to suffice
for the recognition of objects as belonging to one and the same class, and for
distinguishing different classes of which one and the same object may be a
member. And general words may be serviceably and intelligently enough employed,
without even such clear apprehension, provided such apprehension be ready to
suggest itself so far as occasion may require.
It is requisite for a general conception—is necessary in symbolical cognition—that there be something, either presented or represented to the mind, upon
which to hang—by which to hold—that which is not represented, and all that
which is compendiously and indeterminately apprehended. Words serve in this way
and
to this end; but along with the word and serving the same end, there ordinarily
goes something more—some mental image, or representation. Such image, in the
case of a given word, will not, ordinarily, be the same for different persons,
nor for the same person at different times. It will commonly embrace, together
with more or less of the marks or characters common to the class, others which
are accidental and peculiar to certain individuals within the class. For objects
having visible form, it may be a shadowy outline of the figure characteristic of
the class, or it may be a distinct picture of some individual that is familiarly
known. With the same person, it may, as I just now said, vary from time to time: thus, to one who had just before attended a horse-fair, or a horse-race, the
word horse could hardly come into mind at all without suggesting the image of
some of the individual horses he had so lately seen. The word savage, or
barbarian, probably suggests to most minds an image that is quite special, or
even individual, and that is consciously inadequate, and also consciously
includes what is unessential, as
measured by the real and proper meaning of the word; and in other instances the
case is the same. Now, the image that thus goes with a name can serve as well
without a name. That is to say, it can serve for thought; tho', of course, not
for expression. For some orders of conceptions, a name, or some determinate
symbol, is, as concerns thought, of more importance, and for others, of less.
The name is not in any case essential to the formation of the general conception; the application of the name comes of necessity after the formation of the
conception.
If there were a convenient term by which to designate the determinate and
represented part of a general conception (aside from the name), as distinguished
from the indeterminate and unrepresented part, it would help to relieve one of
the difficulties with which the treatment of this subject is beset.3 The thing
to be designated is a shifting and variable thing: not only different for
different persons, but changing even from moment to moment as one thinks more
carefully and intently and apprehends the conception more distinctly. It differs
thus from the mental representation of a name, inasmuch as the latter is a more
fixed thing than the former commonly is. It differs also by ordinarily including
more or less of the distinctive attributes that mark the given conception:—in
so doing, it is made to be something more than merely an internal symbol,
something other than a bare sign, inasmuch as it includes more or less of what
is signified.
To disprove the doctrine that a word, or name, is essential to the existence of
a general notion, I have now to offer an argument which, I think, will be seen
to be quite unanswerable; tho', strange to say, it has, unless I greatly
mistake, never been brought forward in all the interminable discussion to which
this subject has given occasion. What is a word? When we speak of the word
horse, man, or any other,—when we say "this word," or "that word,"—we mean,
not a single, individual utterance, at a particular time, nor a single copy in
writing or print. When a word is repeated in speech or writing, we call it the
same word; evidently it is not the same individual thing. Not only so, a word
admits of great variation in pronunciation and voice and tone and manner of
utterance, when spoken, and
in form and color, when written or printed, while it is still recognized as the
same word. When we call it the same, we mean simply that it is fashioned after
the same type—marked by the same general characteristics;—just as we may
say, of two horses, "this is the same animal as that," meaning, of course, an
animal
of the same species. The difference in the word horse, from the mouth of two
persons, may be fully as great as that between two actual horses. We know a
given word—considered now with reference to the external form—simply as a
thing of a certain type to which every single instance is conformed. It is thus
a general object of thought, and the notion we have of it is a general notion,
and it is only through such general notion that we recognize the word as the
same in the repeated instances of its occurrence. We have really to acquire a
general notion of the external form of a given word before we can attach meaning
to it and have it as an auxiliary to a general notion of any sort. But, the
notion of the word, being thus a general notion, would by the doctrine in
question, require another word to constitute it such—which we know it does
not,—and that, again, would require still another, and so on, in a regressus
ad infinitum. That all this should ever have been overlooked is owing mainly to
the ambiguous use of this that, the same, &c.
Now, an actual horse is an object of sense-perception, and of representation in
memory and imagination, just as is the word horse. And a general notion of the
one has no more need of extraneous aid for its apprehension than that of the
other. The doctrine here opposed is that at least the mental image of a word is
an indispensable element in the concept. The truth, and the whole truth, is that
words and the mental representation of the same bring with them, on many
accounts which need not here be specified, immense practical advantages;—and
the same is true, in a greater or less degree, of any other uniform set or
system of symbols. But this does not in the least affect the validity of the
argument just presented; the bare statement of which carries the evidence of
its conclusiveness.
