Hence, the vast influence which Locke’s philosophy exerted upon the development of Europe for more than a century. If it be said that in truth no such force was exerted, but that Locke only happened to be the mouthpiece of the ideas which were destined to govern the world, can there after all be anything greater than so to anticipate the vital thought of the coming age as to be mistaken for its master? Locke’s grand word was substantially this: “Men must think for themselves, and genuine thought is an act of perception. Men must see out of their own eyes, and it will not do to smother individual thought—the only thought there really is—beneath the weight of general propositions, laid down as innate and infallible, but really only traditional—oppressive and unwholesome heritages from a barbarous and stupid past.” When we think of the manner in which the Cartesians, Spinoza, and the others had been squeezing out the quintessence of blindness from “First Principles,” and consider to what that method was capable of lending itself, in religion and in politics, we cannot fail to acknowledge a superior element of truth in the practicality of Locke’s thought, which on the whole should place him nearly upon a level with Descartes.
Prof. Fraser’s is the fourth life of Locke drawn more or less from unprinted sources. It cannot be said to be a sympathetic account of him. The biographer seems to see no charm in his hero, and is perpetually speaking of his want of imagination; which only means he was not given to unpractical dreaming. The account of Locke’s writings is, however, unusually good; and the insufferable sophistry of T. H. Green is well disposed of in a paragraph. Prof. Fraser pleads for a new edition of Locke’s works, and it is very true that this great man, whose utterances still have their lessons for the world, with wholesome influences for all plastic minds, should be studied in a complete, correct, and critical edition.
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[Notes on the First Issue of the Monist]
| 23 October 1890 | The Nation |
—Many minds nowadays are turning towards high philosophy with expectations such as wide-awake men have not indulged during fifty years of Hamiltonianism, Millism, and Spencerianism; so that the establishment of a new philosophical quarterly which may prove a focus for all the agitation of thought that struggles today to illuminate the deepest problems with light from modern science, is an event worthy of particular notice. The first number of the Monist (Open Court Publishing Company) opens with good promise, in articles by two Americans, one Englishman, three Germans, two Frenchmen. Mr. A. Binet, student of infusorial psychology, treats of the alleged physical immortality of some of these organisms. In the opening paper, Dr. Romanes defends against Wallace his segregation supplement to the Darwinian theory, i.e., that the divergence of forms is aided by varieties becoming incapable of crossing, as, for instance, by blossoming at different seasons. Prof. Cope, who, if he sometimes abandons the English language for the jargon of biology, is always distinguished by a clear style, ever at his command in impersonal matters, gives an analysis of marriage, not particularly original, and introduces a slight apology for his former recommendation of temporary unions. Prof. Ernst Mach has an “anti-metaphysical” article characteristic of the class of ingenious psychologists, if not perhaps quite accurate thinkers, to which he belongs. Mr. Max Dessoir recounts exceedingly interesting things about magic mirrors considered as hypnotizing apparatus. Mr. W. M. Salter and M. Lucien Arréat tell us something of the psychology of Höffding and of Fouillée. Among the book-notices, a certain salad of Hegel and mathematics excites our curiosity and provokes an appetite for more of this sort. The writer makes much ado to state Dr. F. E. Abbot’s metaphysics, certainly as easily intelligible a theory as ever was.
—It remains to explain the name Monist. Dr. Carus, the putative editor, says: “The philosophy of the future will be a philosophy of facts, it will be positivism; and in so far as a unitary systematization of facts is the aim and ideal of all science, it will be Monism.” But this is no definition of monism at all; in fact, the last clause conveys no idea. The search for a unitary conception of the world, or for a unitary systematization of science, would be a good definition of philosophy; and, with this good old word at hand, we want no other. To use the word monism in this sense would be in flagrant violation at once of usage and of the accepted principles of philosophical terminology. But this is not what is meant. Monism, as Dr. Carus himself explains it in his Fundamental Problems, p. 256, is a metaphysical theory opposed to dualism or the theory of two kinds of substance—mind and matter—and also conceiving itself to be different both from idealism and materialism. But idealism and materialism are almost identical: the only difference is that idealism regards the psychical mode of activity as the fundamental and universal one, of which the physical mode is a specialization; while materialism regards the laws of physics as at the bottom of everything, and feeling as limited to special organizations. The metaphysicians who call themselves Monists are usually materialists sans le savoir. The true meaning attaching to the title of the magazine may be read in these words of the editor:
We are driven to the conclusion that the world of feelings forms an inseparable whole together with a special combination of certain facts of the objective world, namely, our body. It originates with this combination, and disappears as soon as that combination breaks to pieces…. Subjectivity must be conceived as the product of a coöperation of certain elements which are present in the objective world…. Motions are not transformed into feelings, but certain motions, … when coöperating in a special form, are accompanied with feelings.
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My Life
| c. 1890 | Houghton Library |
An extraordinary thing happened to me at a tender age,—as I now reflect upon it, a truly marvellous thing, though in my youthful heedlessness, I overlooked the wonder of it and just cried at the pickle. This occurred 1839 September 10. At that time I commenced life in the function of a baby belonging to Sarah Hunt (Mills) Peirce and Benjamin Peirce, professor of mathematics in Harvard College, beginning to be famous. We lived in a house in Mason Street. This house belonged to Mr. Hastings, who afterward built an ugly house between Longfellow’s and the Todd’s.
I remember nothing before I could talk. I remember starting out to drive in a carryall and trying to say something about a canarybird; I remember sitting on the nursery floor playing with blocks in an aimless way and getting cramps in my fingers; and I remember an old negro woman who came to do scrubbing. I remember her because she frightened me and I dreamed about her. I remember a gentleman who came to see my mother,—probably William Story, who drew a sketch of her.
At a later time, I remember well the Davis’s wedding which took place in the house, the minister in his black gown, and my getting my leg down in the register hole and being rescued by Uncle Henry Davis. I well remember Aunt Harty before she was married and my trying to mesmerize her, I think in imitation of Jem. I remember the dining room, which had formerly been a kitchen, and eating hasty pudding for breakfast there. I remember distinctly my first taste of coffee, given me surreptitiously by the kitchen girls. No mocha will ever again have that quality for me. I remember Professor Sylvester at table there. I also remember my Aunt Helen Huntington coming and being obliged to lie at once on the bed. She died shortly after, Ned Huntington, her youngest child, being, I suppose, 2 or 3 years younger than me. I remember many other things about the old house, and often dream about it. I remember the Isabella grapes over the piazza.
I forgot to mention that earlier (?) I remember Mrs. Harriet Gray Otis who lived next door and had a poodle dog; and I had a toy poodle. The Whittemores afterward moved into that house and Babby Whittemore,—a little girl a few months younger than me,—and I went together to Ma’am