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FROM

PREVIOUS WORKS

H'Vr// REMAKh'S ON MR. G. A ROMANES' ''MENTAL
EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS"

AND

A PSALM OF MONTREAL

SAMUEL BUTLER

" Tho course of true sclonco, like that of true love, never did run smooth."
PuoFKSsoR TvNDALL, Pall Mall Oazette, Oct. 30, 1883.

(Op. 7)

LONDON
TRUBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL

1884

[All rigJUs reserved]

'SiXitaasnt 'Prt00

BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO,
EDINBURGH AND LONDON

PREFACE.

T DELAYED these pages some weeks in order to give
Mr. Eomanes an opportunity of explaining his
statement that Canon Kingsley wrote about instinct
and inherited memory in Nature, Jan. i8, 1867.* I
wrote to the Atlienceum (Jan. 26, 1884) and pointed
out that Nature did not begin to appear till nearly
three years after the date given by Mr. Eomanes, and
that there was nothing from Canon Kingsley on the
subject of instinct and inherited memory in any number
of Nature up to the date of Canon Kingsley's death.
I also asked for the correct reference.

This Mr. Eomanes has not thought it incumbent
upon him to give. I am told I ought not to have ex-
pected him to give it, inasmuch as it is no longer usual
for men of any but the lowest scientific standing to
correct their misstatements when they are brought to
book. Science is made for Fellows of the Eoyal Society,
and for no one else, not Fellows of the Eoyal Society
for science ; and if the having achieved a certain position
should still involve being obliged to be as scrupulous
and accurate as other people, what is the good of the
position ? This view of the matter is practical, but I

* See page 234 of this book.

PREFACE.

regret that Mr. Eomanes should have taken it, for his
having done so has prevented my being able to tell the
reader what Canon Kingsley said about memory and
instinct, and this he might have been glad to know.

I suspect, however, that what Canon Kingsley said
was after all not very important. If it had been, Mr.
Eomanes would have probably told us what it was
in his own book. I should think it possible that Mr.
Romanes — not finding Canon Kingsley's words impor-
tant enough to be quoted, or even referred to correctly,
or never having seen them himself and not knowing
exactly what they were, yet being anxious to give
every one, and more particularly Canon Kingsley, his
due — felt that this was an occasion on which he
might fairly take advantage of his position and say at
large whatever he was in the humour for sayiDg at
the moment.

I should not have thought this possible if I had not
ere now had reason to set Mr. Romanes down as one
who was not likely to be squeamish about trifles.
Nevertheless, on this present occasion I certainly did
think that he had only made a slip such as we all
make sometimes, and such as he would gladly take
the earliest opportunity to correct. As it is, I do not
know what to think, except that D.C.L.'s and F.RS.'s
seem to be made of much the same frail materials as
we ordinary mortals are.

As regards the extracts from my previous books
given in this volume, I should say that I have revised
and corrected the original text throughout, and intro-

PREFACE.

duced a sentence or two here and there, but have no-
where made any important alteration. I regret greatly
that lant of space has prevented me from being able
to give the chapters from Life and Habit on " The
Abeyance of Memory," and " What we should expect
to find if Differentiations of Structure and Instinct are
mainly due to Memory ; " it is in these chapters that an
explanation of many phenomena is given, of which, so
far as I know, no explanation of any kind had been
previously attempted, and in which phenomena having
apparently so little connection as the sterility of hybrids,
the principle underlying longevity, the resumption of
feral characteristics, the sterility of many animals under
confinement, are not only made intelligible but are
shown to be all part and parcel of the same story —
all being explicable as soon as Memory is made the
main factor of heredity.

Feb. i6, 1884.

« ♦

CONTENTS.

PACK

Selections from Erewhon —

Current Opinions

An Erewhonian Trial ....

Malcontents

The Musical Banks

Birth FormulsB . . .

The "World of the Unborn

From the Fair Haven. —

Chapter I. of the Memoir of the late John Pickard

Owen 48

Selections from Life and Habit —

On certain Acquired Habits 68

Conscious and Unconscious Knowers — The Law and

Grace 74

Application of foregoing Chapters to certain Habits
acquired after Birth which are commonly con-
sidered Instinctive 91

Personal Identity 105

Instinct or Inherited Memorv 116

Concluding Remarks T25

Selections from Evolution, Old and New —

Impotence of Paley's Conclusion — The Teleology of

the Evolutionist 131

Failure of the first Evolutionists to see their Position

as Teleological 138

The Teleological Evolution of Organism . . . 146

1 1

viii CONTENTS.

PAOR

Buffon — Memoir . . . . . . . i6o

Buflfon'a Method — The Ironical Character of hia

Work 164

Selections from Unconscious Memory —

Recapitulation and Statement of an Objection . 181

On Cycles . 193

Refutaiion — Memory at once a Promoter and Dis-
turber of Uniformity of Action and Structure . 199
Conclusion 212

Remarks on Romanes' Mental Evolution in Animals —

The same continued

The same concluded 243

Selections from Alps and Sanctuaries —

Dalpe, Prato, Rossura, Calonico , . . . 262

Piora 275

S. Michele and Mt. Pirchiriano .... 282

Considerations on the Decline of Italian Art . . 290

Sanctuaries of Oropa and Graglia .... 304

A Psalm of Montreal 324

r >

i ,

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON;

CURRENT OPINIONS.

(chapter X. OF EREWHON.)

THIS is what I gathered. That in that country if a
man falls into ill health, or catches any disorder,
or fails bodily in any way before he is seventy years
old, he is tried before a jury of his countrymen, and
if convicted is held up to public scorn and sentenced
more or less severely as the case may be. There are
subdivisions of illnesses into crimes and misdemean-
ours as with offences amongst ourselves — a man being
punished very heavily for serious illness, while failure
of eyes or hearing in one over sixty-five who has had
good health hitherto is dealt with by fine only, or im-
prisonment in default of payment.

But if a man forges a cheque, sets his house on fire,
robs with violence from the person, or does any other
such things as are criminal in our own country, he is
either taken to a hospital and most carefully tended at
the public expense, or if h« is in good circumstances,
he lets it be known to all his friends that he is suffering
from a severe fit of immorality, just as we do when we
are ill, and they come and visit him with great solici-
tude, and inquire with interest how it all came about,

* The first edition of Erewhon was published in the spring of 1872.

ii!

. 1 1 i

^,1

I f

2 SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

what symptoms first showed themselves, and so forth,
— questions which he will answer with perfect unre-
serve; for bad conduct, though considered no less deplor-
able than illness with ourselves, and as unquestionably
indicating something wrong with the individual who
misbehaves, is nevertheless held to be the result of
either pre-natal or post-natal misfortune. I should
add that under certain circumstances poverty and iU
luck are also considered criminal.

Accordingly, there exists a class of men trained in
soul-craft, whojn they call straighteners, as nearly as I
can translate a word which literally means " one who
bendeth back the crooked." These men practise much
as medical men in England, and receive a quasi-
surreptitious fee on every visit. They are treated with
the same unreserve and obeyed just as readily as our
own doctors — that is to say, on the whole sufficiently
— because people know that it is their interest to get
well as soon as they can, and that they will not 'be
scouted as they would be if their bodies v/ere out of
order, even though they may have to undergo a very
painful course of treatment.

