Socrates and the history of psychology

SOCRATES AND THE HISTORY OF PSYCHOLOGY’ HARRY THORNTON

University of Otago

This article has two objectives, viz. to offer a critical consideration of the chapter entitled ‘Socratic Anthropology’ in the first volume of J. R. Kantor’s ‘The Scientific Evolution of Psychology,’ (11) and to give some attention to the passage from Plato’s Phaedo a t 97b-99b. as a source in the history of psychology. This particular passage is involved, because Kantor wishes to show that Socrates developed scientific psychology along naturalistic lines.

Professor John Baillie (3) addressing the British Association for the Advance- ment of Science a t Edinburgh on 12th August, 1951, but from a view which runs in opposition to Kantor’s understanding of the matter, said :

I have long been in the habit of saying that the most important single passage in the whole literature of Western philosophy is Plato’s report in the Phaedo of Socrates’ autobiographical reminiscences as he sat in prison awaiting his death in 399 B.C. When he was a young man, Socrates tells us, he had a con- suming interest in natural science, always seeking into the causes of things, and asking such questions as whether organic growth is due to fermentation caused by variations of termperature, and whether thought and memory can be explained in terms of the brain. Finally, however, he came to the conclusion that he was wholly unfitted for these studies, because in the pursuit of them he seemed to forget or to unlearn many important things he had formerly known quite well; and now, he says, he has in his mind a dim idea of another possible method of approach.

After quoting a substantial part of the Phaedo passage, Baillie continued: Socrates then concludes this bit of autobiography by saying that, fearing lest the sharpening of his bodily senses should lead to what he calls a blindness in his soul, he determined for the rest of his life to give up natural science and attempt instead to discover the truth about things through the examination of the judgements men make about them. The rather cryptic phrase which I thus paraphrase has frequently been taken to mean that he would hence- forth be interested only in human life and not at all in the reality which sur- rounds us. Such is, however, an incomplete understanding of his case. Cer- tainly from then onwards his inquiries had been mainly concerned with morals, but these were never regarded by him as being merely human. On the contrary they provided the clue by which he sought to unlock the secrets of ultimate reality; and what he himself was unable to accomplish in this regard his pupil Plato afterwards accomplished for him, providing an explanation of the universal frame of things which should embrace, from this new point of view, that whole province of external nature that had been studied by the natural scientists from whom Socrates had turned away in his youth.

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‘A consideration of Plato’s Phaedo 97b ff. as a source in the history of psychology.

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Here Baillie puts a particular view into question. It may be formulated thus: Socrates came to be interested in man and in his conduct exclusively. He concerned himself no more than Dr. Johnson with country sights and sounds, with the direct appeal afforded by the things of the senses. Like him, he was also a man of the city, whose mind, when he inquired, led him by preference to human issues, to the character, conduct and interrelationships of men. And he concerned himself just as little with matters which go beyond this circle of interest in any more metaphysical or religious sense. Like Johnson, he had a firm and distinctive, piety but i t had a similar simplifying effect, leaving him free in the full force of his personality as well as in the penetration of his mind, to concern himself solely with men and their affairs.

Baillie does not deny that Socrates was a moralist and an ethical thinker. He does, however, deny that this study was confined for Socrates to being merely human. Thus Baillie imparts to our understanding of Socrates a transcendent reference and direction. This may be of a metaphysical or religious kind or i t may be both. It is clear that students of Phaedo 97b-99bl such as Baillie, reach a very different understanding of it from anything proposed by Kantor, when he proposes it as a source in support of the view that Socrates advanced a scientific psychology on naturalistic lines. It is also clear that any discussion of Kantor’s challenging use of the source must force us back upon the consideration of the whole matter of interpreting the passage as a source.

Scholars like John Burnet and A. E. Taylor took the view that Plato wrote about an historical Socrates. Accordingly, it would be quite in order to think that he sometimes gives us genuine autobiographical details about Socrates. However, Xenophon also wrote about Socrates and, some have said, he writes very differently. So the view arises, and it claims support, that ‘Socrates’ is no more than a mouth- piece for Plato himself. Thus Archer Hind and Stallbaum. Zeller was not even contented with this. Neither Socrates nor Plato are, according to him, to be taken seriously in a historical sense. Everything in the dialogues is there for the sake of a schema of ideas, whether adorned with literary and dramatic artifice for the sake of effects or left in the stark bareness of mere truth. He has been outdone, too. For there are those who deny Socrates’s existence outright. Once opposition out- reaches itself in this fashion, the original, traditional view remains: that Plato wrote about Socrates with a reasonable respect for historical truth.

In writing about Socrates a t this particular part of the Phaedo Plato also writes about Anaxagoras whose work and its effect upon the young Socrates is central to his narration.

Plato’s view of Anaxagoras was along the lines of what we would call teleology. (14, 97b-dj) Aristotle was of the same mind (1.A985 Alsff., 10.p.25 n.1.) Hackforth refers both to Burnet and to Cornford as affording room for doubting Plato and Aristotle in this. Although I cannot try to settle the matter here, I should be surprised if Burnet is really available in support of such a contention. In general, his attitude to both Plato and Aristotle was that they were among the foremost historical witnesses.

