The Discipline of History and the History of Thought

M.C. Lemon

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2002
• eBook ISBN: 9781134805457
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World History
• Index: History

Although much has been written of the nature of history and its disciplinary problems, less attention has been paid to the history of thought. M.C. Lemon's rigorously philosophical work first re-asserts the discipline of history in general as narrative based, before pursuing the methodological implications for the history of thought. This original work of scholarship will raise the level of argument in philosophy of history and provoke debate among historians, philosophers, and political theorists.

1
WHAT IS HISTORY?

THE DIVERSITY OF HISTORY

When we think of the term ‘history’ we recognise it with an easy familiarity and are likely to be impressed rather than bewildered by the massive variety of subject-matter it encompasses. Its immense scope does not discourage us from nevertheless regarding it as a distinct, singular subject, and in this respect it is similar to ‘literature’ and ‘science’. Unlike subjects such as music and theology which seem intrinsically well-defined in scope, ‘history’, ‘literature’, and ‘science’ are still easily recognised as distinct subjects despite the diverse abundance of topics and approaches they respectively embrace. This is a statement of fact, of course, not a philosophical point—and yet we might take encouragement from a possible perception it offers; namely, that despite the huge difficulties philosophy encounters in trying to extract the ‘essence’ of history as a discipline from the vast field of historical studies, the common wisdom of language, at least, promises that such efforts can be rewarded.

What, on the face of it, are these difficulties? If we ask what the subject-matter of history is we can begin by suggesting the layman will often respond by saying countries are the subject of history—‘history’ is about the history of, for example, England, France, or Japan. And what he is likely to mean by a country’s history is primarily its political history; for instance, which monarch was in power, what problems beset his reign, what wars he fought, who succeeded, and how—and in more modern times, what constitutional changes occurred, which parties gained power, and why they were ousted. In recounting such a political history it is clearly necessary to refer to religion, trade, warfare; maybe even to science and the arts, depending upon the particular problems and influences relevant to a given period. Yet these other subjects are not central. They crop up as factors influencing what is essential, namely, the political history of a country. In this ‘mainline’ version of what history is, politics assumes its Aristotelian role of ‘the master science’; the ‘history’ of a country is equated with its political history.

Whatever we might say about this view of history as a subject, maybe to discard it as the ‘unscientific’ popular conception or to locate it as an illusion of merely liberal historiography, it nevertheless implies certain distinctions which introduce us to some of the difficulties in ‘pinning down’ its subject-matter. Firstly it suggests the history of a country should be looked at through political lenses, so to speak. It would seem absurd to look at the history of a country through, for instance, artistic, scientific, or even religious lenses. More generously, others might say we should trace a country’s history through political, economic, and maybe even ‘social’ lenses—but they would still discount tracing it through, for example, its music, philosophy, or technology. What, however, is not discounted is the notion of looking at, for instance, the history of art or philosophy in a country, or even such histories outside national limits. Such histories, then, do not have ‘a country’ as their subject-matter (and survey it through political or economic lenses). They have art, science, philosophy, or religion as their subject-matter and appear to need no separate ‘lens’ with which to survey them. At most, just as ‘mainline’ political history might need as the occasion arises to pay attention to religious topics, so might the historian of art, for example, need to pay attention to political matters.

This gives rise to a second suggestion which points to added difficulties in ‘pinning down’ what history is, for if we can distinguish between ‘mainline’ history construed as the political history of a country and ‘sideline’ history construed as, for instance, the history of art in a country, then why should we not conceive of the history of politics in a country, and hold that distinct from the political history of a country? In other words, for example, would not the political history of France differ from the history of politics in France? Further, why should we not conceive of a history of politics released from national boundaries, and what would be the relation between such a history and national histories looked at ‘through political lenses’? In the former case politics is the subject matter of the history, whereas in the latter case ‘the country’ is the subject-matter (dealt with in political terms), and it is clear the two histories would differ because of their differing subject-matters.