When I say that they will not be scouted, I do not
mean that an Erewhonian offender will suffer no social
inconvenience. Friends will fall away from him
because of his being less pleasant company, just as we
ourselves are disclined to make companions of those
who are either poor or poorly. No one with a due
sense of self-respect will place himself on an equality
in the matter of affection with those who are less lucky
than himself in birth, health, money, good looks,
capacity, or anything else. Indeed, that dislike and
even disgust sliould be felt by the fortunate for the
unfortunate, or at any rate for those who have been

CURRENT OPINIONS.

lergo a very

discovered to have met with any of the more serious
and less familiar misfortunes, is not only natural, but
desirable for any society, whether of man or brute ;
what progress either of body or soul had been other-
wise possible ? The fact therefore that the Erewhonians
attach none of that guilt to crime which they do to
physical ailments, does not prevent the more selfish
among them from neglecting a friend who has robbed
a bank, for instance, till he has fully recovered ; but
it does prevent them from even thinking of treat-
ing criminals with that contemptuous tone which
would seem to say, " I, if I were you, should be a
better man than you are," a tone which is held quite
reasonable in regard to physical ailment.

Hence, though they conceal ill health by every kind
of cunning, they are quite open about even the most
flagrant mental diseases, should they happen t:; exist,
which to do the people justice is not often. Indeed,
there are some who, so to speak, are spiritual valetudi-
narians, and who make themselves exceedingly ridicu-
lous by their nervous supposition that they are wicked,
while they are very tolerable people all the time.
This however is exceptional ; and on the whole they
use much the same reserve or unreserve about the state
of their moral welfare as we do about our health.

It has followed that all the ordinary greetings
among ourselves, such as, How do you do ? and the
like, are considered signs of gross ill-breeding; nor
do the politer classes tolerate even such a common
complimentary remark as telling a man that he was
looking well. They salute each other with, " I hope
you arc good this morning ; " or " I hope you have
recovered from the snappishness from which you were
suffering when I last saw you;" and if the perjiou

i ■

I'f

4 SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

saluted has not been good, or is still snappish, he
says so, and is condoled with accordingly. Nay, the
straighteners have gone so far as to give names from
the hypothetical language (as taught at the Colleges of
Unreason) to all known forms of mental indisposition,
and have classified them according to a system of
their own, which, though I could not understand it,
seemed to work well in practice, for they are always
able to tell a man what is the mattei with him as
soon as they have heard his story, and their familiarity
with the long names assures him that they thoroughly
understand his case.

• •••••

We in England rarely shrink from telling our doctor
what is the matter with us merely through the fear
that he will hurt us. We let him do his worst upon
us, and stand it without a murmur, becauoo we are
not scouted for being ill, and because we know the
doctor is doing his best to cure us, and can judge of
our case better than we can ; but we should conceal
all illness if we were treated as the Erewbonians are
when thTy have anything the matter with them ; we
should do as we do with our moral and intellectual
diseases, — we should feign health with the most con-
summate art, till we were found out, and should hate
a single flogging given by way of mere punishment
more than the amputation of a limb, if it were kindly
and courteously performed from a wish to help us out
of our difficulty, and with the full consciousness on
the part of the doctor that it was only by an accident
of constitution that he was not in the like plight him-
self. So the Erewhonians take a Hogging once a week,
and a diet of bread and water for two or three months
together, whenever their straightener recommends it.

CURRENT OPINIONS.

I do not suppose that even my host, on having
swindled a confiding widow out of the whole of her
property, was put to more actual suffering than a man
will readily undergo at the hands of an English doctor.
And yet he must have had a very bad time of it.
The sounds I heard were sufficient to show that his
pain was exquisite, but he never shrank from under-
going it. He was quite sure that it did him good ;
and I think he was right. I cannot believe that that
man will ever embezzle money again. He may — but
it will be a long time before he does so.

During my confinement in prison, and on my journey,
I had discovered much of the above ; but it still seemed
new and strange, and I was in constant fear of com-
mitting some rudeness from my inability to look at
things from the same stand-point as my neighbours ;
but f'iter a few weeks' stay with the Nosnibors I got
to understand things better, especially on having heard
all about my host's illness, of which he told me fully
and repeatedly.

It seemed he had been on the Stock Exchange of
the city for many years and had amassed enormous
wealth, without exceeding the limits of what was
generally considered justifiable or at any rate per-
missible dealing ; but at length on several occasions
he had become aware of a desire to make money by
fraudulent representations, and had actually dealt with
two or three sums in a way which had made him
rather uncomfortable. He had unfortunr *-ely made
light of it and pooh-poohed the ailment, until circum-
stances eventually presented themselves which enabled
him to cheat upon a very considerable scale ; — he told
me what they were, and they were about as bad as
anything could be, but I need not detail them ; — he

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

t i

seized the opportunity, and became aware when it was
too late that he must be seriously out of order. He
had neglected himself too long.

He drove home at once, broke the news to his wife
and daughters as gently as he could, and sent off for
one of the most celebrated straighteners of the king-
dom to a consultation with the family practitioner, for
the case was plainly serious. On the arrival of the
straightener he told his story, and expressed his fear
that his morals must be permanently impaired.

The eminent man reassured him with a few cheer-
ing words, and then proceeded to make a more care-
ful diagnosis of the case. He inquired concerning
Mr. Nosnibor's parents — had their moral health been
good ? He was answered that there had not been any-
thing seriously amiss with them, but that his maternal
grandfather, whom he was supposed to resemble some-
what in person, had been a consummate scoundrel and
had ended his days in a hobpital, — while a brother
of his father's, after having led a most flagitious life
for many years, had been at last cured by a philo-
sopher of a new school, which as far as I could
understand it bore much the same relation to tlie old
as homoeopathy to allopathy. The straightener shook
his head at this, and laughingly replied that the cure
must have been due to nature. After a few more
questions he wrote a prescription and departed.

I saw the prescription. It ordered a fine to the
State of double the money embezzled ; no food but
bread and milk for six months, and a severe flogging
once a month for twelve. He had received his eleventh
flogging on the day of my arrival. I saw him later
on the same afternoon, and he was still twinged ; but
even though he had been minded to do so (which he

CURRENT OPINIONS.

irhen it was
Drder. He

to his wife
ent off for
■ the king-
litioner, for
val of the
id his fear
[•ed.

few cheer-
oQore care-
concerning
ealth been
been any-
s maternal
able some-
mdrel and
a brother
itious life
r a philo-
I could
tlie old
ner shook
the cure
'ew more
id.

le to the
food but
flogging
eleventh
dm later
,'ed; but
rvhich he

showed no sign of being), there would have been no
escape from following out the straightener's prescrip-
tion, for the so-called sanitary laws of Erewhon are
very rigorous, and unless the straightener was satisfied
that his orders had been obeyed, the patient would
have been taken to a hospital (as the poor are), and
would have been much worse off. Such at least is
the law, but it is never necessary to enforce it.

On a subsequent occasion I was present at an inter-
view between Mr. Nosnibor and the family straightener,
who was considered competent to watch the comple-
tion of the cure. I was struck with the delicacy with
which he avoided even the remotest semblance of
inc^uiry after the physical well-being of his patient,
though there was a certain yellowness about my host's
eyes which argued a bilious habit of body. To have
taken notice of this would have been a gross breach of
professional etiquette. I am told that a straightener
sometimes thinks it right to glance at the possibility
of some slight physical disorder if he finds it important
in order to assist him in his diagnosis ; but the answers
which he gets are generally untrue or evasive, and he
forms his own conclusions upon the matter as well as
he can.

Sensible men have been known to say that the
straightener should in strict confidence be told of every
physical ailment that is likely to bear upon the case ;
but people are naturally shy of doing this, for they do
not like lowering themselves in the opinion of the
straightener, and his ignorance of medical science is
supreme. I heard of one lady however who had the
hardihood to confess that a furious outbreak of ill-
humour and extravagant fancies for which she was
seeking advice was possibly the result of indisposition.