It would hardly be proper to pass without notice the explanation of general
notions that has recently been put forth by Mr. Francis Galton. He is favorably
known as an experimenter and an author who has contributed to physiology and to
psychology some valuable concrete facts. For this we can thank him without
accepting all his inferences and reasonings. He has invented a method of
obtaining, by photography, what he calls "composite portraits." By means of
successive instantaneous exposures, very faint and singly imperceptible
impressions of the features of a number of persons are superimposed, and thus a
picture is obtained that gives a general average of all, only the common traits
being distinctly brought out, and the individual diversities being indistinct or
evanescent in proportion to the infrequency of their occurrence. When the
individuals are of a common type of feature, as, for instance, by family
resemblance, or as when character is written in the lines of the face in the case
of certain criminal classes, it has been found possible, by a proper selection
of specimens, to bring this common type distinctly to
view in the composite portrait. All this is, so far, interesting and not without
value. But, as is natural to one in the flush of a successful discovery, Mr.
Galton has conceived an exaggerated estimate of the importance and the various
applicability of what he has produced. In particular he thinks it of value as
illustrating the mental process of generalization. The matter derives additional
importance in consequence of the endorsement of the idea by Mr. Huxley, in his
recent sketch of the life and philosophy of David Hume (Chap. IV.). Mr. Huxley,
as does Hume, recognizes nothing as existing in mind other than impressions and
ideas; the ideas being copies of impressions. He ranks "abstract or general
ideas" under the category of "memories;" and defines them particularly as the
"generic ideas which are formed from several similar, but not identical, complex
experiences." They are a result of the repetition of impressions from individual
objects; the common features being thus blended together and mutually
reinforced by their greater frequency of repetition, while the individual
diversities, by their less frequent occurrence, fall away and disappear from the
view. This he illustrates by referring to "what takes place in the formation of
compound photographs," meaning, of course, the process of Mr. Galton, as just
described.
It must, however, be added, in justice to Mr. Huxley, that he gives expression
to some misgiving as to the entire adequacy of this explanation, in the
hesitating admission conveyed in his remarks on the nominalistic doctrine of
Berkeley, as follows:—"But the subject is an abstruse one; and I must
content myself with the remark, that tho' Berkeley's view appears to be largely
applicable to such general ideas as are formed after language has been acquired,
and to all the more abstract sort of conceptions, yet that general ideas of
sensible objects may nevertheless be produced in the way indicated, and may
exist independently of language."
Of this way of explaining general ideas, it is to be said, in the first place, that, even if the analogy should hold good to the extent that is claimed for it, the explanation nevertheless, fails to reach the heart of the matter. It applies only to the represented and determinate part of a general conception: the existence of the other and essentially distinctive part is wholly ignored. In a concept there is something other than a memory—something that is not to be explained as a congeries of impressions, or as the accumulated effect of repeated impressions.
But the analogy is, at best, quite defective, and goes only a very little
way. Repeated sense-impressions do not make an idea more vivid; they simply
tend to fix it in the memory: faint impressions, ever so many times repeated,
never make a vivid idea. With these qualifications noted, there is, indeed, to
be recognized a real analogy, so far as concerns certain operations of the
memory. That is to say, there may be, in the memory, a blending and a mutual
reinforcing of similar impressions. But there is a law of the memory that breaks
in with fatal consequence upon the analogy, as concerns general conceptions.
Recent impressions are more vivid, and stronger every way, than earlier
impressions, and tend to supersede and obliterate them for the time being.
According to the memory theory, therefore, individual diversities recently
impressed would make a prominent figure in the general idea, or would even
wholly supersede it. Moreover, in the compound photograph, the individual
impression disappears, or rather in fact never appears; while, on the contrary,
individual impressions on the mind may remain perfectly distinct alongside of
the general idea to the formation of which they may have contributed.
It is not to be doubted that blended memories of similar things are possible and
of frequent occurrence. And, again, it need not be questioned that the
naturalist sometimes does, as Mr. Huxley says, make up for his own mind a
distinct image which represents, in some sort, the average of a number of
varying specimens ; he does this purposely, and to subserve for himself a
valuable end. But it is not the fact that the represented part of a concept is
usually limited to the common characters, the points of similarity, that go to
the making of the class. Most certainly, it is not made up by an average that
gives the mean between individual variations.
The illustration, obviously, and indeed confessedly as explained by Mr. Galton,
can apply strictly to only a very limited and select portion out of the whole
wide field of general ideas ; namely, to those of a highly concrete description,
and those in which the similarities greatly preponderate over the diversities.