In short, then, histories differ to the extent their subject-matters differ. History has to be the history of something, and what that thing is must, at least in part, determine the approach of the historian. If an art historian, he will be writing about art and must needs know a considerable amount about it; likewise, respectively, with the history of religion, science, philosophy, and architecture. If a ‘mainline’ historian he presumably needs to know about, although perhaps not master, many different subjects. Are, then, the demands made upon the historian’s approach to his subject-matter from that subject-matter so diverse (either as specialised, or as jack-of-all-trades) as to persuade us there simply is no such thing as ‘history’ understood as a unitary, common discipline?

Let us not underestimate the issue. In terms of subject-matter we talk of ‘mainline’ history, often of a country, or of certain topics such as the history of the Peloponnesian Wars, the French Revolution, British imperialism, or Arab nationalism. Distinct from such mainline history we talk of economic history, social history, international history, the history of thought, art, and leisure; and there seems nothing intrinsically wrong with the history of winemaking, or of aviation, for example. There is even the history of history, of course—namely, historiography. Given their respective subject-matters, what does the historian of the Irish language do that is the same as the historian of the First World War, and what do they both do that is the same as the historian of Roman architecture? What this amounts to is to ask again, in a highlighted way, what it is that ‘the historian’ does to identify him as an historian rather than as, for instance, an expert on the Peloponnesian Wars, the Irish language, or Roman architecture. His discipline, if it exists at all, seems impervious to its subject-matter to an extent that all other disciplines, with the exception of ‘science’ and ‘philosophy’, cannot afford. Yet conventionally, if not logically, neither science nor philosophy, nor, indeed, history, are totally impervious to their subject-matters. Conventionally we do not write a history of the functioning of the human kidney—neither do we philosophise about it; but it provides rich material for the scientist. Conventionally we do not write a history of the nature of aesthetic consciousness, nor do we expect scientists to; but it is rich material for the philosopher. Just so, we do not expect scientists to write about the downfall of the Roman Republic, nor philosophers; but it is rich material for the historian.

So despite its enormous diversity of subject-matter, far beyond that of most other disciplines, it would seem that what the historian does is related to his subject-matter. What is this relationship? What determines what the historian does not study and write about? Is it that, in being an historian, certain subjects are closed to him? Or is it that certain subjects are simply unapproachable through history? Or do both questions come to the same thing? Whichever the case, what insight does it give us into the nature of history as a discipline?

THE HISTORIAN AND ‘THE PAST’

The simplest and agreeably uncontroversial answer to the questions just posed regarding the relationship between the subject-matter of history and what it is the historian does with it revolves around the observation that the historian deals with the past.¹ In theory ‘the past’ encompasses any and every thing, and this accounts for the potentially overwhelming diversity of subject-matter for the historian. That political history may be more important, interesting, or instructive than, for instance, the history of wine-making, does not essentially affect the status of wine-making as a legitimate subject-matter since it ‘has a past’, and that is all which is required to render a subject-matter suitable for historians’ attention. Ultimately the choice of subject-matter is a contingent matter, so long as it is located in the past. At any one point in time the practical concerns of a society, its current intellectual traditions, prevailing political ideologies, existing and developing stock of investigative techniques, and the particular, unpredictable interests of historians themselves—all are factors determining what subjects historians study and write about. The integrity of history as a discipline does not depend, then, on what the historian chooses from the past as an object of his attention; its integrity is assured, whatever his topic, so long as it belongs to the past.

Platitudinous as this answer might be, it does convey some truth. What seems implied by insisting history is essentially concerned with the past is that, in dealing with matters not present to us and which we therefore cannot know of ‘immediately’, we require some different approach, some method of knowing distinct from that by which we know things present to us—and the further implication is that the discipline of history is defined essentially in terms of this special problem regarding acquiring knowledge of the past. It is hardly necessary to engage in complex philosophical arguments regarding the nature of knowledge to identify what this special problem amounts to; an event or situation which is past is beyond our present experience and we can hence only be aware of it at second-hand, so to speak. What this means is that we regard some things which we can experience here and now as evidence of past things of which we cannot be immediately aware—and the essential technique here is that of inference. For example, we infer from these foundations uncovered by the archaeologist, along with objects found in the site, that there used to be a fortress, church, or market on this spot. The stones and other objects immediately present to us are seen as evidence from which we infer past circumstances no longer present to us. Similarly, we infer from this 1860s Irish Fenian newspaper present to us in the archives that, given the balance of its material, the movement’s leaders regarded such-and-such as their principal enemies, and were relatively unconcerned with such-and-such a potential ally. We say this is an inference because the newspaper does not directly state these things. And even if it did, we would still be wise to ask whether we believe it—that is, we would again be involved in inferring something; in this case, the sincerity of the paper’s statements.