In Anaxagoras’s fragments, it is contended, “R!Iind” only sets in order. Nothing is said about aiming a t goodness or perfection. Purposiveness, if involved, is only implicit. I n general, I ‘Mind’ is only there to impart a mechanical impulsion.

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should say that I need to be convinced that this is not silly. Suppose that “Mind” is problematic. Let us call it “x.” There is the proposition “x sets things in order,” and the proposition “x aims at goodness or perfection.” It is proposed that the first can be held in independence of the second. Now something indeterminate sets things in order. Something indeterminate also aims at goodness or perfection. It is proposed to hold the first independently of the second. Just what are we doing? What might we be talking about? At this point, we might conveniently drop the subject for some pure logic or pure mathematics. And what are we to do with this “something indeterminate”? Call it an ‘‘I know not what” and admit ignorance? Had we then better not stop talking? Or call it e.g. in the first proposition “What sets things in order” and reach tautology? In which case, as I say, we may drop the matter in hand and turn to pure logic.

It is no doubt true that Anaxagoras’s statement “Mind set everything in order” contains no explicit articulation of aim at anything important to anyone. It still remains that this is a very literalistic point of view. It is also admitted that such aim is implicit in what is there. This is the important thing. The affirmation that Mind is only brought in to impart mechanical motion is “ex cathedra.” “X” becomes “what got motion started”-whatever that is. Are we doing anything but playing about with marks on a paper? Also, I take exception to the expression “mechanical” as an anachronism. The investigations of that time concerning nature were peri phuseds. They concerned what was, or what was thought of as, living and growing. A vitalistic-mechanistic dichotomy was as yet not thought of.

Sir W. D. Ross (1. Vol. 1. p. 137) writes that Anaxagoras’s, “Mind set everything in order” gives promise of a spiritual explanation of the world. Mind or Reason, he tells us, “is thought of as knowing and foreseeing.” “Anaxagoras, in fact, is on the verge of discovering a genuinely spiritual and teleological principle of explanation (Ib.).” This seems to Hackforth, as he says, “a just compromise”; (10. p. 125. n.1.) meaning an acceptable settlement with Plato and Aristotle in view of general doubting like that attributed to Burnet and to Cornford. To me it seems to agree with Plato and Aristotle.

If one asks a question like: “Was Anaxagoras a tdldologue manqud?” i t is, of course, desirable to ask what is meant by the expression, which incidentally is Hackforth’s(l0) whether one wants to deny that Anaxagoras was a teleologist? Or does one rather wish to say that he wanted to be one, so to speak, yet did not altogether carry it out? He was on.the way, but somehow did not arrive? This would seem to be the opinion which Sir David Ross would hold. Sir David refers to five fragments (1.Ib) as explaining movement from an original vortex movement. Subsequent to this beginning, he says, change and motion is accounted for “in a purely mechanical way,” in the fragments. ‘When he remarked (9. Vol. 2. p. 38. 11-12) that Anaxagoras’s “‘Mind set everything in order” gives promise of a spiritual explanation of the world, he added that this was never carried out in detail. What I want to say, when he, along with so many others, writes to the effect that changes subsequent to the initiation attributed to Mind, “are explained (by Anaxagoras) in a purely mechanical way’) is this: Anaxagoras on the available evidence does no more than give promise of a mechanical explanation of the world. To say that he does so is to become violently anachronistic. It is to go far beyond the actual evidence. It is to ignore features of phusis which stand in the way. It is to go too


far in allowing ourselves to read the contents of our own minds into the source. Might I, incidentally, ask whether we are to suppose that in the indispensable role of initiating motion, the otherwise dispensable Mind retires t o the basement like the supreme god in Tuamotuan cosmology or the Kraken in the Scandanavian?

I should also like to ask: Can we suppose Anaxagoras being asked how credible i t might be that such a refined principle as Mind could ever initiate movement in everything? This is the question asked of Descartes by Princess Elizabeth in their correspondence in the 17th century (8. p. 270). Is the step from nous in relation to phusis in the 5th century B.C. to res cogitans, substantia spiritualis, animus intellectualis and its relation to res extensa substantia materialis (corporealis), a step which can really be taken with such facility? Sir David Ross points out (1. Vol. 1. p. 137) that “Mind” is not conceived as absolutely immaterial in the fragments of Anaxagoras. The sort of ground he has for saying so is that fr.12. describes it as leptotatm kai katharotatm.” This, he says, implies that Anaxagoras thought of “Mind” as ‘(a very tenuous form of matter.” There is, however, a distinction between what Anaxagoras does say and what Sir David takes him to be saying as implied by what he does say. The two are not the same. The step from what is given in the fragment of Anaxagoras to what anyone takes as implied by it involves interpretation. It always does. It did so, too, for Plato and Aristotle. But they were both much closer than any of us to the matters under discussion. Let us say that Plato was born in the year that Anaxagoras died, c.428 B.C. Socrates was 40. Aristotle was born about 45 years later. In such circumstances, i t requires special defence and proof to make good the claim that we are in a bet,ter position to know than they could have been. So much for the moderns, and their “general doubting.” Kantor begins his consideration of Socrates on the basis of his Platonic source with some general, acceptable remarks which need not detain us long. They are better mentioned, however, in the interest of what is to follow. Socrates established two ideas important for science. The first was universal definition. And the second was inductive argument from particulars to a generalisation. The result of his efforts was to form a well-beaten track, viz. induction from particulars, familiarity with which accustomed those who understood him and followed i t to the deliberate articulation and use of empirical concepts. In this way Socrates contributed to the construction of a model for scientific procedure. As Kantor notes, this rests upon the authority of Aristotle (11.Vol.l.p.95 and 1.1078b 9-33).

