Part 2

And now we come to a whole host of effective methods, all of which may be classed as comparative. The comparative method is as old as thought itself, but it is strange that even scientists did not begin to use it consciously and consistently until almost the present generation. Nowhere is it better illustrated than in modern psychology. Most of the so-called branches of psychology are merely different forms of the comparative method of treatment. “Abnormal psychology” is merely a comparison of abnormal mental types with normal mental types for the light they throw on each other. “Child study” is a comparison of the mind of the child with that of the adult. “Animal psychology” is a comparison of the actions of animals with each other and with those of man. And none of these methods is of any value except in so far as it makes use of comparison.

Often consciously used in the consideration of problems is the so-called historical method. This method, as its name implies, consists in obtaining knowledge of a thing by considering its past record. The word history is popularly used in so narrow a sense, however, being restricted only to the history of nations, and often merely to the political history of nations, that we can avoid confusion by calling this method the evolutionary. In the final analysis the method is comparative, for it really consists in comparing a thing at one period of development with itself at another period.

Let us take our example from political science. The historical method, in its popular sense, has been so much used here, even to the exclusion of other methods, that it would seem needless to speak of it. But often the method has been abused and often it has not been given broad enough treatment. It traces the growth of an institution, or of an idea—personal liberty, say,—through successive periods. It notes what the path has been, and judges of the probable future tendency. But a far broader outlook than we get from this narrowly conceived “historical” method is furnished by evolutionary sociology. Here we inquire into the origin of society and of the various trades, industries, professions and pursuits of all kinds, and to do this we go far into prehistoric times.

Nowhere is the evolutionary method more strikingly seen than in biology. Since Darwin’s great theory was promulgated the science has gone forward by leaps and bounds. We have derived untold benefit from a comparison of man and animals in the light of this hypothesis; even study of the development of individual man has been aided. The discovery of the _fact_ of evolution constituted an incalculable advance, but the method for study which it furnished was of even greater importance.

I have spoken of the comparison of man and animals “in the light of this (evolutionary) hypothesis.” This brings us to a point which must be kept in mind in practically all observation. We are often exhorted to “observe.” Presumably we are to do this “on general principles.” Such advice is about as foolish as asking us to think on general principles. Imagine for the moment what would happen if you started right now to “observe” as much as you could. You might begin with this book and notice the size of the type, the amount of margin, the quality of the paper, the dimensions of the page, the number of pages. But you have by no means exhausted the number of properties possessed by this book. You must observe that it is also combustible, that it is destructible, that it is machine made, that it is American printed, that it is such and such a price, that it weighs so many ounces, that it is flat, that it is rectangular, that its thickness is so much. . . .

The absurdity is obvious. If we started out merely to observe, with no definite purpose in mind, we could keep it up forever. And get nowhere. Nine out of every ten observations would never be put to use. We would be sinfully wasting our time. To observe most profitably, just as to think most profitably, we must have a definite purpose. This purpose must be _to test the truth of a supposition_. A concrete example will make this clear.

A man has been shipwrecked on an island and believes himself to be alone there. One day, as he is walking along the beach, he discovers footprints. How did they get there? His first assumption is that they are his own. It occurs to him, however, that he had not been near this spot for over a week, and that yesterday’s storm would have washed any footprints away. This objection is confirmed by making a footprint himself and comparing it with the one observed, and noticing that they differ markedly. The footprints being those of some one else, how did the man who made them get there? The first supposition is that he came in a boat. The idea of a small boat is dismissed because of the assumed great distance of this island from other land. Therefore the man must have come in a large vessel. But the footprints lead to a wet part of the sand and the tide is just going down. In this case they are very recent—made not more than a half hour ago. This being so the man who made them could not have had time to get back to any ship and sail out of sight. If he came in a ship it should be still in view. The discoverer of the footprints climbs a tree from which he can view the sea around the entire island. He can sight no vessel. The supposition or hypothesis that the unknown came in a ship is abandoned. Then the suggestion comes that the unknown has been on the island during the entire time that the shipwrecked man thought himself alone. This suggestion is tested in a manner similar to the others. . . .

The example sums up roughly the general process of all thought, and brings out the motive and value of observation. Let us analyze it.

