CALDERWOOD.

XVIII

THINKING AND FEELING

In all our thinking it is very important to get a clear and full vision of the thing to be known. This is not always as easy as it seems. Like Nelson in the battle of Copenhagen, we may consciously turn the blind eye towards what we do not like and exclaim, “I do not see it.” The lenses through which we gaze may be green, or smoked, or ill-adjusted, and thus without suspecting it we may see things in false colors or distorted shapes. Our bodily condition may color everything we see and think. In health and high animal spirits every thought is rose-colored. In periods of disease and depression everything we think seems to pass, “like a great bruise, through yellow, green, blue, purple, to black. A liver complaint causes the universe to be shrouded in gray; and the gout covers it with inky pall, and makes us think our best friends little better than fiends in disguise.”

One of the greatest hinderances to correct thinking is prejudice. Hence all who have presumed to give advice on the conduct of the understanding have had something to say concerning prejudice. Bacon has a chapter on the idols of the mind, and Locke contends that we should never be in love with any opinion. In a charming little volume on the “Art of Thinking,” Knowlson has a chapter in which he enumerates and discusses the prejudices arising from birth, nationality, temperament, theory, and unintelligent conservatism. The list might easily be enlarged. Close analysis must convince any one that feeling strengthens all forms of prejudice, and there are very few, if any, fields of thought in which it is not essential for the attainment of truth to divest ourselves of preconceived notions and the resultant feelings, and to weigh the arguments on both sides of a question before reaching a conclusion.

A student may take up geometry with a feeling of prejudice for or against the study, based upon what he has heard from others concerning its difficulties or the teacher who gives the instruction; but after he has mastered the demonstration of a theorem he does not lie awake at night wishing the opposite were true. In the realms of mathematics the wishes of the heart are not in conflict with the conclusions of the intellect. In the domain of ethical, social, historical, or religious truth the head often says one thing and the heart another. “We see plainly enough what we ought to think or do, but we feel an irresistible inclination to think or do something else.” In most of the instances in which the study of science has led to agnosticism the wish was father to the thought. When two men argue the same question, weighing the same arguments and reaching opposite conclusions, as did Stonewall Jackson and his father-in-law at the outbreak of the Civil War, the inclinations and wishes of the heart must have influenced their thinking.

Feeling is an element in all forms of mental activity. The intellect never acts without stirring the emotions. The teacher who reproved a pupil for showing signs of pleasure and delight over the reasoning of Euclid, saying, “Euclid knows no emotion,” must have been a novice in the art of introspection. Who cannot recall the thrill of delight with which he first finished the proof of the Pythagorean proposition? Mathematics is considered difficult; the emotions connected with victory and mastery sustain the student as he advances from conquest to conquest. The effort which some thinkers make to reduce the phenomena of the universe to a few universal principles is, without doubt, sustained and stimulated by a feeling that there must be unity in the midst of the most manifold diversity.

Scientists and philosophers are prone to imagine themselves free from the prejudices which warp the thinking of the common mind. Descartes started to divest himself of all preconceived notions; yet he could not divest himself of the notion that he was immensely superior to other men. “This French philosopher regarded himself as almost infallible, and had a scorn of all his contemporaries. He praised Harvey, but says he only learned a single point from him; Galileo was only good in music, and here he attributed to him the elder Galileo’s work; Pascal and Campanella are pooh-poohed. Here is an instance of how pride in one’s own work may beget a cheap cynicism with regard to the work of others; and how as a feeling it blinds the mind to excellences outside those we have agreed to call our own.” Of men in general Jevons, in his treatise on the “Physical Sciences,”[51] says,—

“It is difficult to find persons who can with perfect fairness register facts for and against their own peculiar views. Among uncultivated observers, the tendency to remark favorable and to forget unfavorable events is so great that no reliance can be placed upon their supposed observations. Thus arises the enduring fallacy that the changes of the weather coincide in some way with the changes of the moon, although exact and impartial registers give no countenance to the fact. The whole race of prophets and quacks live on the overwhelming effect of one success compared with hundreds of failures which are unmentioned or forgotten. As Bacon says, ‘Men mark when they hit, and never mark when they miss.’ And we should do well to bear in mind the ancient story, quoted by Bacon, of one who in Pagan times was shown a temple with a picture of all the persons who had been saved from shipwreck after paying their vows. When asked whether he did not now acknowledge the power of the gods, ‘Ay,’ he answered; ‘but where are they painted that were drowned after their vows?’”