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

t
1 1 1

■

" You should resist that," said the straightener, in a
kind, but grave voice ; " we can do nothing for the
bodies of our patients ; such matters are beyond our
province, and I desire that I may hear no further
particulars." The lady burst into tears, promised
faithfully that she would never be unwell again, and
kept her word.

To return however to Mr. Nosnibor. As the after*
noon wore on many carriages drove up with callers to
inquire how he had stood his flogging. It had been
very severe, but the kind inquiries upon every side
gave him great pleasure, and he assured me that he
felt almost tempted to do wrong again by the solicitude
with which his friends had treated him during his
recovery : in this I need hardly say that he was not
serious.

During the remainder of my stay in the country
Mr. Nosnibor was constantly attentive to his business,
and largely increased his already great possessions;
but I never heard a whisper to the effect of his having
been indisposed a second time, or made money by
other than the most strictly honourable means. I did
hear afterwards in confidence that there had been
reason to believe that his health had been not a little
affected by the straightener's treatment, but his friends
did not choose to be over curious upon the subject, and
on his return to his affairs it was by common consent
passed over as hardly criminal in one who was other-
wise so much afflicted. For they regard bodily ail-
ments as the more venial in proportion as they have
been produced by causes independent of the constitution.
Thus if a person ruin his health by excessive indul-
gence at the table, or by drinking, they count it to be
almost a part of the mental disease which brought it

CURRENT OPINIONS. 9

about, and so it goes for little, but they have no mercy
on such illnesses as fevers or catarrhs or lung diseases,
which to us appear to be beyond the control of the
individual. They are only more lenient towards the
diseases of the young — such as measles, which they
think to be like sowing one's wild oats — and look over
them as pardonable indiscretions if they have not been
too serious, and if they are atoned for by complete
subsequent recovery.

i i

' i
I

( 10 )

AN EREWHONIAN TRIAL.

(chapter XI. OF EREWHON.)

T SHALL best convey to the reader an idea of the
-^ entire perversion of thought which exists among
this extraordinary people, by describing the public trial
of a man who was accused of pulmonary consumption —
an offence which was punished with death until quite
recently. The trial did not take place till I had been
some months in the country, and I am deviating from
chronological order in giving an account of it here;
but I had perhaps better do so in order to exhaust this
subject before proceeding with others.

The prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury
were sworn much as in Europe; almost all our own
modes of procedure were reproduced, even to the re-
quiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guity. He
pleaded not guilty and the case proceeded. The
evidence for the prosecution was very strong, but I
must do the court the justice to observe that the trial
was absolutely impartial. Counsel for the prisoner
was allowed to urge everything that could be said in
his defence.

The line taken was that the prisoner was simulating
consumption in order to defraud an insurance company,
from which he was about to buy an annuity, and that
he hoped thus to obtain it on more advantageous terms.

>• r

AN EREWHONIAN TRIAL.

If this could have been shown to be the case he would
have escaped criminal prosecution, and been sent to a
hospital as for moral ailment. The view however was
one which could not be reasonably sustained, in spite
of all the ingenuity and eloquence of one of the most
celebrated advocates of the coue' "y. The case was
only too clear, for the prisoner was almost at the point
of death, and it was astonishing that he had not been
tried and convicted long previously. His coughing
was incessant during the whole trial, and it was all that
the two jailers in charge of him could do to keep him
on his legs until it was over.

The summing up of the judge was admirable. He
dwelt upon every point that could be construed in
favour of the prisoner, but as he proceeded it became
clear that the evidence was too convincing to admit of
doubt, and there was but one opinion in the court as
to the impending verdict when the jury retired from
the box. They were absent for about ten minutes, and
on their return the foreman pronounced the prisoner
guilty. There was a faint murmur of applause but it
was instantly repressed. The judge then proceeded to
pronounce sentence in words which I can never forget,
and which I copied out into a note-book next day from
the report that was published in the leading newspaper.
I must condense it somewhat, and nothing which I
could say would give more than a faint idea of the
soiemn, not to say majestic, severity with which it was
delivered. The sentence was as follows : —

" Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the
great crime of labouring under pulmonary consump-
tion, and after an impartial trial before a jury of your
countrymen, you have been found guilty. Against
the justice of the verdict I can say nothing: the

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SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

evidence against you was conclusive, and it only re-
mains for me to pass such a sentence upon you, as
shall satisfy the ends of the law. That sentence must
be a very severe one. It pains me much to see one
who is yet so young, and whose prospects in life were
otherwise so excellent, brought to this distressing con-
dition by a constitution which I can only regard as
radically vicious ; but yours is no case for compassion :
this is not your first offence : you have led a career
of crime, and have only profited by the leniency shown
you upon past occasions, to offend yet more seriously
against the laws and institutions of your country. You
were convicted of aggravated bronchitis last year : and
I find that though you are now only twenty-three years
old, you have been imprisoned on no less than fourteen
occasions for illnesses of a more or less hateful char-
acter ; in fact, it is not too much to say that you have
spent the greater part of your life in a jail.

" It is all very well for you to say that you came of
unhealthy parents, and had a severe accident in your
childhood which permanently undermined your con-
stitution ; excuses such as these are the ordinary re-
fuge of the criminal ; but they cannot for one moment
be listened to by the ear of justice. I am not here to
enter upon curious metaphysical questions as to the
origin of this or that — questions to which there would
be no end were their introduction once tolerated, and
which would result in throwing the only guilt on the
primordial cell, or perhaps even on the elementary gases.
There is no question of how you came to be wicked,
but only this — namely, are you wicked or not ? This
has been decided in the affirmative, neither can I hesi-
tate for a single moment to say that it has been decided
justly. You are a bad and dangerous person, and stand

AN EREWHONIAN TRIAL.

branded in the eyes of your fellow-countrymen with
one of the most heinous known offences.

" It is not my business to justify the law : the law
may in some cases have its inevitable hardships, and
I may feel regret at times that I have not the option
of passing a less severe sentence than I am conipelled
to do. But yours is no such case ; on the contrary,
had not the capital pun.'rhment for consumption been
abolished, I should certainly inflict it now.

" It is intolerable that an example of such terrible
enormity should be allowed to go at large unpunished.
Your presence in the society of respectable people
would lead the less able-bodied to think more lightly
of all forms of illness ; neither can it be permitted
that you should have the chance of corrupting unborn
beings who might hereafter pester you. The unborn
must not be allowed to come near you : and this not
so much for their protection (for they are our natural
enemies), as for our own ; for since they will not be
utterly gainsaid, it must be seen to that they shall be
quartered upon those who are least likely to corrupt
them.

" But independently of this consideration, and inde-
pendently of the physical guilt which attaches itself to
a crime so great as yours, there is yet another reason
why we should be unable to show you mercy, even if
we are inclined to do so. I refer to the existence of
a class of men who lie hidden among us, and who are
called physicians. Were the severity of the law or
the current feeling of the country to be relaxed never
so slightly, these abandoned persons, who are now
compelled to practise secretly, and who can be con-
sulted only at the greatest risk, would become frequent
visitors in every household ; their organisation and

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SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

their intimate acquaintance with all family secrets
would give them a power, both social and political,
which nothing could resist. The head of tlie house-
hold would become subordinate to the family doctor,
who would interfere between man and wife, between
mfster and servant, until the doctors should be the
only depositaries of power in the nation, and have all
that we hold precious at their mercy. A time of
universal dephysicalisation would ensue ; medicine-
vendors of all kinds would abound in our streets and
advertise in all our newspapers. There is one remedy
for this, and one only. It is that which the laws oi
this country have long received and acted upon, and
consists in the sternest repression of all diseases what-
soever, as soon as their existence is made manifest to
the eye of the ' .w. Would that that eye were far
more piercing than it is.