The first thing to happen is the arousal of a feeling of perplexity, the appearance of a problem. The man has been shambling along, doubtless “thinking” in that loose sense referred to. He has perhaps kicked several stones loose that would have set a geologist worrying, and has picked branches from bushes which would have puzzled a botanist. But this man has not had his curiosity aroused until he has come to these footprints. His thinking starts with his perplexity. After this doubt has been aroused the most obvious solution suggests itself—“my own footprints.” But if true, this suggestion involves the co-existence of other facts, some of which are known and some of which may be determined. Thus, _if_ they were his own footprints, it must, among other things, necessarily follow (1) that he had been at that spot before, (2) that nothing had happened since that time to remove the prints, (3) that the footprints corresponded to his own. The first consequence involved—that he had been there before—was a fact, but the others were not, and so the suggestion was dropped. Then a second hypothesis occurred—“the man came in a ship”—and this was tried out in a similar way. Notice that in each case the consequences dependent on the truth of the suggestion are tried out (1) by memory, (2) by observation or experiment. Memory came when he thought of the last time he had walked near the beach and of yesterday’s storm. Observation came when he compared his footprint with the one seen, when he followed the footprints along the sand and noticed where they led, when he climbed a tree and looked for a ship. There were a number of other things which he could have observed. He might have noticed the texture of the sand, what kind of a tree he was climbing, what sort of clouds were in the sky. But he did not observe these interesting things simply because they would throw no light on the truth or falsity of his supposition. In another problem one of these facts might have been of value.

It is almost possible to sum up the whole process of thinking as the occurrence of suggestions for the solution of difficulties and the testing out of those suggestions. The suggestions or suppositions are tested by observation, memory, experiment. Supposition and observation alternate. The first facts observed—in the case foregoing, the footprints—make the problem, they suggest the supposition. A supposition is that the man came in a boat. _If_ the man came in a boat such and such would be the case—the boat would still be visible, etc. If the boat is not visible the supposition is given up and another one made; if the boat is visible the supposition is confirmed. This is a case of simple and rudimentary thinking, but it illustrates roughly the process of thought on even the most complicated problems of science. The methods we have been discussing may all be considered simply as means for helping good suggestions occur to us.

Let us illustrate by considering a few methods of rather restricted application. We are often aided in the solution of a problem by asking its opposite. If we ask ourselves “What constitutes gracefulness?” we may find ourselves at a loss for suggestions, because gracefulness always seems “so natural.” But if we ask its opposite, “What constitutes awkwardness?,” suggestions are more apt to occur. If we find, for instance, that awkwardness consists in undue bodily effort in making a movement, we may assume that gracefulness consists in ease of movement. In the same way the question of what makes us forget may be helped by asking ourselves what makes us remember, and light may be thrown on the causes of success in business and in life by a study of the causes of failure.

The method of analogy likewise encourages suggestions. Analogy consists in noting certain likenesses between things, and assuming that they also possess other common qualities. Striking use of analogy is made in dealing with the planet Mars. At each pole there are great white patches. The size of these varies markedly with the seasons, which suggests that like the earth, Mars has great areas of ice and snow at its two poles which melt and re-form. The general surface is reddish, but three-eighths of it is covered by blue-green tracts, and these are usually inferred to be seas. These again are connected by an intricate system of blue-green lines, which some scientists believe to be canals, but on this there is much controversy. In Mars we have at once an illustration of the possibilities and dangers of analogy.

In the whole discussion of constructive method thus far, I have left out the two most common and useful methods of all. The first of these we may designate by a somewhat formidable title: _empirical observation_. Empirical, at least for our present purposes, means merely that which comes within experience. But the term is generally opposed to scientific. Thus Dewey gives an example: “A says, ‘It will probably rain to-morrow.’ B asks, ‘Why do you think so?’ And A replies, ‘Because the sky was lowering at sunset.’ When B asks, ‘What has that to do with it?’ A responds, ‘I do not know, but it generally does rain after such a sunset.’ He does not perceive any _connection_ between the appearance of the sky and the coming rain; he is not aware of any continuity in the facts themselves—any law or principle, as we usually say. He simply, from frequently recurring conjunction of the events, has associated them so that when he sees one he thinks of the other.”[5]

This, however, is not what I mean to imply by the term empirical observation. I mean rather thinking on the basis merely of facts which occur in the natural course of events, which have not been systematically produced by ourselves or others for the purpose of solving a problem. Logicians usually call this method simply _observation_, and oppose it to experiment. But I object to calling this simply observation because experiment itself is really observation, only in one case we observe merely events which happen to occur, and in the other we observe the results of events _which we have made occur_. The true way of distinguishing these two methods would be to call one _empirical observation_, and the other _experimental observation_.