Inferences do of course differ in strength. From seeing smoke pouring out of a revolver barrel I infer it has just been fired, and am unlikely to be wrong. But I could be, as must be the case with any inference. Or from finding a piece of pottery I infer there used to be trade between this and that town—a much more speculative inference but no different in principle from the former. Inferences also vary in their credibility by virtue of the number of independent factors supporting them. For example, I search the room and find a warm corpse, a spent cartridge, and a blackmail note. By now, not only will my initial inference from seeing the smoking barrel have been strengthened, I will be inferring other matters such that I build up a ‘theory’ or hypothesis that a murder has recently been committed. This hypothesis is itself an inference derived from my present awareness of numerous objects and circumstances and from crosschecking separate inferences one with another both to test their individual strength and to test the validity of the overall inference that a murder has just been committed. Eventually I might reach the stage of feeling able to say that a murder was committed, that it was done in such-and-such a way, so-and-so were involved, with such-and-such motives, and that there is no other feasible inference from all the evidence. Short of having been privy to the events myself, or having a film of them, or of having and believing a detailed confession, I can go no further than inference, however full and compelling it may be.

What I did with respect to the smoking gun-barrel I can do with the piece of pottery, perhaps to achieve an (inferred) picture of some medieval trading pattern; or I can do the same with the copy of the Fenian newspaper, perhaps to achieve an (inferred) account of the movement’s political strategy. In short, I can describe past situations, recount past events, explain past intentions, by regarding things present to me as evidence from which to infer the past. Whatever else might be said about inference —for example, that different individuals can infer different things from the same present evidence; that to make an inference is to apply some often unstated ‘theory’ about reality; that two or more inferences can go to make up another inference—it seems the method of inferring knowledge is essential to the historian insofar as his subject-matter is located in the past, out of his immediate experience. The philosopher does not essentially view Plato’s Republic as evidence from which to infer things about the past. He deals with it as an amalgam of arguments whose cogency it is his business to estimate. The historian, however, views Plato’s Republic as evidence from which to infer—what? It depends on the nature of the evidence, combined with the historian’s background knowledge and interests. For example, had Plato changed his mind about certain matters? Why did he? Whom was he attacking? What events, if any, influenced his thinking? What interests, if any, was he trying to promote? To what present accounts of classical Athenian life and culture do these inferences add credibility?

As with the philosopher, we might say something similar of the scientist. Unlike the historian he is not essentially viewing present phenomena as evidence from which to infer knowledge of an otherwise unknown past. Rather, he examines present phenomena to discover how reality is structured and what ‘laws’ govern its manifold operations. It is true that, like the historian, the scientist is trying to discover things unknown, not immediately present to him, but they are not unknown in virtue of being in the past. They are unknown because they are general principles underlying the present. Hence we say the scientist induces and deduces his knowledge, whereas the historian infers his. For example, confronted by the Great Pyramid, the scientist would like to deduce the laws of mechanics its structure exemplifies; or deduce something about the rate of erosion of limestone. The historian, on the other hand, will wish to infer knowledge of, for instance, who built it and why.

It would seem, then, that because the historian’s subject-matter is, for all its variety, located in the past, this is in itself sufficient to identify him as being essentially involved in a specific approach to his present material —namely, that he view it as evidence, from which he infers knowledge of past circumstances. It seems essential, for how else can he approach knowledge of the past which supersedes mere hearsay and allows him to judge how far to believe others’ accounts? And it seems particular since neither the philosopher nor the scientist takes that approach to their present material. If valid, this claim gives insight into the interplay between the form and the content (between the approach and the subject-matter), of the discipline of history. Because his subject-matter is in the past, the historian approaches knowledge of it through inference. Alternatively, neither the philosopher nor the scientist are essentially involved in inferring knowledge, because their subject-matter’s inaccessibility is nothing to do with its being in the past.