" But I will enlarge no further upon things that are
themselves so obvious. You may say that it is not
your fault. The answer is ready enough at hand, and
it amounts to this — that if you had been born of
healthy and well-to-do parents, and been well taken
care of when you were a child, you would never have
offended against the laws of your country, nor found
yourself in your present disgraceful position. If you
tell me that you had no hand in your parentage and
education, and that it is therefore unjust to lay these
things to your charge, I answer that whether your
being in a consumption is your fault or no, it is a fault
in you, and it is my duty to see that against such faults
as this the commonwealth shall be protected. You
may say that it is your misfortune to be criminal ; I
answer that it is your crime to be unfortunate.

" I do not hesitate therefore to sentence you to im-

iki,:

AN EREWHONIAN TRIAL,

prisonment, with hard labour, for the rest of your
miserable existence. During that period I would
earnestly entreat you to repent of these wrongs you
have done already, and to entirely reform the constitu-
tion of your whole body. I entertain but little hope
that you will pay attention to my advice ; you are
already far too abandoned. Did it rest with myself,
I should add nothing in mitigation of the sentence
which I have passed, but it is the merciful provision of
the law that even the most hardened criminal shall be
allowed some one of the three official remedies, which
is to be prescribed at the time of his conviction. I
shall therefore order that you receive two tablespoon-
% fuls of castor-oil daily, until the pleasure of the court
be further known."

When the sentence was concluded, the prisoner
acknowledged in a few scarcely audible words that
he was justly punished, and that he had had a fair
trial. He was then removed to the prison from which
he was never to return. There was a second attempt
at applause when the judge had finished speaking, but-
as before it was at once repressed ; and though the
feeling of the court was strongly against the prisoner,
there was no show of any violence against him, if one
may except a little hooting from the bystanders when
he was being removed in the prisoners' van. Indeed,
nothing struck me more during my whole sojourn in
the country, than the general respect for law and order.

■pill

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( i6 )

MALCONTENTS.

(part of chapter XII. OF EREWHON.)

T WKITE with great diffidence, but it seems to me
-^ that there is no unfairness in punishing people
for their misfortunes, or rewarding them for their
sheer good luck : it is the normal condition of human
life that this should be done, and no right-minded
person will compbin at being subjected to the common
treatment. There is no alternative open to us. It
is idle CO say that men are not responsible for their
misfortunes. What is responsibility ? Surely to be
responsible means to be liable to have to give an
answer should it be; demanded, and all things which
live are responsible for t'leir lives and actions should
society see fit to question them through the mouth of
its authorised agent.

What is the offence of a lamb that we should rear
it, and tend it, and bill it into security, for the express
purpose of killing it ? Its offence is the misfortune
of being something whicli society wants to eat, and
which cannot defend itself. This is ample. Who
shall limit the right of society except society Itself ?
And what consideration for the individual is tolerable
unless society be the gniner thereby ? Wherefore
should a man be so richly rewarded for having been
son to a millionaire, were it not clearly provable that

MALCONTENTS.

the common welfare is thus better furthered ? We
cannot seriously detract from a man's merit in having
been the son of a rich father without imperilling our
own tenure of things which we do not wish to jeopard-
ise ; if this were otherwise we should not let him keep
his money for a single hour ; we would have it our-
selves at once. For property is robbery, but then we
are all robbers or would-be robbers together, and
liave found it expedient to organise our thieving, as
we have found it to organise our lust and our revenge.
Property, marriage, the law ; as the bed to the river,
so rule and convention to the instinct.

But to return. Even in England a man on board
a ship with yellow fever is held responsi'-le f r his
mischance, no matter what his being kept in quaran-
tine may cost him. He may catch the fever and die ;
we cannot help it ; he must take his chance as other
people do ; but surely it would be desperate unkind-
ness to add contumely to our self-protection, unless,
indeed, we believe that contumely is one of our best
means of self-protection. Again, take the case of
maniacs. We say that they are irresponsible for their
actions, but we take good care, or ought to take good
care, that they shall answer to us for their insanity,
and we imprison them in what we ca'l an asylum
(that modern sanctuary i) if we do not like their
answers. This is a strange kind of irresponsibility.
What we ought to say is that we can afford to be
satisfied with a less satisfactory answer from a lunatic
than from one who is not mad, because lunacy is less
infectious than crime.

We kill a serpent if we go in danger by it, simply
for being such and such a serpent in such and such a
place; but we never say that the serpent has only

;

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SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

itself to blame for not having been a harmless crea-
ture. Its crime is that of beini' the thinof which it
is : but this is a capital offence, and we are right in
killing it out of the way, unless we think it more
dangerous to do so than to let it escape ; nevertheless
we pity the creature, even though we kill it.

But in the case of him whose trial I have described
above, it was impossible that any one in the court
should not have known that it was but by an accident
of birth and circumstances that he was not himself
ak^ in a consumption; and yet none thought that it
disgraced them to hear the judge give vent to the
most cruel truisms about him. The judge himself
was a kind and thoughtful person. He was a man of
magnificent and benign presence. He was evidently
of an iron constitution, and his face wore an expression
of the maturest wisdom and experience ; yet for all
this, old and learned as he was, he could not see things
which one would have thought would have been
apparent even to a child. He could not emancipate
himself from, nay, it did not even occur to him to feel,
the bondage of the ideas in which he had been born
and bred. So was it with the jury and bystanders ;
and — most wonderful of all — so was it even with the
prisoner. Throughout he seemed, fully impressed with
the notion that he was being dealt with justly : he
saw nothing wanton in his being told by the judge
that he was to be punished, not so much as a neces-
sary protection to society (although this was not
entirely L>st sight of), as because he had not been
better born and bred than he was. But this led me
to hope that he suffered less than he would have done
if he had seen the matter in the same light that I did.
And, after all, justice is relative.

MALCONTENTS.

rmless crea-
ng which it
ire right in
Ilk it more
aevertheless
it.

ve described
'. the court
an accident
not himself
-ight that it
'Cnt to the
ige himself
as a man of
-s evidently
1 expression
yet ior all
t see things
have been
emancipate
lim to feel,
jeen born
)ystanders ;
n with the
essed with
ustly : he
the judge
a neces-
was not
not been
is led me
have done
;hat I did.

I may here mention that only a few years before my
arrival in the country, the treatment of all convicted in-
valids had been much more barbarous than now ; for no
physical remedy was pro>^ided, and prisoners were put
to the severest labour in all sorts of weather, so that
most of them soon succumbed to the extreme hard-
ships which they suffered; this was supposed to be
beneficial in some ways, inasmuch as it put the country
to less expense for the maintenance of its criminal
class; but the growth of luxury had induced a relaxa-
tion of the old severity, and a sensitive age would no
longer tolerate what appeared to be an excess of rigour,
even towards the most guilty ; moreover, it was found
that juries were less willing to con\ ict, and justice was
often cheated because there was no alternative between
virtually condemning a man to death and letting him
go free ; it was also held that the country paid in re-
committals for its verse verity ; for those who had been
imprisoned even for trifling ailments were often perma-
nently disabled by their imprisonment ; and when a
man has been once convicted, it was probable he would
never afterwards be long off the hands of the country.

