Part 9

_'Conservation' of Energy._ Energy is annihilated in the using. It emanates from a great universal centre, and at a short distance from that centre is completely and irrecoverably dissipated. The apparent fixity of things is purely formal--like the fixity of a water-fall, which renews its substance every few seconds. That is the meaning of saying that the world is in a constant state of formation and dissolution.

Physical theorists represent energy under the figure of substance, but they suppose it is fixed in _quantity_ though constantly undergoing change of _form_--the scientific view, here as elsewhere, being just the opposite of the philosophical.

Observe--say the conservationists--the case of a man raising a heavy stone from the earth. He fatigues himself but he does not destroy energy; he acquires command over the energy-in-position of the stone, and in using it to crack a cocoa-nut or drive a post he receives back his own energy undiminished in quantity.

That seems reasonable at first sight. A quantity of energy is taken from the man and put into the stone; it is taken from the stone and put into the driven post. To be sure, if the man undrives the post he does not thereby disfatigue himself, as the theory would lead us to expect--he fatigues himself the more.

The same 'law,' we are told, holds good in building a dam across a stream and utilising the force of water to drive a mill. The energy apparently lost in the construction is recovered in the superior ease with which we grind our corn or saw our timber. There is a confusion in the terminology here: to save energy that would otherwise be lost is not identical with recovering energy that has once been used.

We make a gun, load it, and discharge a bullet against a target. What has become of the force expended? It has been transformed into heat, say the conservationists. And when the target and flattened bullet have cooled down? The energy has gone to raise the general temperature of the universe!

That is a conclusion hard to believe and impossible to verify. But--granting that the individual explosions of a gun may be the 'conservation' of some antecedent power--how do we recover the initial expense of the instrument? And if not recoverable, where at least and in what form does it exist? Prior to the explosions that are represented by heated targets and the like, energy was spent in inventing and making the gun, making the ammunition, loading and aiming the piece. All these were essential to the effect--and what has become of them? Have they also gone to warm the universe?

Instead of raising a stone to a height, let us carry it along horizontally till we feel the same degree of fatigue. If energy in the using is merely transformed but not lost, we should now be in possession of some power equivalent to the energy expended. But we are not--we have nothing to show for our trouble.

If we construct a water-mill and fix it high and dry in the middle of a plain, instead of under a fall of water, we get no return for the energy expended. By such a law as the conservation of energy, and with the usefulness of a properly placed mill as the measure of compensation, we should receive an equivalent return no matter where the mill is placed. What has _place_ to do with the action of a universal law?

Instead of raising the stone or carrying it horizontally, let us find it near the edge of a precipice and roll it over. There is no proportion between the push that launched the stone, and the force it exhibits on reaching the foot of the precipice. How is the equivalence of energy maintained in this case? It will be replied that the force now at work is gravitation. If so, it was gravitation that brought down the first stone on the post--not any energy transferred from us to the stone. The raising of the stone put us in a position to use the force of gravity, just as climbing the precipice put us in a position to roll the stone over the edge of it.

Such considerations as these make this 'law' incredible to me. But when I pass from the explanation to the concrete facts, I have no difficulty in understanding them. It is the law that is obscure--not the facts.

There exists nothing but living minds of different degrees of energy. We men are small beings associated with a cosmical creature whose force is immeasurably greater than ours, and we have intelligence enough to utilise part of this force to supplement our own. That is the meaning of _mechanism_. Some efforts to control the cosmic forces are profitable, but there is no transmutation of our energy into the result, nor any necessary equivalence between the labour and the result. We may stumble upon an available cosmic force almost by accident--we may waste a life-time over a mechanical problem and fail to solve it.

The utilisation of cosmic force by man is best explained by comparing it with animal slavery. Trap a wild elephant and train him to draw and carry--you have constructed an engine. There are of course important differences between the two kinds of instrument, due to the enormous disproportion between the magnitude and power of the respective entities. In the case of the animal the whole life comes under our control: in the case of the cosmos we can utilise only a minute fraction of it, and that rather by putting ourselves in its way than by making it obey us. The animal we have to feed: the cosmic being does not draw upon us for its nourishment. We can direct the animal through his sensibility: the cosmic sensibility appears to be beyond our power of irritation.