Kantor connects this important Socratic contribution to scientific method with the question about the nature of the soul. He writes:

How important Socrates’ investigative model is may be estimated by the psychological historian when he applies it to the acute problem of the nature of soul, according to the Greeks in general and Socrates in particular. We contend that linguistic analysis shows how persistently modern ideas are read back into Greek doctrines. Simply put, since the term “soul” now signifies some supernatural thing or substance and since % o u ~ ~ ~ is a synonym of “psyche” and Socrates spoke of psyche, it is assumed that Socrates shared the modern belief in transpatial things.

Linguistic and situational analysis show that what Socrates meant by soul was similar to what is meant today when one speaks of a person as being the

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“soul of goodness” or “kindness.” In other words, soul was for Socrates the name for certain essential and perhaps valuable traits. Indeed Burnet has argued strongly for such an interpretation. He does so on the ground of the historical development of Hellenic ways of thinking and, more particularly, of the employment of the term “psyche” by the writers and teachers of the succeeding generations of Greek thinkers (Kantor, op. cit. p. 95).

That Socrates’s “investigative model” or method of pursuing knowledge is important, I do not deny, nor that he used i t in asking a question like “What is the soul?” The Phaedo is not, however, simply an investigation of this question, It is that, indeed, and according to a method, too, and i t has importance for this reason, but i t is neither only, nor mainly, that. It does ask the question, and argues in answer that the soul is immortal. Yet, however well one thinks this is done, the answer remains tentative and hypothetical. This does mean that, however important all this is, i t remains ultimately incidental in the Phaedo. The reason is that The Phaedo in its purpose, goes quite beyond this. It is primarily a moving, dramatic presentation of Socrates meeting death, presupposing that there is a soul, that i t is immortal. All that takes place does so out of the source of such conviction and out of the resources i t makes available. If the historical Socrates did not think this way, then the historical Plat*-if there was any such person- makes out in The Phaedo that he, the author, Plato or pseudo-Plato, believed that Socrates did think that way. If there was no such actual person as Socrates, it does not make any difference. The Phaedo is there, as evidence of itself. Kantor’s warning against reading modern ideas about the soul back into our Platonic Greek texts is perfectly proper. He thinks that this is just what does persistently happen in the course of reading and interpreting the texts, although he does no more than baldly state the point.

It is true that the control of ideas which we ourselves take for granted is one of the greatest difficulties in interpretation, but the belief in a soul as a supernatural entity is not modern. It was familiar in the world of Socrates’s time. Orphic circles, for instance, promoted it. So it will hardly do to say that we have it because we are moderns and that in reading Plato we fail to disencumber ourselves of this particular belief. It is more properly described as ancient than as modern. Far from being read back into the Platonic texts, we find Socrates in the Meno (13.81ff.) presented as introducing the idea by drawing upon the views of “the holy and the wise,” when he appeals to the theory of recollection. It appears, then, that the view is no merely modern one. It is a belief perfectly familiar in the context of the ancient world to which Plato and Socrates themselves belonged. Accordingly, i t is not possible to regard the spiritualistic view of human nature held by Socrates and Plato as simply an assumption on the part of transcendentally inclined moderns who believe in transpatial things.

When one speaks today of someone being “the soul of goodness,” one is speaking figuratively, meaning that he is like a personification of goodness. T o suggest that this is all Socrates meant, when he talked about the soul, seems palpably weak, to say the least. Goldsmith’s “Vicar of Wakefield” is no suitable measure for the ambience of the Phaedo. To suppose that it could be so is to commit oneself to leaving things out of what one has to interpret. This is as serious an error as to

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read things into it. “Soul,” writes Kantor, “was for Socrates the name for certain essential and perhaps valuable traits” (11. Vol 1. p 95). Here the conjunction of “essential” and “valuable” is a redundancy, but the insertion of “perhaps” pro- duces a contradiction. Is it credible that there is no more to the discussion of the soul in the setting of the Phaedo than the pushing around of a name in a muddle like that? If something was essential for Socrates, it was valuable. If it was perhaps valuable, how essential could it have been?