These evils had long been apparent and recognised ;
yet people were too indolent, and too indifferent to
suffering not their own, to bestir themselves about
putting an end to them, until at last a benevolent
reformer devoted his whole life to effecting the necessary
changes. He divided illnesses into three classes — those
affecting the head, the trunk, and the lower limbs
— and obtained an enactment that all diseases of
the head, whether internal or external, should be treated
with h'udcnum, those of the body with castor-oil,
and those of the lower limbs with an embrocation
of strong sulphuric acid and water. It may be said

Ill

20.

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

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fNI

that tlie classification was not sufficiently careful, and
that the remedies were ill chosen ; but it is a hard
thing to initiate any reform, and it was necessary to
familiarise the public mind with the principle, by
inserting the thin end of the wedge first: it is not
therefore to be wondered at that among so practical a
people there should still be some room for improvement.
The mass of the nation are well pleased with existing
arrangements, and believe that their treatment of
criminals leaves little or nothing to be desired ; but
there is an energetic minority who hold what are con-
sidered to be extreme opinions, and who are not at all
disposed to rest contented until the principle lately
admitted has been carried further.

( 21 )

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

(chapter XIV. OF EUEWHON.)

ON my return to the drawing-room, I found the ladies
were just putting away their work and preparing
to go out. I asked them where they were going. They
answered with a certain air of reserve that they were
going to the bank to get some money.

Now I had already collected that the mercantile
affairs of the Erewhonians were conducted on a totally
different system from our own ; I had however gathered
little hitherto, except that they had two distinct
commercial systems, of which the one appealed more
strongly to the imagination than anything to which we
are accustomed in Europe, inasmuch as the banks con-
ducted upon this system were decorated in the most
profuse fashion, and all mercantile transactions were ac-
companied with music, so that they were called musical
banks though the music was hideous to a European ear.

As for the system itself I never understood it,
neither can I do so now : they have a code in connec-
tion with it, which I have no doubt they themselves
understand, but no foreigner can hope to do so. One
rule runs into and against another as in a most
complicated grammar, or as in Chinese pronunciation,
wherein I am told the slightest change in accentuation
or tone of voice alters the meaning of a whole sentence.

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

■iii

III

Whatever is incoherent in my description must be
referred to the fact of my never having attained to a
full comprehension of the subject.

So far however as I could collect anything certain,
they appeared to have two entirely distinct currencies,
each under the control of its own banks and mer-
cantile codes. The one of them (the one with the
musical banks) was supposed to be the system, and to
give out tlie currency in which all monetary trans-
actions should be carried on. As far as I could see,
all who wished to be considered respectable, did keep
a certain amount of this currency at these banks ;
nevertheless, if there is one thing of which I am more
sure than another it is that the amount so kept was
but a very small part of their possessions. I think
they took the money, put it into the bank, and then
drew it out again, repeating the process day by day,
and keeping a certain amount of currency for this
purpose and no other, while they paid the expenses
of the bank with the other coinage. I am sure the
managers and cashiers of the musical banks were not
paid in their own currency. Mr. Nosnibor used to go
to these musical banks, or rather to the great mother
bank of the city, sometimes but not very often. He
was a pillar of one of the other kind of banks, though
he held some minor office also in these. The ladies
generally went alone ; as indeed was the case in most
families, except on some few great annual occasions.

I had long wanted to know more of this strange
system, and had the greatest desire to accompany my
hostess and her daughters. I had seen them go out
almost every morning since my arrival, and had
noticed that they carried their purses in their hands,
not exactly ostentatiously, yet just so as that those

ilL

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

v/lio met them should see whither they were going. I
had never yet been asked to go with them myself.

It is not easy to convey a person's manner by words,
and I can hardly give any idea of the peculiar feeling
which came upon me whenever I saw tlie ladies
in the hall, with their purses in their liands, and on
the point of starting for the bank. There was a some-
thing of regret, a something as though they would
wish to take me with them, but did not like to ask me,
and yet as though I were hardly to ask to be taken.
I was determined however to bring matters to an issue
with my hostess about my going with them, and after
a little parleying and many inquiries as to whether
I was perfectly sure that I myself wished to go, it was
decided that I might do so.

We passed through several streets of more or less
considerable houses, and at last turning round a corner
we came upon a large piazza, at the end of which
was a magnificent building, of a strange but noble
architecture and of great antiquity. It did not open
directly on to the piazza, there being a screen, through
which was an archway, between the piazza and the
actual precincts of the bank. On passing under the
archway we found ourselves upon a green sward,
round which there ran an arcade or cloister, while in
front of us uprose the Liajestic towers of the bank
and its venerable front, which was divided into three
deep recesses and adorned with all sorts of marbles
and many sculptures. On either side there were beau-
tiful old trees wherein the birds were busy by the
hundred, and a number of quaint but substantial
houses of singularly comfortable appearance; they were
situated in the midst of orchards and gardens, and
gave me an impression of great peace and plenty.

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON,

Indeed it had been no error to say that this building
was one which appealed to the imagination ; it did
more — it carried both imagination and judgment by
storm. It was an epic in stone and marble ; neither
had I ever seen anything in the least comparable to
it. I was completely charmed and melted. I felt
more conscious of the existence of a remote past. One
knows of this always, but the knowledge is never so
living as in the actual presence of some witness to the
life of bygone ages. I felt how short a space of human
life was the period of our own existence. I was more
impressed with my own littleness, and much more in-
clinable to believe that the people whose sense of the
fitness of things was equal to the upraising of so serene
a handiwork, were hardly likely to be wrong in tlie
conclusions they might come to upon any subject. My
feeling certainly was that the currency of this bank
must be the right one.

We crossed the sward and entered the building. If
the outside had been impressive the inside was even
more so. It was very lofty and divided into several
parts by walls which rested upon massive pillars • the
windows were filled with glass, on which had been
painted the principal commercial incidents of the
bank for many ages. In a remote part of the build-
ing there were men and boys singing ; this was the
only disturbing feature, for as the gamut was still
unknown, there was no music in the country which
could be agreeable to a European ear. The singers
seemed to have derived their inspirations from the
songs of birds and the wailing of the wind, which last
they tried to imitate in melancholy cadences which
at times degenerated into a howl. To my thinking the
noise was hideous, but it produced a great effect upon

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

my companions, who professed themselves much moved.
As soon as the singing was over the ladies requested
me to stay where I was, while they went inside the
place from whicli it had seemed *'.o come.

During their absence certain reflections forced them-
selves upon me.

In the first place, it struck me as strange that the
building should be so nearly empty; I was almost
alone, and the few besides myself had been led by
curiosity, and had no intention of doing business with
the bank. But there might be more inside. I stole
up to the curtain, and ventured to draw the extreme
edge of it on one side. No, there was hardly any one
there. I saw a large number of cashiers, all at their
desks ready to pay cheques, and one or two who
seemed to be the managing partners. I also saw my
hostess and her daughters and two or three other
ladies ; also three or four old women and the boys
from one of the neighbouring Colleges of Unreason ;
but there was no one else. This did not look as
though the bank was doing a very large business ; and
yet I had always been told that every one in the city
dealt with this establishment.