If at least this much can be derived from the convention that the historian deals specifically with ‘the past’, one further implication seems to proffer itself, albeit somewhat dimly. The historian seems limited, through his essentially inferential approach, to giving an account of his topic through the commonly accepted ways in which it is ordinarily understood. For example, if I notice egg on my colleague’s beard, I infer he had an egg for breakfast; further, I may speculate as to whether he was in a hurry to get to work or whether his wife does not pay attention to his well-being. If sufficiently interested in either of these speculations prompted by my initial inference, I can seek other evidence with which to pursue their accuracy. The point is that, through inferring things about my colleague from his present appearance, I am not led to philosophise about the nature of man, nor his eating habits; neither am I led to investigate the glutinous qualities of eggs on beards. Rather, I am led into a world which is recognisably ‘ordinary’, requiring no special concepts of description or explanation other than those commonly appropriate to the subject-matter. If, then, I infer from certain stone foundations and objects that there used to be a fort on this site, the direction of my further investigations will be captive to the ordinarily understood matters pertaining to forts—for example, how many soldiers were stationed there, of which army, and what the fort’s military purpose was. The same would apply to inferences from diplomatic notes and trade balance sheets; we would infer events and circumstances consistent with the ‘language’ of these different contexts (international politics, economic history), rather than conceptualise the knowledge of the past in some scientific, philosophical, or otherwise technical language brought from outside the manner in which the topic is immediately recognised.²

To put the matter more formally: if one’s initial awareness is of egg on a colleague’s beard, what one goes on to infer from this perception must relate to that initial conceptual context. I see egg on my colleague’s beard, not a mess of chemicals adhering to an uneven surface; I see a note threatening war if the deadline is not met, not an exemplification of the moral problems posed by warfare.

It is along these lines, then, that we can bring to light this less obvious, albeit important implication of the historian’s subject-matter’s being in the past—important, because if his essential involvement in the technique of inference gives us insight into what is special regarding the historian’s method of discovering knowledge (and the necessarily provisional nature of that knowledge), this further implication gives us insight into how he discusses this knowledge, how he presents it, what kinds of question he pursues, and, possibly, what kinds of explanation are available to him. To the extent he seems already entrapped into certain lines of thought by his initial understanding of a present phenomenon as evidence for a past which can be inferred, the historian lends a certain kind of awareness to his subject-matter. It is not a philosophical awareness, nor a scientific one, even where he is presenting a history of philosophy or of science. To investigate present evidence with a view to discovering, for example, what prompted Pasteur in his famous scientific researches, what existing scientific theory was available to him, in what areas he was innovative, and whom he had to argue against, is not to engage in scientific enquiry. On the other hand, to investigate whether the conclusions he arrived at regarding the nature of bacteria are valid is to engage in scientific enquiry. The question cannot be answered through inference. And it is along the same lines that we can draw the distinction between doing philosophy and offering a history of it. The philosopher cannot infer from evidence how adequate Hegel’s concept of Mind is—on the other side of the coin the historian cannot deduce from Hegel’s concept of Mind, as it stands, how Hegel came to have that concept, nor whose writing had influenced his thinking.

THE APPROACH OF THE HISTORIAN

To the extent the preceding arguments are correct, it does seem at least that some things helpful towards distinguishing history as a discipline can be derived from the conventional truth that the historian deals with subjects (however varied) in the past. He does not approach his topic either scientifically or philosophically, and we can assert this as both an empirical observation (in the main), and as a conceptual possibility, in the sense that it is possible to conceive of an approach to a topic which is neither philosophical nor scientific, and such a possibility has just been outlined, albeit not exhaustively. However it would be going too far to leave the matte...

Table of contents

• COVER PAGE
• TITLE PAGE
• COPYRIGHT PAGE
• PREFACE
• INTRODUCTION
• 1 WHAT IS HISTORY?
• 2 THE STRUCTURE OF NARRATIVE
• 3 THE PRACTISING HISTORIAN
• 4 HISTORY AND THEORY
• 5 THE POSSIBILITY OF THE HISTORY OF THOUGHT
• NOTES AND REFERENCES
• BIBLIOGRAPHY