What sort of an average, as a result of individual impressions should we have
for such a concept as that of an instrument, or of a thing, or an animal, or
even of a person To make the illustration hold good throughout, it would be
necessary also to superadd a neutralizing influence: thus, for instance, in the
general idea of a horse, we should have to dispose of the attribute of color in
some way not provided for by the analogy of the compound photograph.
Enough, now, of this. It is all of a piece with the various other ways of
explaining, or trying to explain, mental phenomena by means of analogies drawn
from the material world, which have constantly misled and deluded philosophers
and psychologists, as well as others. As for Mr. Huxley, it will not be claimed,
on his behalf, that he has given to the facts of consciousness the thorough
study that he has bestowed upon the natural sciences. He, certainly, has not, in
this department, followed the method of positive science, the rule of induction,
which requires, above everything else, a comprehensive survey inclusive of all
the facts in the given field of inquiry. Tho' his gropings in this field, with
David Hume as pioneer, have been earnest and serious, we know that the special
studies in the pursuit of which he has achieved success and won renown have lain
in quite another region and been concerned with phenomena of a quite different
order. The misfortune is that the prestige gained by this success. lends weight
to his opinions on these subjects, of which he has not obtained a mastery, and
for which his special studies
tend, in certain ways, to incapacitate him, and which are subjects of the
greatest difficulty and of the highest importance.
Before concluding, it remains for us to give some consideration to the case of "our poor relations," the brute animals. As may be inferred from what has been
premised, I cannot absolutely deny them the possession of general ideas—cannot
exclude them from all that we designate by that term. In a sense they have them; and in a sense they have them not. It is not for the want of a sufficient
stock of general ideas, and these of a sufficiently high order, that they attain
to no greater proficiency in the way of language than they do. The provision in
the former respect goes far beyond their attainment in the latter. In this I
agree to a certain extent with Mr. Darwin and Mr. Huxley. It is at another point
that the view I take diverges from theirs. So far as it may be possible to
reconcile the conflicting opinions, by determining and setting in the proper
light whatever of truth there may be on either side, it is desirable, of course,
to do so.
It cannot reasonably be questioned that animals of the more intelligent orders
recognize multitudes of objects according to their kinds, when new to them as
individual objects. A dog knows a bone as a bone and not a bit of wood, even tho'
he has never seen the same bone before. He knows his own kind from human beings,
and vice versa; and knows various other animals as of the kinds of which they
are. He knows a gentleman from a beggar; and sometimes an honest man from a
thief. He knows what it is to go and come, to fetch and carry, to pursue and to
stop, to keep watch; and so of various other actions. He knows things by single
qualities: knows them, for instance, as hot or cold, and as having an odor
which he likes; that is to say, he may recognize objects, when he sees them, as
having these qualities. Domestic animals, too, understand the meaning of many
words and other signs of ideas; and it is possible to train them to understand
many more than they often do. The words and various other signs employed in the
case of trained animals are, many of them, entirely arbitrary and artificial. By
repetition and the law of association they are made to suggest the ideas, just
as words suggest ideas to our minds. It is true the words or signs are addressed
to them, for the most part, if not solely, in the way of command. But animals
are able, themselves, to use signs for the purpose of making known their wants,
or at least as a means of obtaining what they want ; and the more intelligent
and docile can easily be taught to use arbitrary signs in this manner.
We probably can find no evidence that any of the animals can understand language
of any kind used in the way of directly communicating information; much less
that they can themselves so use it. This may require a more distinct knowledge
than they possess, of their own minds and of other minds as knowing agents,—a
knowledge that comes from self-consciousness, such as they have not. They can
obtain information through signs; but that is a different thing from
understanding
a sign as made with the intent of giving information.
Their knowledge and use of language is, also, probably limited to single
words or other single signs, and to phrases which they apprehend in singleness,
without cognizance of the component words or parts of the phrase, and thus
without the power of making or of understanding a new combination. Thus, suppose
the most intelligent and proficient parrot to understand the two phrases, black
sheep and white dog, we have no evidence that from this he would be able to make
out, still less to make up, the new combinations, white sheep and black dog. In
the article, by Dr. Samuel Wilkes, entitled "Notes on the History of my Parrot
as related to the Nature of Language," in the Journal of Mental Science for
July, 1879, we find, as the result of his observations, that phrases were
apprehended in no other
way than as single expressions. This is made quite evident by the occasional
incongruous blending of different phrases that included some words in common.