I cannot describe all that took place in these inner
precincts, for a sinister-looking person in a black
gown came and made unpleasant gestures at me for
peeping. I happened to have in my pocket one of the
musical bank pieces, which had been given me by
Mrs. Nosnibor, so I tried to tip him with it; but
having seen what it was, he became so angry that it
was all I could do to pacify him. When he was gone
I ventured to take a second look, and saw Zulora in
the very act of giving a piece of paper which looked
like a cheque to one of the cashiers. He did not

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SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

examine it, but putting his hand into an antique
coffer hard by, he pulled out a quantity of dull-looking
metal pieces apparently at random, and handed them
over without counting them ; neither did Zulora count
them, but put them into her purse and departed. It
seemed a very singular proceeding, but I supposed that
they knew their own business best, at any rate Zulora
seemed quite satisfied, thanked him for the money, and
began making towards the curtain ; on this I let it
drop and retreated to a reasonable distance.

Mrs. Nosnibor and her daughters soon joined me.
For some few minutes we all kept silence, but at last I
ventured to remark that the bank was not so busy to-
day as it probably often was. On this Mrs. Nosnibor
said that it was indeed melancholy to see what little
heed people paid to the most precious of all institutions.
I could say nothing in reply, but I have ever been of
opinion that the greater part of mankind do approxi-
mately know where they get that which does them
good. Mrs. Nosnibor went on to say that I must not
imagine there was any want of confidence in the bank
because I had seen so few people there ; the heart of
the country was thoroughly devoted to these establish-
ments, and any sign of their being in danger would
bring in support from the most unexpected quarters.
It was only because per^ple knew them to be so very
safe, that in some cases (as she lamented to say in Mr.
Nosnibor's) they felt that their support was unnecessary.
Moreover these institutions never departed from the
safest and most approved banking principles. Thus
they never allowed interest on deposit, a thing now fre-
quently done by certain bubble companies, which by
doing an illegitimate trade had drawn many customers
away; and even the shareholders were fewer than

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

formerly, owing to the innovations of these unscrupu-
lous persons.

It came out by and by that the musical banks paid
little or no dividend, but divided their profits l)y way
of bonus on the original shares once in every three
liundred and fifty years; and as it was now only two
Imndred years since there had been one of these dis-
tributions, people felt tliat they could not hope for
another in their own time antl preferred investments
whereby they got some more tangible return ; all which,
she said, was very melancholy to think of.

Having made these last admissions, she returned to
her original statement, namely, that every one in the
country really supported the bank. As to the fewness
of the people, and the absence of the able-bodied, she
pointed out to me with some justice that this was
exactly what we ought to expect. The men who were
most conversant about the stability of human institu-
tions, such as the lawyers, men of science, doctors,
statesmen, painters, and the like, were just those who
were most likely to be misled by their own fancied
accomplishments, and to be made unduly suspicious by
their licentious desire ibr greater present return, which
was at the root of nine-tenths of the opposition, by
their vanity, which would prompt them to aifect
superiority to the prejudices of the vulgar, and by the
stings of their own conscience, which was constantly
upbraiding them in the most cruel manner on account
of their bodies, which were generally diseased ; let a
person's intellect be never so sound, unless his body
were in absolute health, he could form no judgment
worth having on matters of this kind. The body was
everything: it need not perhaps be such a strouff body
(she said this because she saw I was thinking of the

SELECTIONS FROM ERE W HON.

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old and infirm-looking folks whom I had seen in the
bank), but it must be in perfect health ; in this case,
the less active strength it had the more free would be
the working of the intellect, and therefore the sounder
the conclusion. The people, then, whom I had seen at
the bank were in reality the very ones whose opinions
were most worth having ; they declared its advantages
to be incalculable, and even professed to consider the im-
mediate return to be far larger than they were entitled
.to ; and so she ran on, nor did she leave oft' till we
had got back to the house.

She might say what she pleased, but her manner
was not one that carried much conviction ; and later
on I saw signs of general indifference to these banks
that were not to be mistaken. Their supporters often
denied it, but the denial was generally so couched as
to add another proof of its existence. In commercial
panics, and in times of general distress, the people as
a mass did not so much as even think of turning to
these banks. A few individuals m^!ght do so, some
from habit and early training, some fioiu hope of gain,
but few from a genuine belief that the money was
good ; the masses turned instinctively to the other
currency. In a conversation with one of the musical
bank managers I ventured to hint this as plainly as
uoliteness would allow. He said that it had been more
or less true till lately ; but that now they had put
fresh stained glass windows into all the banks in the
country, and repaired the buildings, and enlarged the
organs, and taken to talking nicely to the people in
the streets, and to remembering the ages of their
children and giving them things when they were ill,
so that all would henceforth go smoothly.

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

" But haven't you done anything to the money
itself ? " said I timidly.

To this day I do not know exactly what the bank-
manager said, but it came to this in the end — that I
liad better not meddle with things that I did not
imder.stand.

On reviewing the whole matter, I can be certain of
this much only, that the money given out at the
musical banks is not the current coin of the realm.
It is not the money with which the people do as a
general rule buy their bread, meat, and clothing. It
is like it ; some coins very like it ; and it is not
counterfeit. It is not, take it all round, a spurious
article made of base metal in imitation of the money
which is in daily use; but it is a distinct coinage
which, though I do not suppose it ever actually
superseded the oT-dinary gold, silver, and copper, was
probably issued by authority, and was intended to
supplant those metals. Some of the pieces were really
of exquisite beauty ; and some were, I do verily be-
lieve, nothing but the ordinary currency, only that
there was another head and name in place of that of
the commonwealth. And here was one of the great
marvels ; for those who were most strongly in favour
of this coinage maintained, and even grew more
excited if they were opposed here than on any other
matter, that the very self-same coin with the head of
the commonwealth upon it was of little if any value,
while it became exceedingly precious if stamped with
the other image.

Some of the coins were plainly bad ; of these last
there were not many ; still there were enough for them
to be not uncommon. These were entirely composed
of alloy J they would bend easily, would melt away to

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

nothing with a little heat, and were quite iinsuited for
a currency. Yet there were few of the wealthier
classes who did not maintain that even these coins
were genuine good money, though they were chary of
taking them. Every one knew this, so they were
seldom oflered ; but all thought it incumbent upon
them to retain a good many in their possession, and
to let them be seen from time to time in their hands
and purses. Of course people knew their real value
exceedingly well ; but few, if any, dared to say what
that value was ; or if they did, it would be only in
certain companies or in writing in the newspapers
anonymously. Strange ! there was hardly any insinua-
tion against this coinage which they would not tolerate
and even applaud in their daily papers ; and yet, if
the same thing were said without ambiguity to their
faces — nominative case verb and accusative being all
in their right places, and doubt impossible — they
would consider themselves very seriously and justly
outraged, and accuse the speaker of being unwell.

I never could understand, neither can I do so now,
why a single currency should not suffice them ; it
would seem to me as thoudi all their dealings would
iiave been thus greatly simplified ; but I was met with
a look of horror if ever I dared to hint at it Even
those who to my certain knowledge kept only just
enough money at the musical banks to swear by,
would call the other banks (where their securities
really lay) cold, deadening, paralsying, and the like.
I noticed another thing moreover which struck me
greatly. I was taken to the opening of one of these
banks in a neighbouring town, and saw a large as-
semblage of cashiers and managers. I sat opposite
them and scanned their faces attentively. They did

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

not please me ; they lacked, with a few exceptions, the
true Erewhonian frankness ; and an equal number from
any other class would have looked happier and better
men. When I met them in the streets they did not
seem like other people, but had, as a general rule, a
cramped expression upon their faces which pained and
depressed me.

