Unconscious Memory. Samuel Butler
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since he evidently held a brief for a party standing outside the scientific world.
Butler introduced himself as what we now call “The Man in the Street,” far too bare of scientific clothing to satisfy the Mrs. Grundy of the domain: lacking all recognised tools of science and all sense of the difficulties in his way, he proceeded to tackle the problems of science with little save the deft pen of the literary expert in his hand. His very failure to appreciate the difficulties gave greater power to his work—much as Tartarin of Tarascon ascended the Jungfrau and faced successfully all dangers of Alpine travel, so long as he believed them to be the mere “blagues de réclame” of the wily Swiss host. His brilliant qualities of style and irony themselves told heavily against him. Was he not already known for having written the most trenchant satire that had appeared since “Gulliver’s Travels”? Had he not sneered therein at the very foundations of society, and followed up its success by a pseudo-biography that had taken in the “Record” and the “Rock”? In “Life and Habit,” at the very start, he goes out of his way to heap scorn at the respected names of Marcus Aurelius, Lord Bacon, Goethe, Arnold of Rugby, and Dr. W. B. Carpenter. He expressed the lowest opinion of the Fellows of the Royal Society. To him the professional man of science, with self-conscious knowledge for his ideal and aim, was a medicine-man, priest, augur—useful, perhaps, in his way, but to be carefully watched by all who value freedom of thought and person, lest with opportunity he develop into a persecutor of the worst type. Not content with blackguarding the audience to whom his work should most appeal, he went on to depreciate that work itself and its author in his finest vein of irony. Having argued that our best and highest knowledge is that of whose possession we are most ignorant, he proceeds: “Above all, let no unwary reader do me the injustice of believing in me. In that I write at all I am among the damned.”
His writing of “EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW” (1879) was due to his conviction that scant justice had been done by Charles Darwin and Alfred Wallace and their admirers to the pioneering work of Buffon, Erasmus Darwin, and Lamarck. To repair this he gives a brilliant exposition of what seemed to him the most valuable portion of their teachings on evolution. His analysis of Buffon’s true meaning, veiled by the reticences due to the conditions under which he wrote, is as masterly as the English in which he develops it. His sense of wounded justice explains the vigorous polemic which here, as in all his later writings, he carries to the extreme.
As a matter of fact, he never realised Charles Darwin’s utter lack of sympathetic understanding of the work of his French precursors, let alone his own grandfather, Erasmus. Yet this practical ignorance, which to Butler was so strange as to transcend belief, was altogether genuine, and easy to realise when we recall the position of Natural Science in the early thirties in Darwin’s student days at Cambridge, and for a decade or two later. Catastropharianism was the tenet of the day: to the last it commended itself to his Professors of Botany and Geology—for whom Darwin held the fervent allegiance of the Indian scholar, or chela, to his guru. As Geikie has recently pointed out, it was only later, when Lyell had shown that the breaks in the succession of the rocks were only partial and local, without involving the universal catastrophes that destroyed all life and rendered fresh creations thereof necessary, that any general acceptance of a descent theory could be expected. We may be very sure that Darwin must have received many solemn warnings against the dangerous speculations of the “French Revolutionary School.” He himself was far too busy at the time with the reception and assimilation of new facts to be awake to the deeper interest of far-reaching theories.
It is the more unfortunate that Butler’s lack of appreciation on these points should have led to the enormous proportion of bitter personal controversy that we find in the remainder of his biological writings. Possibly, as suggested by George Bernard Shaw, his acquaintance and admirer, he was also swayed by philosophical resentment at that banishment of mind from the organic universe, which was generally thought to have been achieved by Charles Darwin’s theory. Still, we must remember that this mindless view is not implicit in Charles Darwin’s presentment of his own theory, nor was it accepted by him as it has been by so many of his professed disciples.
“UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY” (1880).—We have already alluded to an anticipation of Butler’s main theses. In 1870 Dr. Ewald Hering, one of the most eminent physiologists of the day, Professor at Vienna, gave an Inaugural Address to the Imperial Royal Academy of Sciences: “Das Gedächtniss als allgemeine Funktion der organisirter Substanz” (“Memory as a Universal Function of Organised Matter”). When “Life and Habit” was well advanced, Francis Darwin, at the time a frequent visitor, called Butler’s attention to this essay, which he himself only knew from an article in “Nature.” Herein Professor E. Ray Lankester had referred to it with admiring sympathy in connection with its further development by Haeckel in a pamphlet entitled “Die Perigenese der Plastidule.” We may note, however, that in his collected Essays, “The Advancement of Science” (1890), Sir Ray Lankester, while including this Essay, inserts on the blank page [0b]—we had almost written “the white sheet”—at the back of it an apology for having ever advocated the possibility of the transmission of acquired characters.
“Unconscious Memory” was largely written to show the relation of Butler’s views to Hering’s, and contains an exquisitely written translation of the Address. Hering does, indeed, anticipate Butler, and that in language far more suitable to the persuasion of the scientific public. It contains a subsidiary hypothesis that memory has for its mechanism special vibrations of the protoplasm, and the acquired capacity to respond to such vibrations once felt upon their repetition. I do not think that the theory gains anything by the introduction of this even as a mere formal hypothesis; and there is no evidence for its being anything more. Butler, however, gives it a warm, nay, enthusiastic, reception in Chapter V (Introduction to Professor Hering’s lecture), and in his notes to the translation of the Address, which bulks so large in this book, but points out that he was “not committed to this hypothesis, though inclined to accept it on a prima facie view.” Later on, as we shall see, he attached more importance to it.
The Hering Address is followed in “Unconscious Memory” by translations of selected passages from Von Hartmann’s “Philosophy of the Unconscious,” and annotations to explain the difference from this personification of “The Unconscious” as a mighty all-ruling, all-creating personality, and his own scientific recognition of the great part played by unconscious processes in the region of mind and memory.
These are the essentials of the book as a contribution to biological philosophy. The closing chapters contain a lucid statement of objections to his theory as they might be put by a rigid necessitarian, and a refutation of that interpretation as applied to human action.
But in the second chapter Butler states his recession from the strong logical position he had hitherto developed in his writings from “Erewhon” onwards; so far he had not only distinguished the living from the non-living, but distinguished among the latter machines or tools from things at large. [0c] Machines or tools are the external organs of living beings, as organs are their internal machines: they are fashioned, assembled, or selected by the beings for a purposes so they have a future purpose, as well as a past history. “Things at large” have a past history, but no purpose (so long as some being does not convert them into tools and give them a purpose): Machines have a Why? as well as a How?: “things at large” have a How? only.
In “Unconscious Memory” the allurements of unitary or monistic views have gained the upper hand, and Butler writes (p. 23):—
“The only thing of which I am sure is, that the distinction between the organic and inorganic is arbitrary; that it is more coherent with our other ideas, and therefore more acceptable, to start with every molecule as a living thing, and then deduce death as the breaking up of an association or corporation, than to start with inanimate molecules and smuggle life into them; and that, therefore, what we call the inorganic world must be regarded as up to a certain point living, and instinct, within certain limits, with consciousness, volition, and power of concerted action. It is only of late, however, that I have come to this opinion.”
I have italicised the last sentence, to show that Butler was more or less conscious of its irreconcilability