Apart from these differences the general laws of the one kind of tool are those of the other also. We have not transferred power to the raised stone, or the coiled spring, or the loaded gun, or the embanked river--any more than to the tamed and harnessed horse. There is no fixed ratio between the fatigue of catching and training an animal, and the energy saved by making him work for us. The animal's work is not our own energy given back to us--neither is the machine's. A plough is useless without cattle to draw it--so is a turbine without water to drive it. When coal is burned to 'generate' electricity, that is the cosmic equivalent of exhausting or killing one animal to overpower or to feed another: the energy of combustion is utterly destroyed--not transformed into the electricity.

The question can be more accurately stated and brought to a plain issue if we use the terms and forms of dialectic.

A theory is an argument--when it is not a fallacy--and an argument, we have seen, consists of two parts. There is the matter of fact requiring explanation, and the antecedent knowledge which is used to illustrate it. Of these the precedent is the more important, and it is no valid objection to a criticism that the person who offers it knows less about the _case_ than the theorist. The critic may be in possession of a better precedent, which the theorist has failed to notice, perhaps from a too exclusive attention to the case.

In the question before us the case is Mechanical or Inorganic Energy. It is not an object, but an inference from the knowledge of our personal mental energy. This latter is the only energy we really perceive. But we find in objects, or associated with the perception of them, a power capable of assisting or of opposing our efforts--hence we conclude it is something of the same nature as our own power. We cannot well avoid that inference, and there is no apparent reason why we should try to avoid it.

So far science and philosophy are at one, but here they part company. Philosophy consistently endows Nature with sentiency also, for we never--to our certain knowledge--meet with energy without sentiency, and we have no right to transfer one attribute without the other.

Although science is indebted to the assimilation of organic and inorganic--Nature explained by Man--for the first notion of external energy, no sooner is the notion formed than the argument is discarded, and external energy is declared to be entirely destitute of an organic and mental character. How then is it to be further explained? To what shall it now be likened?

In the materialistic scheme all things are supposed to be resolved into matter and force. Matter is conceived as a self-existent substance, indestructible, &c. It is better known than force, for material things can be directly perceived whereas force is imaginary all the time. Under these circumstances it is natural though illogical to treat force as a species of matter. With only two things left in the universe, the better known of the two will be used to explain the less known, if an explanation is considered indispensable. Force is accordingly brought as a 'case' under matter as a 'precedent,' and is concluded to be indestructible because matter is believed to be indestructible; and when energy appears to be wasted the inference is that it has simply withdrawn from view, like an object that has ceased to be perceived and may be perceived again. That seems to be the evolution of the scientific notion of inorganic energy.

This theorem is fallacious in two respects. There is no such matter as science imagines. Matter is a general idea formed by the study of material objects, which are states of consciousness excited by noumenal contact. It is the average object--a mere affection or formation of the observing mind. _We_ are the makers of matter. Such an idea cannot be said to be indestructible: in a sense it is destroyed in an individual when it is forgotten or inactive; it would certainly be destroyed if all minds ceased to form it. Thus the precedent in the scientific theory of force is itself false.

Then energy is not in the least like matter--either the matter of science or that of philosophy. The energy we really know is a unique experience--not a general idea, nor anything analogous to a phenomenal object; so that even if the proposed precedent were true in itself, it is not applicable to the case. To complete our knowledge of external energy we must go back to that comparison which first suggested to us that there is external energy, namely, the comparison of living man with living nature.

If this is not a correct account of the derivation of the notion that cosmic energy is indestructible, let conservationists tell us what is the parallel on which they are arguing. Here is a blank theorem for completion--

_x_ | is indestructible -------------------+------------------------------ Cosmic energy is a | _it must therefore be considered sort of _x_ | indestructible_

Matter, as we have seen, is not _x_. Human energy is not _x_. Our individual power--so far as experience informs us--is destroyed in the using. A day's work exhausts us, and we have to pass into the condition called sleep to be refilled. It is sleep, not food, that refreshes the mind. Food restores the bodily tool we have been working with--puts a fresh edge on the chisel,--but it does not recuperate the power that wields the tool.

What then is _x_?

_NOTE ON DREAMS_

If dreams could be studied with our waking consciousness they would throw much light on our mental nature. Being a poor dreamer myself I am not competent to discuss this phase of psychology as it deserves. I think however the bulk of our dreams can be reduced to two principles. There is first the simple lowering of the mental energy, which weakens the attention and dissolves the artificial categories, thus making ordinary reason impossible. There is just enough energy left to revive a few scattered ideas, which blend together without control or regard to precedent. Hence the singular combinations they sometimes form.