Those who came from the country were better ; they
seemed to hav3 lived less as a separate class, and to
be freer and healthier ; but in spite of my seeing not
a few whose looks were benign and noble, I could not
help asking myself conceriiing the greater number of
those whom I met, whether Erewhon would be a better
country if their expression were to be transferred to the
people in general. I answered myself emphatically, no.
A man's expression is his sacrament ; it is the outward
and visible sign of his inward and spiritual grace, or
want of grace ; and as I looked at the majority of these
men, I could not help feeling that there ma^t be a
something in their lives which had stunted their
natural development, and that they would have been
more healthily-minded in any other profession.

I was always sorry for them, for in nine cases out
of ten they were well-mearing persons ; they were in
the main very poorly paid ; their constitutions were
as a rule above suspicion ; and there were recorded
numberless instances of their self-sacrifice and gene-
rosity ; but they had had the misfortune to have been
betrayed into a false positiou at an age for the most
part when their judgment was not matured, and after
having been kept in studied ignorance of the real diffi-
culties of the system. But this did not make their
position the less a false one, and its bad effects upon
themselves were unmistakable.

SELECTIONS FROM ERE WHOM.

Few people would speak quite openly and freely
before them, which struck me as a very bad sign.
When they were in the room every one would talk as
though all currency save that of the musical banks
should be abolished ; and yet they knew perfectly well
that even the cashiers themselves hardly used the
musical bank money more than other people. It was
expected of them that they should appear to do so, but
this was all. Tlie less thoughtful of them did not seem
particularly unhappy, but many were plainly sick at
heart, though perhaps they hardly knew it, and would
not have owned to being so. Some few were opponents
of the whole system ; but these were liable to be dis-
missed from their employment at any moment, and
this rendered them very careful, for a man who had
once been cashier at a musical bank was out of the
field for other employment, and was generally unfitted
for it by reason of that course of treatment which was
commonly called his education. In fact it was a career
from which retreat was virtually impossible, and into
which young men were generally induced to enter
before they could be reasonably expected, considering
their training, to have formed any opinions of their own.
Few indeed were those who had the courage to insist
on seeing both sides of the question before they com-
mitted themselves to either. One would have thought
that this was an elementary principle, — one of the
first things that an honourable man would teach his
boy to do ; but in practice it was not so.

X even saw cases in which parents bought the right
of presenting to the office of cashier at one of these
banks, with the fixed determination that some one of
their sons (perhaps a mere child) should fill it. There
was the lad himself — growing up with every promise

THE MUSICAL BANKS.

of becoming a good and honourable man — but utterly
without warning concerning the iron shoe which his
natural protector was providing for him. Who could
say that the whole thing would not end in a life-long
lie, and vain chafing to escape ?

I confess that there were few things in Erewhon
which shocked me more than this.

{ 34 )

I ■

BIRTH FORMULA!:.

(chapter XVII. OF EREWHON.)

I HEARD what follows not from Arowhena, but from
Mr. Nosnibor and some of the gentlemen who occa-
sionally dined at the house : they told me that the
Erewhonians believe in pre-existence ; and not only
this (of which I will write more fully in the next
chapter); but they believe that it is of their own free
act and deed in a previous state that people come to
be born into this world at all.

They hold that the unborn are perpetually plaguing
and tormenting the married (and sometimes even the
unmarried) of both sexes, fluttering about them inces-
santly, and giving them no peace either of mind or body
until they have consented to take them under their
protection. If this were not so — this is at least what
they urge — it would be a monstrous freedom for one
man to take with another, to say that he should under-
go the chances and changes of this mortal life without
any option in the matter. No man would nave any
right to get married at all, inasmuch as he can never
tell what misery his doing so may entail forcibly upon
his children who cannot be unhappy as long as they
remain unborn. They feel this so strongly that they are
resolved to shift the blame on to other shoulders ; they
have therefore invented a long mythology as to the
world in which the unborn people live, what they do,

wwy^jfO""

BIRTH FORMUL.r..

and the arts and machinations to which they have
recourse in order to get themselves into our own world.

I cannot think they seriously believe in this my-
thology concerning pre-existence ; they do and they do
not ; they do not know themselves what they believe ;
all they know is that it is a disease not to believe as
they do. The only thing of whi h they are quite sure
is that it is the pestering of the unborn, which causes
them to be brought into this world, and that they
would not be here if they would only let peaceable
people alone.

It would be hard to disprove this position, and they
might have a good case if they would only leave it
as it stands. But this they will not do ; they must
have assurance doubly su . they must have the writ-
ten word of the child itself as soon as it is born, giving
the parents indemnity from all responsibility on the
score of its birth, and asserting its own pre-existence.
They have therefore devised something which they call
a birth formula — a document which varies in words
according to the caution of parents, but is much the
same practically in all cases ; for it has been the
business of the Erewhonian lawyers during many ages
to exercise their skill in perfecting it and providing
for every contingency.

These formulae are printed on common paper at
a moderate cost for the poor; but the rich have
them written on parchment and handsomely bound,
so that the getting up of a person's birth formula is a
test of his social position. They commence by setting
forth. That whereas A. B. was a member of the king-
dom of the unborn, where he was well provided for in
every way, and had no cause of discontent, &c. &c.,
he did of his own wanton restlessness conceive a desire

< !

!!;

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

to enter into this present world ; that thereon havin-^
taken the necessary steps as set forth in laws of the
unborn kingdom, he set himself v/ith malice aforethought
to plague and pester two unfortunate people who had
never wronged him, and who were quite contented
until he conceived this base design against their
peace ; for which wrong he now humbly entreats
their pardon. He acknowledges that he is respon-
sible for all physical blemishes and deficiimcies which
may render him answerable to the laws of his country ;
that his parents have nothing whatever to do with
any of these things; and that they have a right to
kill him at once if they be so minded, though he
entreats them to show their marvellous goodness and
clemency towards him by sparing his life. If they will
do this he promises to be their most abject creature
during his earlier years, and indeed unto his life's end,
unless they should see fit in their abundant generosity
to remit some portion of his service hereafter. And
so the formula continues, going sometimes into very
mirute details, according to the fancies of family
lawyers, who will not make it any shorter than they
can help.

The deed being thus prepared, on the third or
fourth day after the birth of the child, or as they
call it, the " final importunity," the friends gather
together, and there is a feast held, where they are
all very melancholy — as a general rule, I believe
quite truly so — and make presents to the father and
mother of the child in order to console them for the
injury which has just been done them by the unborn.
By and by the child himself is brought down by his
nurse, and the company begin to rail upon him, up-
braiding him for his impertinence and asking him

if' '111!
'ill

1 il

BIRTH FORMUL.^.

what amends he proposes to make for the wrong that
he has committed, and how he can look for care and
nourishment from those who have perhaps already
been injured by the unborn on some ten or twelve
occasions ; for they say of people with large families,
that they have suffered terrible injuries from the
unborn; till at last, when this has been carried far
enough, some one suggests the formula, which is
brought forth and solemnly read to the child by the
family straightener. This gentleman is always invited
on these occasions, for the very fact of intrusion into
a peaceful family shows a depravity on the part of the
child which requires his professional services.