Sometimes the feeling that a given way of looking at things is undoubtedly correct prevents the mind from thinking at all. A lady claimed that she had been taught to accept the statements of the Bible in their literal sense, and that in this belief she was going to live and die. She was asked to read the twenty-third Psalm. At the end of the first verse she was asked whether she could be anything else than a sheep if the Lord was literally her Shepherd. When, a little farther on, she was asked in what green pastures she had been lying down, she burst into tears. Her condition, and that of hundreds of thousands of others, is correctly given in the opening pages of J. S. Mill’s “Subjection of Women.”[52]

“So long as an opinion is strongly rooted in the feelings, it gains rather than loses in stability by having a preponderating weight of argument against it. For if it were accepted as the result of argument, the refutation of the argument might shake the solidity of the conviction; but when it rests solely on feeling, the worse it fares in argumentative contest the more persuaded its adherents are that their feeling must have some deeper ground which the arguments do not reach; and while the feeling remains, it is always throwing up fresh intrenchments of argument to fill any breach made in the old.”

When a man’s opinions are, as he thinks, grounded in first principles, it is but natural that he should be unwilling to abandon them without a struggle to intrench himself behind impregnable arguments. If he has reached his conclusions as the result of long and careful inquiry, he has a right to hold on to them with more than ordinary tenacity. The same regard for truth which led him to form an opinion should, however, make him willing to change whenever he finds himself in the wrong. He should avoid the frame of mind of the Scotch lady who, when it was charged that she was not open to conviction, exclaimed, “Not open to conviction! I scorn the imputation. But,” added she, after a moment’s pause, “show me the man who can convince me.” The secret of this tenacity of opinion is not love of truth, but love of self,—in one word, pride.

In view of the hinderances which certain kinds or degrees of feeling throw into the way of thinking, it might be inferred that the thinker must suppress the element of feeling in his inner life. No greater mistake could be made. If the Creator endowed man with the power to think, to feel, and to will, these several activities of the mind are not designed to be in conflict, and so long as any one of them is not perverted or allowed to run to excess, it necessarily aids and strengthens the others in their normal functions. Whilst it is a duty to overcome prejudice, fear, embarrassment, anxiety, and other emotions or degrees of emotion which interfere with our ability to think correctly, especially when face to face with an audience or with our peers and superiors, it is equally a duty to cultivate the emotions which stimulate thinking and strengthen the will. Without the ability to feel strongly, it is impossible to stir the hearts of an audience. A strong character is impossible without strong emotion. Jesus could weep and denounce. He showed the strongest emotion in his public discourses and at all the great turning-points of his life. The men and women who have done most for the race showed the element of strong feeling in their thinking and in their efforts at philanthropy and reform. It is the feeling of patriotism that sustains the soldier on the field of battle and the statesman in the midst of public criticism and personal abuse. According to Plato, the feeling with which education begins is wonder. “The elementary school,” says Dr. Brumbaugh, “does its best work when it creates a desire to learn, not when it satisfies the learner.” Teachers everywhere are beginning to see that it is the mission of the elementary school to beget a desire for knowledge that will carry the pupil onward and upward, and not to make him feel satisfied with a mere knowledge of the rudiments, so that he will leave the school at the first opportunity to earn a penny.

Dr. Brumbaugh further says,—

“We must recognize the emotional life as the basis of appeal for all high acting and high thinking. We can never make men by ignoring an essential element in manliness. To live well, we must know clearly, feel keenly, and act nobly; and, indeed, we shall have noble action only as we have gladsome action,—action inspired of feeling, not of thought. The church made men of great power because it made men of great feeling.”