This empirical method—if indeed I am justified in calling it a _method_—is the most common in all thinking. To give examples of it would be to show how men generally think. But the method has real value, and may even be the most important of all, for if we thought without it our ideas would doubtless be original, but very dangerous. Let us apply it to some of the problems considered under other methods.

Empirical observation is used where experiment is impossible—often, unfortunately, where experiment is merely inconvenient. In political science the empirical method would consist in noting the effect of certain laws,—e.g., tariffs of different countries and of the same country at different periods—and noting economic conditions at the time the different tariffs were in effect. Allowance would be made for other factors which could influence the country’s economic condition and the effect of the tariff could then be determined.

The empirical method of dealing with meteorology, the science of weather, would consist in making a study of cloud formations, wind velocity, moisture in the air, temperature, etc., and noting what conditions usually or perhaps invariably followed certain of these conditions. From this, conclusions could be drawn as to what weather to expect following certain conditions.

But valuable as empirical observation is, and often as we must use it, it should never be employed when we can experiment. When the empirical method is rightly used allowance always has to be made for certain irrelevant factors. But “making allowances” is always sheer guess work. _The experimental method consists not in making allowances for certain factors, but in eliminating those factors._ In our example from political science experiment is practically impossible, because the factors which may influence economic conditions are innumerable, and even were they few, no country could survive the dangers of being experimented upon—to say nothing of its permitting it. Experiment is similarly impossible in dealing with weather conditions directly. It is impossible in astronomy.

But it could be applied quite easily to most questions. Suppose you wanted to determine beyond question which of two methods of teaching a given subject was the better. We shall assume for the moment that you have unlimited time and money to experiment. It may be thought that we could settle this simply by teaching one person according to one method and another person according to the other, and that we could determine the relative merits of each method from the progress made by each pupil. This, however, would be practically of no use whatever. One pupil might be naturally brighter than the other, and so would naturally learn quicker, even were he taught by an inferior method.

To make the experiment of any use we should first take two _groups_ of pupils—the larger the better. For it is obvious that if we take a great number of pupils and place them in two groups the differences between the individuals will tend to offset one another. Let us say the subject is one in which the progress can be quantitatively measured, say typewriting, and let us suppose there are fifty pupils in each group. If after a given time _all_ the pupils in one group had attained a greater speed with accuracy than _all_ the pupils in the other, the test would be almost unquestionable. This would be even more conclusive if the groups were reasonably well balanced. For if all of one group were men and all of the other were boys, the men might make more rapid progress than the boys even with a less efficient system. But it should be easy to divide classes and groups so as to have a reasonable balance of intelligence between them. The probable result of any experiment would be that in neither class would all the pupils make more progress than all the pupils of the other, though you might find that the preponderating majority in one class improved faster than those in the other, and this would probably be sufficient to indicate the superiority of one method, even though one or two pupils in the second group progressed faster than one or two in the first.

I say “probably” because there are still many irrelevant factors which might influence the result. For instance, if you had a different teacher for each group, one group might make greater progress not because of the method but because of the teacher. This means either that one teacher should teach both groups, or that we should multiply the number of groups and the number of teachers, and have half the teachers teaching half the groups by one method, and the other half teaching by the other method. Of course here too the more we could multiply the number the better it would be. Even then there might be some reasonable question as to the validity of the experiment, for it might be that one method would tend to encourage faster progress at the beginning, but that the other would lead to greater progress in the long run. This could be determined only by carrying our experiment over a long period. And we might still have irrelevant factors, for the machines on which one group learnt to typewrite might be superior to those on which the other group learnt, and this factor would have to be eliminated in a similar way to the others.

The experimental method has been well summed up by Thomson and Tait in their _Natural Philosophy_:

“In all cases when a particular agent or cause is to be studied, experiments should be arranged in such a way as to lead if possible to results depending on it alone; or, if this cannot be done, they should be arranged so as to increase the effects due to the cause to be studied till these so far exceed the unavoidable concomitants, that the latter may be considered as only disturbing, not essentially modifying the effects of the principal agent.”