In view of Kantor’s use of Burnet’s lecture on The Socratic Doctrine of the Soul, it needs to be asked once again what it is that Burnet is arguing. He is concerned to establish the originality of Socrates. He does this in face of the large work of Maier, which had appeared at the time. Rfaier took the view that Socrates was not properly a philosopher. He was really a sort of preacher with a particular method of putting forward what he felt bound to say. Burnet’s remarkable presentation of the results of investigating the expression “psyche” in all the relevant Greek texts is directed to his central aim, i.e. to answering such questions about Socrates as “Who was he?,” “What sort of a person was he?” and “What did he think?.” He finds that Socrates was an almost uniquely original man. His outlook and activity comprised an emphasis upon “recollection” and “love” in conjunction with a method of conversing which was compared to the work of a midwife in bringing men to awareness of themselves, of others, and of the world they are in. He made the “psyche” or the soul to be understood as a t once normal, familiar consciousness, and as so important that it claimed the greatest and best part of our attention as human beings. This is, I think, to say that Socrates fully and intensely anticipated the view which, expressed in terms of a much later provenance, is substantially expressed by saying that “soul” refers to active moral personality with support from and source in, divine grace-an opinion remarkable enough to come from an historical, philological scholar like Burnet.

Burnet found that “psyche” had four main senses, and three special meanings. The latter we may notice first. These were (1) a guilty conscience, ( 2 ) a sentiment of kinship or “une voix du sang,” (3) an animal element in our nature, akin to a craving, “want” or “hankering” after something. The four principal meanings can be enumerated as (1) Courageousness, ( 2 ) “Breath” or “air,” (3) “Life,” (4) “Heart.” The two last are used in very particular ways. Thus “life” is a thing to be lost, and in this sense “psyche” occurs only in contexts in which i t relates closely to death. Also, “heart” denotes “psyche” in intimate connection with feelings associated with dreams.

None of these meanings, argues Burnet, sufficed to establish a doctrine of “psyche,” properly speaking. Of the importance attached to it, there can be no doubt a t all. On the traditional, popular view, it was incontestably significant. Yet “earth to earth and air to air” is about the sum of its achieved expression. On the Orphic view, with which Pindar’s ideas may be associated, it is just as undeniably a very great matter of human concern. It is “an image of life.” It sleeps in the midst of activities. That is to say, it is dissociated from normal waking consciousness, showing its prophetic nature only in dreams. The “psyche” is definitely not identified with the “I,” and we are concerned with i t only in sleep and a t death. Burnet argues that this does not constitute a doctrine of the soul. It would amount to the admission that we are really much more than we ordinarily

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appear to be, though for inscrutable reasons we come within sight of clues concerning the mystery of what we are and why we are here only in dreams and at death or in relation to death. I think myself that it is a moot point whether this is a doctrine of the soul. Again, Burnet discusses the Ionic Schools of thought: In the Introduction to his edition of the Phaedo he says that we can be assured of the influence of Diogenes of Apollonia and of Archelaus upon Socrates up to about middle-age. Diogenes connects with Anaximenes, Archelaus with Anaxagoras, so Socrates is set securely into relationship with the Ionic schools. Such pre-Socratic thinkers, in seeking to give an account of the ‘psyche’ found themselves between the normal, waking sort of consciousness, from which the traditional, popular view never got very far, and the dream-awareness which the Orphic and Pindaric views threw into prominence. They sought a solution in terms of some version of a fundamental “arche” or metaphysical principle. Burnet follows them through Anaximenes, Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, the Pythagoreans and Democritus, but finds their efforts abortive, so far as the achievement of a definite doctrine of the “psyche” is concerned.

As Burnet saw the matter, then, the Orphics and Pindar were right in insisting upon the importance of the “psyche” for human thought, but insufficient in their achievements so far as articulating intelligible ideas are concerned. The popular view of tradition, as well as the learned views of the philosophers shared this affirmation, but they, also, were dike far from satisfactory in the latter respect. Against this background, the extraordinary originality of Socrates stands out in high relief. He accepted and gathered up their common affirmation. He avoided the obscurant- ism so readily incurred by numinous claims without rejecting or minimising these claims. He decidedly rejected something characteristic of the thinkers of the pre- Socratic schools. He founded human thought in moral personality with a transcendent reference.

I have given this account of Burnet’s great lecture on Socrates’ view of the soul, because Kantor cites it as an authoritative source for opinions advanced by him, viz: “that what Socrates meant by soul was similar to what is meant today when one speaks of a person as being the “soul of goodness” or “kindness.” In other words, soul was for Socrates the name for certain essential and perhaps valuable traits. “Burnet,” he wrote, “has argued strongly for such an interpretation.” I respectfully submit that he has not.