The only faculties mentioned by the writer as concerned in the linguistic
performances of this parrot were those of articulation, imitation, and the
association of ideas. Any object or circumstance with which a word, or any kind
of sound, had become associated, awakened by its recurrence a propensity to
reproduce
the sound. The utterances were made, however, many times, for purposes such as
some of those for which human language is employed.
It is to be remarked, however, that to understand or to produce a new
combination is nothing more than to bring one and the same object under two or
more general ideas at the same time; or, it may be, under only a singular and a
general idea; and possibly this is not quite beyond the reach of the lower
order of
intelligence. If, for instance, we suppose a pack of dogs to know each other's
names, let the master of the dogs call one by name and command some action, here
would be a combination of a singular name with a general word; and this, we may
believe, might be understood by all the other dogs as well as by the one
addressed, even tho', as a combination, it might be new to some of them. Some
well-authenticated cases are related in which dogs have seemed to understand a
combination as a combination; and possibly some of the instances were really
what they thus seemed to be.
With these mere hints on the subject of brute intelligence, I have simply to
remark, in brief, that a very considerable development of language is
supposable, with no higher grade of capacity than what may suffice for the
recognition of objects according to kinds—for the handling of general ideas to
this extent. Moreover, a large part of the ordinary language of mankind requires
no higher capacity. But anything of the nature of what we have referred to as
compendious thought, and thus of symbolical knowledge, is entirely beyond and
cannot be conceived as developed out of the lower intelligence of the brutes.
The brutes can infer and reason, after a fashion, from instance to instance, and
are thus able to learn something by experience; but they cannot apprehend a
general law as such. The mind of man is capable of something higher than what
Mr. Huxley calls "potential beliefs of memory," and ''potential beliefs of
expectation ;" higher, even, than these as raised to the dignity of actual
belief by being put into a form of words.
Allowing to the brutes the utmost that can be claimed for them, is it not still
plain that man has faculties which we cannot conceive as developed out of or as
simply exaltations in degree of anything that he possesses in common with the
lower animals? We know, if we know anything, that phenomena of consciousness are
things wholly unlike matter and motion, whatever we may think of the relation
between the one and the other. We know, also, that among phenomena of
consciousness there are some wholly unlike others, so that they cannot be
conceived as developed out of them; nor all as developed out of a common
element. We know, for instance, that perceptions of color and colored extension,
are, as phenomena of consciousness, quite distinct and different from those of
either touch, taste, smell, or sound. Whatever may be the similarity in the way
in which the impressions are produced, or in the structure of the organs, and
whatever may be the dependence upon organic action,—that is to say, however
they may be allied physiologically,—yet, as sensations or perceptions, those of
the eye are different in themselves, and imply a special gift or power not
implied in those of the ear, or the hand, or the tongue. Is it not thus with the
acts of the reason as compared with the working of the lower faculties? That the
two have some elements in common does not prove them to be throughout of the
same order, or render it possible for one to be developed out of the other. And if the eye of the soul, the
higher reason, by which we look through the universe of things, cannot look in
upon itself and clearly discern its own nature and its own processes, we ought
not, therefore, forgetting what it does, to deny its essential superiority, and
to
assimilate it to those lower and subsidiary faculties which we can bring under
its scrutiny. That by which we understand all things—must it not be of a
nature essentially superior to aught that is understood by it?
If man has special endowments which set him in a rank above all other creatures
on this globe of the earth, it cannot be well for him to renounce, disown, or
barter away his birthright. Would not a true science, that should comprehend all
the phenomena and all the facts, be able to characterize man by some other marks
than as the two-handed family of the Primates?
The design of this article was to present the facts of an individual case. The
remarks into which I have been led, at greater length than I intended, have been
added, not, certainly, with any idea that they amount to a thorough discussion
of the subject, but as suggestions, offered with the view of contributing
towards clearing away some errors of long standing, which have made this subject
a so fruitful, and at the same time so fruitless, theme of disputation.
NOTES
1 He became deaf at the age of less than seventeen months, in
consequence of a fall down a flight of stairs. Those who lose hearing at so
early an age are not found by their instructors to have any appreciable
advantage over those deaf from birth.
Readers interested in the questions of heredity may desire to be informed of the
fact that Mr. Ballard comes from a family of the old Puritan stock of New
England. His home was Fryeburg, Me. A great grandfather was Simon Frye, who was a
lawyer and a judge of some court. Otherwise his ancestors, so far as
he knows, have not been members of the learned professions.
2 Not literally heard, of course. Deaf-mutes are quick to perceive shocks and jars that can be felt, even when so slight as to be unnoticed by those who can hear.
3 Concept-image, or concept-phantasm, is perhaps as good a term as can be devised.