In the waking state the objective and intellectual experience are generally more vivid and engrossing than the sentimental--at least in masculine persons. (I deliberately avoid the phrase 'masculine mind,' because there is manifestly no sex in mind.) In dreams the converse of this is the case. The objects we appear to see are dull and indistinct, being ideas mistaken for objects, whilst the feelings are evidently genuine and sometimes of great intensity. This may be explained on the occult principle alluded to in section X.

What I understand by occult influence is this. In ordinary experience the object is first perceived, then a sentiment may be excited either by the same noumenon or by recollection. In the occult procedure this order is reversed. The sentiment is first secretly reached through the chinks of our intellectual armour, and the intellect is not excited at all or only by association. During sleep, when the Self is nearly exhausted of power, it is likely we are more exposed than usual to such influences. They invade our mind and excite our sentiment without awaking the intellect. Whatever ideas accompany the sentiments are generally inadequate to explain them, the stock of available ideas being now reduced.

The conversations we hold in dreams, and the apparent communication of knowledge that takes place, are referred by Du Prel to a division of the ego into two or more individuals who talk together. This notion appears to me forced and unthinkable. Under what image is the ego figured that it should be capable of division? In the waking state we sometimes ask ourselves questions, and on consideration find answers to them. We cannot recall a name, a word, or date, though we know it is somewhere in our memory, and we pause and search till we succeed in exciting the latent image. When this takes place in a dream the information is assumed to come from another individual by an easy dramatisation.

A disturbance in the body during sleep may constitute--like all bodily suffering--a drain upon our mental energy, which will be felt as a sentiment and may excite ideas by sympathy. No doubt many dreams are caused in this manner.

Since our waking consciousness is highly artificial and imaginary, we may infer that whilst dreaming we are nearer to the natural, primitive state of the mind, but in a weakened condition.

[Footnote 13: Ueberweg's _Logic_, Fleming's _Vocabulary_, and Dickenson's _Dict. of Philosophy_.]

[Footnote 14: When the perspective object is accurately measured by instrument at a known distance from the eye, and the tactual size of the object is also known, the associative distance can be calculated by simple proportion. Multiply the measuring distance by the tactual size and divide the product by the perspective size--the quotient is the distance. The perspective size of objects is greatly exaggerated in realism. Most people think they see a man at his full stature for a distance of fifty yards or so. At that distance the tallest man does not measure half an inch in height. At twenty feet a six-foot man measures 3·6 inches--at ten feet 7·2 inches. The people assembled in a room forty feet long range in real--perspective--height from seven inches to two inches. When a man is nearer than ten feet we do not perceive him in one operation--we observe him in parts which we put together in the mind.]

[Footnote 15: Probably Dr. Johnson meant to be humorous in his way. The principles of Idealism are apt to excite mirth in the unphilosophical, but the laugh is not always on the side of the scoffer. A member of the Persian philosophical sect called Samradians once said to his steward: 'The world and its inhabitants have no actual existence; they have merely an ideal being.' The servant on hearing this took the first favourable opportunity to conceal his master's horse, and when he was about to ride brought him an ass with the horse's saddle. When the Samradian asked, 'Where is the horse?'--the servant replied, 'Thou hast been thinking of an idea; there was no horse in being.' The master answered, 'It is true'; he then mounted the ass, and after riding for some time he suddenly dismounted and taking the saddle off the ass's back placed it on the servant's, drawing the girths tightly; and having forced the bridle into his mouth, he mounted him and flogged him along vigorously. The servant in piteous accents exclaimed, 'What is the meaning of this treatment?'--to which the Samradian replied, 'There is no such thing as a whip; it is merely ideal; thou art only thinking of some illusion.' After which the steward repented and restored the horse.

Another Samradian--or perhaps the same individual--having married the daughter of a rich man, she, on finding out her husband's creed, proposed to have some amusement at his expense. One day the Samradian brought in a bottle of pure wine, which during his absence she emptied of its contents and filled with water. When the time for taking wine arrived she poured out water instead of wine, into a gold cup which was her own property. The Samradian having observed, 'Thou hast given me water instead of wine,'--she answered, 'It is only ideal; there was no wine in existence.' The husband then said, 'Thou hast spoken well; hand me the cup that I may go to a neighbour's house and bring it back full of wine.' He thereupon took out the gold cup, which he sold, and instead of it brought back an earthen vessel full of wine. The wife on seeing this said, 'What hast thou done with the golden cup?' He replied, 'Thou art surely thinking of some ideal golden cup'--on which the woman greatly regretted her witticism.--_Dabistán_, v. i. p. 199-200.]