Kantor next moves into a set of considerations of a very complex kind. He involves us in questions concerning interpretation, dualism and non-naturalistic views in relation to psychological issues, and the claims of a thorough-going naturalism. To these some attention is required of us, although of the restricted kind imposed by the limits of this present article. Kantor writes:

There is another fundamental consideration. It is obvious that the interpretations of the sayings and the thinking of historical personages is a function of the interpreter and the intellectual environment in which he lives. To us it seems quite remarkable that Burnet has reached his conclusions while himself immersed in our dualistic culture. For him there still exist the two worlds of things and mentalistic consciousness. But what if one frees himself from this prison of cultural beliefs? Then, at least, it becomes easier to evaluate

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the views of Socrates and to look upon them as the necessary result of living under particular political, economic, social, and interpersonal circumstances. On such a basis we can see clearly the nascent system of naturalistic psychology which Socrates formulated (1l.VoI. 1. pp. 95-6).

Kantor refers here to a fundamental consideration. It consists in something like the thesis that sources for historians can be understood as “functions” of the combi- nations of Interpretation and Environment, i.e. of the individual interpreters, their particular interpretations and their “milieu.” Walsh, reviewing Oakeshott’s “Introduction to the Philosophy of History,” writes that the historian “begins with an interpretation which he reinterprets” (2.p.211.n.7). Now, he does begin with a source of some sort. This is, of course, an interpretation-but, it is not his. It is, therefore, by definition so to speak, unacceptable, unreliable, questionable. It is only acceptable, reliable, authoritative, once i t has been put to the torture, if one may say so. It is, then, a source-for someone else to do the same thing with. For, as a source, it is after all only an interpretation requiring reinterpretation, satisfactory interpretation. And so i t might go on. Could one be blamed exactly among sceptics for suspecting a catch of some sort in a game of this kind? After all, Plato and Aristotle were in a position of some advantage when i t comes to speaking about what Anaxagoras thought. Burnet clearly thought that Plato has the advantage as a witness about Socrates. Yet people like Hackforth, some twenty- five centuries later, put Plato and Aristotle into doubt on this score. He does so, by calling into notice that they are generally doubted nowadays. What, may I ask, isn’t? In this circumstance, there is much to be said for the Aberdonian’s position in face of the opinion of “Everybody” who never materializes. “Let them say.” He a t least knows that vested interests are great leg-pullers and rarely graced with any humour, making a business of what ought to be a joke. Hackforth (10. p.125.h.l) cites Burnet in support of the view that Plato and Aristotle are not altogether reliable witnesses about Anaxagoras’s opinions. I have not, as yet, been able to satisfy myself that he is justified in doing this. He also cites Cornford, who does not appear to improve much on Bayle, (4.) two and a half centuries ago. Finally he rests in a “just compromise” (Ib.) provided, he thinks, by Sir David Ross. Obviously, Hackforth is a “source” waiting for someone to reinterpret. Oakeshott (2.p.211.n.7) thinks that “what is known is always in terms of what is presupposed.” True, as this no doubt is-whatever this truth may be-this is not by itself enough to yield a satisfactory idea of what a source is for an historian. It is too relative, too much altogether without limits set. “My view is,” writes Oakeshott (Ib.), “that the theory of knowledge a t the back of the notion that history begins with the collection of material and that the data in history are ‘isolated facts’ is erroneous, and that the notion itself is preposterous.” But, quite soberly, writing history does include assembling materials. And, this process also stands close to its start. No doubt as what is gathered becomes anything more than a collection, it does so through some sort of relation to ideas governing its selection, orientation, ordering and evaluation. Is the question about how much nearer the beginning this is any more than a matter of words? It must be, for i t could radically alter the answer to a question like “What is history?’’ But is i t the right answer? The “isolated facts” view may be erroneous. Nevertheless, there

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is a hard core of some kind somewhere about what is historical. Oakeshott’s view, as expressed, throws out this baby with the bathwater of the “isolated facts.”

Kantor finds Burnet’s conclusions remarkable considering who Burnet was, along with his where and when. He was, perhaps, a latter-day agnostic in a milieu derived from the Hebrew, Greek and Roman, rather like Matthew-Arnold against the background of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, if a little less congenial. He was immersed in our “dualistic culture” where the writ still runs that “what is of the spirit is spirit, what is of the flesh is flesh.” In such circumstances, his conclusions are remarkable, says Kantor. But what are these conclusions? As I have argued, they are not what Kantor alleges them to be. On the findings of Burnet’s British Academy lecture on the Socratic Notion of the Soul, the Socratic influence upon the formation of our historical “dualistic culture” was a major one. Far from being remarkable, this conclusion is what one would expect. The ghosts and the myth- ology of “the two worlds of things and mentalistic consciousness” are not so easily disposed of. Only the resources of historical Christianity appear to have the vestige of a claim worthy of consideration when i t comes to the effective exorcism of ghosts. As for myth, myth is power. It always has been, sometimes dangerous power. Laughing a t i t is a dangerous game and does nothing to diminish that power. Inexperienced people, encouraged and conditioned to ridicule i t are not at all formidable enemies for a power like myth. It would be more to the point to begin by properly appreciating just what an actual power in the world myth is, if one wants to diminish or limit its power, as i t seems desirable a t times to do.