In all experiments one must exercise ingenuity in finding other causes besides the one to be studied which may possibly influence a result, and in eliminating these. It might benefit the reader considerably if he were to think out for himself how he would apply experiment in its most thoroughgoing form to solve a given question, say the inheritance of acquired characteristics.

* * * * *

I have now cited enough methods to at least indicate what “thinking with method” means. To satisfy a certain human craving all of these have been named, though sometimes arbitrarily. Of course each may have to be modified to some extent to adjust it to different problems. I must repeat: there are methods numberless, and some problems will require methods all their own.

But what is important is that every problem should be dealt with by as many methods as possible. Doubtless you have used, at some time or other in the course of your thinking, nearly every one of the methods I have so far suggested. But the point is not that you have never used these methods at all, but that you have not used them often enough. You were unaware what method you were using. Consequently you used it only occasionally. You used it only when you stumbled on it accidentally. To formulate methods is to bring them to your attention, so that you may use them always, thoroughly, correctly, consistently.

We have treated political science from most angles. We have applied more than one method to several other problems. To still further clarify, exemplify and impress this point, I shall show the application of method to one more subject.

Suppose you wanted to invent a system of shorthand, and wanted to make it as perfect as possible. How would you go about it?

Your first step should be to restate your question most advantageously. You want to create certain characters or symbols, which will (1) take the shortest time to write, (2) will be easily recognized by yourself or others, even if written carelessly, and (3) which will not be so numerous or so complex as to be difficult to learn. You may decide that such symbols would have even further requirements. Next you should decide on the methods to use in attacking your problem—this in order not to forget any. Now assume you have decided on these methods and that the first is the a priori. Your conclusion might be that it would be impossible to have a different symbol for every word, and that it is necessary to have some sort of alphabet. Should this alphabet be based on that used in longhand? That is, should merely a simpler symbol stand in place of each letter? Or should a different symbol represent each sound? Or would it be possible to have a different elementary symbol for each syllable? Having decided the basis for your symbols or characters, you will know at least approximately the number required. Your problem will then become that of making the characters as simple as possible, so that they may be written most quickly; and yet as different from each other as possible so that if written carelessly (as they will be when written swiftly), they may be easily recognized. You might try writing down all the simplest symbols you can think of. Or you might ask yourself whether there is any fundamental geometrical figure from which you can derive your symbols. Or you might study the simplest and easiest movements of the hand, and base your characters on these.

This a priori method is most apt of all to provoke real thinking. It should therefore be taken up before any of the others. Not only is it best for making you think deeply, but it will be more likely than any of the others to make you think originally. However, whether attended by great or little success, this method should be followed by others.

Not the least fruitful of these would be the evolutionary. This, of course, would consist in studying the history of shorthand, finding out the direction in which it has been tending, and thus anticipating in some degree its future development. As this method is comparative we would naturally be led from it to comparing the shorthand systems of to-day, and assaying the good and bad qualities of each. These could only be assayed if we knew something of shorthand theory, and thus our experience with the deductive or a priori method would be of service.

Implied in here is a method of different nature than any we have yet discussed, but one of immense help. In turning from the deductive method to a study of shorthand systems which others have developed, you have an opportunity to compare the results of your own thinking with those obtained by others. If you have failed to solve the question in as good a manner as these others, you can ask yourself wherein and why your own reflections and ingenuity fell short. If you follow this method with all problems—i.e., thinking a thing out for yourself before looking up what others have thought—you will soon improve your thinking surprisingly. The method is capable of application in every problem, from inventing an adding machine to trying to find how the plumber got that $3.46 on the bill.

But to return to shorthand. We still have the empirical and experimental methods. In this particular case the difference between them would be simply one of degree. We could find, for instance, what systems were used by the fastest shorthand writers; but we could get nothing conclusive from this, for we would have to make allowance for the natural ability and length of training of these writers. From merely looking at two outlines or characters, it is often difficult to tell which can be written faster. This could only be tested by writing hundreds in a row and finding the time it took to write the same number of each. Of course such experiment is capable of indefinite expansion.