REDACTION OF COLLOQUIAL ARGUMENTS

XXVIII

A clever man has said that the use of language is to conceal thought. Its primary use is certainly not to reveal thought, but to enable one person to produce an effect on the mind of another or of others, either for their or his own advantage. In the course of using speech as an instrument of command, entreaty, persuasion, menace, or fustigation, it may happen that the movements of the speaker's mind are revealed to some extent, but this is a mere incident, not the main purpose of the speech.

Grammar is the system of rules which govern the use of language in its primary and ordinary capacity.

It follows from this that language is in no sense a revelation of the reasoning processes, nor do the rules of grammar coincide with the laws of intellect. It is just as reasonable to expect to find the metaphysic of thought revealed in any of the industrial and fine arts, as to look for it in the structure of speech. Aristotle drew his logic from the composition of the Greek sentence--he might as well have sought for logic in the constitution of the Greek buskin.[16]

Even when men begin to reason aloud and seek to render their logical movements as evident as possible, they are so hampered by the ordinary habits and rules of speech that their meaning is often difficult or impossible of comprehension. Whence arises the necessity, if we would reason aloud to any purpose, of redacting or translating language from the vernacular into a dialect more indicative of the logical processes that take place when we reason.

This redaction consists mainly in distinguishing clearly the four parts composing an argument, namely, the Subject of the Precedent; the Case which is brought under it for judgment; the Applicate or part of the precedent bearing on the case; the Conclusion, which is the ideal judgment concerning the case. When these four parts are expressed and clearly understood we have a perfect argument, so far as argumentation depends on language. But probably we have spoiled the language from the grammatical and rhetorical point of view. We may have had to supply much that would be redundant and unsightly in ordinary conversation or writing, and to take away much that is appropriate to colloquial discourse. We are diverting language to a use for which it was not designed, and we need not be surprised if the result is ungraceful. This cannot be helped since there exists no other means than language by which to express our concrete reasoning.

I have already shown practically how an argument can be arranged so as to indicate the logical relations subsisting between its parts. A Greek cross is drawn, and in the four angles thus made the four parts of the argument are written, or the principal words of each. Begin with the conclusion, for that is generally the most explicitly given; then find or supply the part of the precedent that agrees or logically rhymes with it; next place the subject in the first compartment, and the case under it. These relative positions should not be varied. When this has been practiced for a while it enables one to dismember the most intricate argument with ease and exactness.

The redaction or re-writing of the language can be abbreviated by regarding the horizontal line as equivalent to a declaration of resemblance between case and precedent-subject, and (by application) between the illustrative abstraction and conclusion. If there is an argument at all there must be this resemblance, and the right-hand parts must have one of the six categorical relations to the left-hand parts. The contents of the angles may be cut down to a word or two, as--

I. Tyrants | death --------+-------- Caesar | _death_

If the category be further indicated by a numeral over the upright line, we have the essential parts of the argument in a very compact form. The cross and categorical numeral may be regarded as a sufficient substitute for grammatical syntax and punctuation.

The negative word that generally occurs in stigmatic arguments requires special attention. It should always be put in the second angle, and when it may read so as to negative the subject it should be hyphened to the predicate, thus giving it the value of _non_, _un_, _im_, or other negative prefix. To say colloquially that 'all Russians are not angels' leaves room to believe that some Russians are angels, the 'not' applying to 'all' instead of to 'angels.' By linking 'not' to 'angels' we get a term equivalent to non-angelic, which expresses the meaning intended--that no Russians are angels.

Caution should be observed with partitive words like 'some,' 'many,' 'a few,' &c. There is little danger of ambiguity when they occur in the case, for that means that we bring only a portion of a group of things to judgment, which we are manifestly entitled to do. The conclusion however applies only to the portion in question, not to the rest of the group. 'Honest men deserve respect; some Negroes are honest men; _these particular Negroes deserve respect_.'

In the precedent, partitive words imply that only some of the subject have the applicate. If that portion is a dialectical 'all'--that is, if there has been no exception in the course of our experience--we may, though that experience has been limited, venture to treat the applicate as universal and ground a conclusion upon it. If the subject is really partitive--if we know for certain that some subjects have the applicate and others have it not--the conclusion must follow the greater probability. If the number and character of the observed cases is known we can express the probability arithmetically; it is the number of occurrences of a given character divided by the total number.

Redaction must not be used to correct original errors of observation; its purpose is to render explicit in language what is implicit in thought, not what might have been thought supposing the thinker had been more intelligent or industrious than he was.