Dualism is certainly a central problem for Kantor. It will emerge as such in his second volume, when i t appears, though i t may not be too obvious. I n some relationships in human life, i t is properly speaking a problem. Whether i t is a genuine problem in itself, I very much doubt. Even if it is, i t could only be solved by the healthy not the sick. Self-therapy on the lines of digging it up out of one’s system a t any cost is no more than just what it is, an individual matter, a merely psychological affair. The last war was hardly over before a band of writers published a symposium, a sort of naturalistic manifesto, led off by Dewey on “Antinaturalism in Extremis.” Actually, there is a grim joke of some kind in all this, for Naturalism would rather appear to be on the wane, and this is a symptom of it. Naturalism is notoriously ambiguous, too ambivalent. No doubt it has its uses, but they are very modest ones. In the face of the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” in “a time of troubles,” there is little significance in the flocking together of people who merely find themselves to be of one sort of temper, however otherwise they may differ. It is not clear to me that cultural beliefs consisting in a dualistic outlook, in the two worlds of things and mentalistic consciousness, constitutes a “prison.” I say that i t is not clear. I am not talking merely about my feelings. I do think that it constitutes a cultural context which has its own pathology, i.e. there are relationships and directions in which it may promote evil and trouble, although i t is meant for good. This is important and serious, but i t is not in itself decisive for making i t clear to me that “dualism” is the very devil. David Hume, in his critical reflections on religion, understood a great deal about this. He had the background of an ecclesiastical, inquisitorial Scotland in which to study it, too. It is one thing to feel imprisoned by dualism. It is another to be clear in one’s head about i t on an ultimate view of things. “What if one frees oneself from this

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prison of cultural beliefs” asks Kantor. I answer: that is not so easy. But surely it may not be so difficult to avoid fooling oneself that one is necessarily in bondage. One only can be, on the view that dualism, or nonnaturalism in some form, is simple anathema. This may be assumed on the strength of various feelings or dispositions, but it is the very thing in question, the thing about which clearness is lacking. Of course, if it is granted, “it becomes easier to evaluate the views of Socrates.” It illso, however, looks rather like determining them arbitrarily. Some- thing appears to be getting cut to measure. It facilitates seeing them as “the necessary result of living under particular political, economic, social, and interpersonal circumstances.” But that is really no more than a hypothesis, about the interpretation of what is historical. It is usefully true under strict control. Apart from that it muddles up true causes with the conditions without which they never would be causes. This does appear to put I<nntor directly a t odds with his source. What he proposes no doubt makes it easier to think as he does, but what about the texts?

On the basis of assuming that we may enjoy independence of our dualistic culture, while yet being both products of it and immersed in it, Kantor declares that : “we can see clearly the nascent system of naturalistic psychology which Socrates formulated.” Kow, I shall here do rather a naughty thing:

Suppose I take just three incidental citations from Kantor and use them to block out and to suggest the plan of his first volume (11.) here is the result:

His to iy of Psycholocqy Pt. I . Bejore Modern Psychology C.500 B.C. to C.1850 A.D. Section I ‘Crude Beginnings of Psychology’ (citation p.94) ‘Socrated ‘(corn- paratively primitive psychology” : (citation, p.96) : “a nascent system of naturalistic psychology” (citation p.96).

This suggests something strangely different from what is ostensibly aimed a t in the book viz. to present about 1300 years as a somehow indispensable, but definitely regrettable aberration from what can be recognised as proper psychology (because the people of those times were not naturalistic enough in their outlook.) Yet, curiously enough, Aristotle was modern enough to pass muster. And, even more curious, Plato and Socrates were naturalistic too, as was their whole milieu. This contention makes the line between history and propaganda too fine. Suppose it true-is there not a lot of ground to go over again? Suppose i t false-is i t a pleasing prospect to think of young scientists taking it for granted?

In I’haedo 97b-99b the thought concerns the ways in which we think of things happening. There is a contrast drawn between purpose, or final cause, and physical causes. The cause is distinguished from the condition without which the cause would never be the cause. The demand is made to distinguish “between the cause of a thing and that without which the cause would not be a cause” (10.p.127.99b). There is no basis here for Kantor’s saying that Socrates is formulating a psychology. The claim that we can see any such thing is unfounded.

I cite again from Kantor: The psychology which Socrates formulates here and rejects is nothing less

than an anticipation of the physiological hypothesis of twentieth century

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behaviorism. Naturally, Socrates is ignorant of modern physiology and biology, and shows, along with a superficial though significant appreciation of muscles, bones, ligaments, and other factors in a reaction, no inkling of the neural factors which twentieth century behaviorists feature. And yet his statements reveal a most striking appreciation of psychological issues. Furthermore, Socrates’ rejection of the behavioristic view implies attitudes that are valid today. He insists that the main point has been left out. Most remarkable is Socrates’ assertion that while the physiological factors he mentions participate in behavior and are essential for its occurrence, they do not cause or account for the behavior.

In terms of recent psychology Socrates demanded a motivational description, a description which includes relevant factors of human circumstances. Moral ideals, the properties of political circumstances, are what caused him to remain in Athens to undergo death, and not the equipment of muscles, ligaments, and bones. Much as modern psychology is out of sympathy with such moral and political factors of behavior, they belong to the age of Socrates as facilitating and inhibiting variables which influence behavior. The psychology of Socrates does not even hint at anything outside the range of objective and naturalistic facts. Dispositions, ideals, prejudices can all be included within the general domain of behavior precisely as we include potential and actual reactions among the behavior of chemical compounds.

The ‘physiological hypothesis of twentieth century behaviourism’ is the classical dogmatic behaviourism of J. B. Watson, dating, let us say, around 1912. It never really posed a psychological issue, properly speaking, for it is the hypothesis which reduces mind to matter, the hypothesis of reductive materialism. This is really metaphysics, not psychology. In formulating and rejecting it, Socrates cannot be said to show “a most striking appreciation of psychological issues.” It would be more correct to say that he is on philosophic ground, and that he does not leave it. To understand him otherwise is to read metaphysical materialism into the source, and to confuse it with psychology. In any case, for Socrates to have shown such appreciation, there would need to have been developed psychological doctrines such as we are familiar with in our own times. The discernment of “psychological issues” is only a possibility in the milieu of familiarity with such developments in psychology. This is supported by one of the main findings of the deep investigation behind Burnet’s British Academy lecture viz. that no such developed psychological doctrine can be attributed to the milieu in which Socrates lived and thought.

What attitudes “that are valid today” are implied by “Socrates” rejection of the behaviouristic view”? By insisting “that the main point has been left out,” he is in line with a main point-if it was not the main point-made in criticism of Watsonian behaviourism. This disestablishes him as a metaphysical materialist. It also disqualifies him as one sort of naturalist. For metaphysical materialism understood as a perspective in positivistic, mechanistical lines is one definite form of naturalism. Cause and effect as they obtain in chemistry and physics are thereby regarded as sufficient to account for everything, quite independently of any appeal to purposiveness. Now, if Socrates rejected anything like this, which qualifies as a


main type of naturalism, how can the source be taken to support a clearly discern- ible naturalistic psychology? Kantor agrees that the source does not support this. Neither it can. It would be a gross anachronism to find it there. This criticism sharpens up the more general question about what he means by naturalism.

In agreeing with Socrates insistence that the main point has been left out, then, Kantor is opposing dogmatic materialism, but fighting shy of transcendent references in general philosophy and of mentalistic references in psychology. He is pursuing a vaguely humanistic line philosophically, and a “study of behaviour” line in psychology, i.e. a general biological line.

He aligns the alleged naturalistic, Socratic psychology with recent psychology in terms of “a description of relevant factors in human circumstances.” “The properties of political circumstances,” he writes, “caused him (i.e. Socrates) to remain in Athens to undergo death.” But this is not convincing. Socrates did not lay his body down in the Athenian cell as a result of reflecting about mere expediency. Even a detailed, subtle historical argument to that effect would find it most difficult to produce conviction. It is true that he also writes that “moral ideals” made him do it, but “moral ideals,” with which we today may have little sympathy, were “moral factors of behaviour” in the milieu to which Socrates belonged. At this point, unhappily, there is a shift from the perspective provided by the Phaedo- which is on Socrates in his death-cell- to a perspective remote from that altogether viz. on Socrates’ dying being facilitated by moral factors and political expediency. Here there is a breakdown of some sort-could it have anything to do with what a historian does with his source? “Moral ideals” and “moral factors” are, of course, different things altogether. I determine what “moral factors” are to be. “Moral ideals,” through my responsiveness or refusal, determine what I am to be. At such a point, vague humanism may crack, showing confusion, especially if it depre cates materialism in one of its prime forms, and also especially if it clearly discerns a naturalistic psychology, while eschewing a main type of naturalism.

At this point, we come to a statement startling in its suddenness and in its naivety. “The psychology of Socrates does not even hint at anything outside the range of objective and naturalistic facts.” The impression this makes is that Kantor’s attitude is determined by an adhesion to a temper or mood rather than to any line of thought. This temper is itself formed as the resultant of denying other quite definite lines of thought, such as, for instance, dualism, transcendence or what not. This is not, however, enough to constitute a standpoint for a critical historian. Indeed, if one were not warned off “anything outside the range of objective aiid naturalistic facts,” one would be sorely tempted to call it “a state of mind.” It does not provide a basis from which a source could be reinterpreted, for that process implies a reasoned view which displaces the one it reinterprets. It is insufficient in the historian himself face to face with his source, trying to understand it. Against Aristotle’s biological and psychological writings such difficulties are not nearly so evident. Against Plato’s writings and his presentation of Socrates they stand out in glaring, challenging ways. Socrates does so much more than hint at so much beyond the range of objective and naturalistic facts that the main difficulty is to explain it away. It certainly cannot be affirmed away. But that is exactly what Kantor is here attempting tddo.

The concluding statement to the effect that features of personal agents and

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reactions among material things can all be comprised under ‘behaviour’ is, in its context, far too summary to be intelligible. On the face of it, it ought to imply definite materialism. This we have seen, it cannot do, since Kantor wants to reject the reductive materialism of extreme behaviourism. So that is out. To understand it, we have to realise that it brings us face to face with the hypothesis that history is to be understood in terms of the functional relationships of definite, describable variables. As Kantor so easily puts it : “It is obvious that the interpretations of the sayings and the thinking of historical personages is a function of the interpreter, and the intellectual environment in which he lives” (ll.pp.95-6). There is the source, the opinion it expresses, whether set or modifiable, the agent responsible for producing it, the “milieu” or “environment.” Aristotle, for instance, at say 1078b. 19-13, supplies a source about Socrates. It constitutes an interpretation and, as such involves both agent and opinions. It relates to a given environment, viz. at time c.428-350 B.C. when within determinate spatial boundaries there was a cultural “radiation” from a Mediterranean base labelled by us as “classical Greece” or some such name. The thesis is that the source is the function of the combination or resultant of interpretation and environment. Now, “function” has two main senses. The first is physiological. The liver secretes bile, so bile is a function of that organ. If a source presents an opinion which is sheer prejudice, it might perhaps be spoken of as a function of certain ingredients in the environment well-known to be related to the agent responsible for it. This would be quite interesting, if some- what quaint, but it would not help an historian to understand his sources. The second, more important sense of “function” is mathematical. In this sense, the source, and that of which it is a function, vary constantly together. That is their relationship in terms of which they can be understood. This is perhaps more promising for understanding Kantor’s statement : “Dispositions, ideals, prejudices can all be included within the general domain of behaviour precisely as we include potential and actual reactions among the behaviour of chemical compounds.’) No doubt one’s source may advance such an account of “behaviour.” Dispositions and ideals would then vary together with behaviour in a given milieu. Very good; but how would this lead to any understanding of people, except on a very superficial level? And does not the very employment of this quasi-mathematical model involve the reference to an agent who is not a “factor,” and who has “ideals” which are also not “factors”? “Oh,” one says, “we control that elusive jack-in-the-box by regarding him as a constant !)’ I can see that as long as we stick to purely quanti- tative relations this makes sense in terms of control. But as soon as relations become qualitative, and increasingly as they become more qualitative, I am little impressed. Functional relationship is then on a statistical basis. And it is no help that the expert statistician is usually such a poor interpreter, unless he is talking nothing but statistics. I am not impressed. And on top of all this, along comes another interpreter-or reinterpreter-for this source, who may say : “Look here- personal agents and reactions among material things don’t come under any general domain of behaviour.” In fact, I would not be a t all surprised if he were called “Socrates.”

Phaedo 97b.ff. does not appear to contain a “psychology of Socrates.” In it, something is being rejected in connection with the name of Anaxagoras. It appears to be something sufficiently non-naturalistic, however naturalism is viewed, to

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make it a t all likely that it presents a “naturalistic psychology,” as Iiantor avers it does. What Socrates is advancing is a spiritualistic philosophy involving re- sponsibility for a divine soul. Kantor’s treatment of this source-“the most important single passage in the whole literature of Western philosophy” (3.11.) is therefore, historically inept and quite wide of the mark he intends hitting. In such a c a w s primus belli, he could scarcely expect to get away with it.

REFERENCES A N D BIBLIOGRAPHY I . ARISTOTLE: Metaphysics. ed. W. I). Ross, Oxford, 1924. 2. 3. 4. B.\YLE, PIERRE: Dictionnaire historiquc et critique 1697. -5. BUI~NET, J.: Eaily Greek Philosophy. 3rd edition, 1920. 6. BURKET, J.: Essays & Addresses. Chatto &‘ Windus, 1929. 7. Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 4. Cambridge, 1926. 8. I)ESC.\RTES: Philosophical Wrilings, selected and translated by Norman Kemp Smith. Mac-

!).

Australasian Journal of Philosophy, Vol. 44, August, 1966. No. 2. BAILLIE, J O H N : Natural Science and the Spirztual Life. Charles Scribner & Sons, New York, 19.52.

rnillari. London, 1952. DIELS: Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. Weidmarinsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 195‘2.

10. HACKFORTH, 1( .: Pluto’s Phaedo. Translated with Introdiiction and Commentary. Cambridge, 19.5.5.

11. K.ZNTOR, J. I t . : 2’heScienti’c Evohtion of Psychology, Vol. 1 . The Principia Press Inc. Chicago, 1965.

12. 13. 14.

KI~IKOVIAN, Y. H. (Ed.): Naturalism and the Human Spirit. Columbia. N. Y., 1944 PIATO: Meno. Oxford Classical Text Vol. 3, ed. John Burnet, 1946. PI,\TO: Phaedo. Oxford Classical Text Yol. 1, ed. John Burnet, 1899.

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Socrates and the history of psychology