On being teased by the reading and tweaked by
the nurse, the child will commonly fall a-crying,
which is reckoned a good sign as showing a conscious-
ness of guilt. He is thereon asked, Does he assent to
the formula ? on which, as he still continues crying
and can obviously make no answer, some one of the
friends comes forward and undertakes to sign the docu-
ment on his behalf, feeling sure (so he says) that the
child would do it if he only knew how, and that he
will release the present signer from his engagement on
arriving at maturity. The friend then inscribes the
signature of the child at the foot of the parchment,
which is held to bind the child as much as though he
had signed it himself. Even this, however, does not
fully content them, for they feel a little uneasy until
they have got the child's own signature after all. So
when he is about fourteen these good people partly
bribe him by promises of greater liberty and good
things, and partly intimidate him through their great
power of making themselves passively unpleasant to
him, so that though there is a show of freedom made,

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

M'i

there is really none, and partly they use the offices of
the teachers in the Colleges of Unreason, till at last,
in one way or another, they take very good care that he
shall sign the paper by which lie professes to have
been a free agent in coming into the world, and to
take all the responsibility of having done so on to his
own shoulders. And yet, though this document is in
theory the most important which any one can sign in
his whole life, they will have him commit himself to it
at an age when neither they nor the law will for many
a year allow any one else to bind him to the smallest
obligation, no matter how righteously he may owe it,
because they hold him too young to know what he is
about.

I thought this seemed rather hard, and not of a
piece with the many admirable institutions existing
among them. I once ventured to say a part of what I
thought about it to one of the Professors of Unreason.
I asked him whether he did not think it would do serious
harm to a lad's principles, and weaken his sense of the
sanctity of his word, and of truth generally, that he
should be led into entering upon an engagement which
it was so plainly impossible he should keep even for a
single day with tolerable integrity — whether, in fact,
the teachers who so led him, or who taught anything
as a certainty of which they were themselves uncertain,
were not earning their living by impairing the truth-
sense of their pupils. The professor, who was a delight-
ful person, seemed surprised at the vhw I took, and
gave me to understand, perhaps justl;y enough, that I
ought not to make so much fuss about a trifle. No
one, he said, expected that the boy either would or
could do all that he undertook ; but the world was full
of compromises ; and there was hardly any engagement

"nm I

BIRTH FORMULA.

which would bear being interpreted literally. Human
language was too gross a vehicle of thought — thought
being incapable of absolute translation. He added, that
as there can be no translation from one language into
another which shall not scant the moaning somewhat,
or enlarge upon it, so there is no language which can
renr^ : thought without a jarring and a harshness some-
wlijre — and so forth; all of which seemed to c to

this in the end, that it was the custom of the country,
and that the Erewhonians were a conservative people ;
that the boy would have to begin compiomising sooner
or later, and this was part of his education in the art.
It was perhaps to be regretted that compromise should
be as necessary as it was ; still it was necessary, and
the sooner the boy got to understand it the better for
himself. But they never tell this to the boy.

From the book of their mythology about the unborn
I made the extracts which will form the following
chapter.

( 40 )

I I

•in

kuLi

THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN.

(part of chapter XVIII. OF EREWHON.)

THE Erewhonians say it was by chance only that
the earth and stars and all the heavenly worlds
began to roll from east to west, and not from west to
east, and in like manner they say it is by chance that
man is drawn through life with his face to the past
instead of to the fut :. For the future is there as
much as the past, only ^nat we may not see it. Is it
not in the loins of the past, and must not the past
al:er before the future can do so ?

They have a fable that there was a race of men
tried upon the earth once, who knew the future better
than the past, but that they died in a twelvemonth
from the misery which their knowledge caused them.
They say that if any were to be born too prescient
now, he would die miserably, before he had time to
transmit so peace-destroying a faculty to descendants.

Strange fate for man ! He must perish if he get
that, which he must perish if he strive not after.
If he strive not after it he is no better than the
brutes, if he get it he is more miserable than the
devils.

Having waded through many chapters like the
above, I came at last to the unborn themselves, and
found that they were held to be souls pure and simple,
having no actual bodies, but living in a sort of gaseous

THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN.

yet more or less anthropomorphic existence, like that of
a ghost; they have thus neither flesh nor blood nor
warmth. Nevertheless they are supposed to have local
habitations and cities wherein they dwell, though these
are as unsubstantial as their inhabitants ; tliey are
even thought to eat and drink some thin ambrosial
sustenance, and generally to be capable of doing what-
ever mankind can do, only after a visionary ghostly
fashion, as in a dream. On the other hand, as long as
they remain where they are they never die — the only
form of death in the unborn world being the leaving
it for our own. They are believed to be extremely
numerous, far more so than mankind. They arrive
from unknown planets, full grown, in large batches at
a time ; but they can only leave the unborn world by
taking the steps necessary for their arrival here —
which is, in fact, by suicide.

They ought to be a happy people, for they have no
extremes of good or ill fortune ; never marrying, but
living in a state much like that fabled by the poets as
the primitive condition of mankind. In spite of this,
however, they are incessantly complaining ; they know
that we in this world have bodies, and indeed they
know everything else about us, for they move among
us whithersoever they will, and can read our thoughts,
as well as survey our actions at pleasure. One would
think that this should be enough for them ; and indeed
most of them are alive to the desperate risk which
they will run by indulging themselves in that body
with " sensible warm motion " which they so much
desire ; nevertheless, there are some to whom the ennui
of a disembodied existence is so intolerable that they
will venture anything for a change ; so they resolve
to quit. The conditions which they must accept are

1 1

4»

SELECTIONS FROM ERE WHOM.

SO uncertain, that none but the most foolish of the un-
born will consent to take tliem ; and it is from these
and these only that our own ranks are recruited.

When they have finally made up their minds to
leave, they must go before the magistrate of the
nearest town and siijn an affidavit of their desire to
quit their then existence. On their having done this,
the magistrate reads them the conditions which they
must accept, and which are so long that I can only
extract some of the principal points, which are mainly
the following : —

First, they must take a potion which will destroy
their memory and sense of identity ; they must go
into the world lielpless, and without a will of their
own ; they must draw lots for their dispositions before
they go, and take it, such as it is, for better or worse —
neither are they to be allowed any choice in the matter
of the body which they so much desire ; they are simply
allotted by chance, and without appeal, to two people
whom it is their business to lind and pester until they
adopt them. Who these are to be, whether rich or
poor, kind or unkind, healthy or diseased, there is no
knowing ; they have, in fact, to entrust themselves for
many years to the care of those for whose good con-
stitution and good sense they have no sort of guarantee.

It is curious to read the lectures which the wiser
Leads give to those who are meditating a change.
They talk with them as we talk with a spendthrift,
and with about as much success.

" To be born," they say, " is a felony — it is a capi-
tal crime, for which sentence may be executed at any
moment after the commission of the offence. You
may perhaps happen to live for some seventy or eighty
years, but what is that, in comparison with the eter-

'^mL

THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN.

nity which you now enjoy ? And even though the
sentence were commuted, and you were allowed to
live for ever, you would in time become so terribly
weary of life that execution wouUl be the greatest
mercy to you. Consider the infinite risk ; to be born
of wicked parents and trained in vice ! to be born of
silly parents, and trained to unrealities ! of parents
who regard you as a sort of chattel or property, belong-
ing more to them than to yourself ! Again, you
may draw utterly unsympathetic parents, who will
never be able to understand you, and who will thwart
you as long as they can to the utmost of their power
(as a hen when she has hatched a duckling), and then
call you ungrateful because you do not love them, or
parents who may look upon you as a thing to be cowed
while it is still young, lest it should give them trouble
hereafter by having wishes and feelings of its own.

" In later life, when you have been finally allowed
to pass muster as a full member of the world, you
will yourself become liable to the pesterings of the
unborn — and a very happy life you may be led in
consequence ! For we solicit so strongly that a few
only — nor these the best — can refuse us ; and yet not
to refuse is much the same as going into partnership
with half a dozen different people about whom one
can know absolutely nothing beforehand — not even
whether one is going into partnership with men or
women, nor with how many of either. Delude not
yourself with thinking that you will be wiser than
your parents. You may be an age in advance of
them, but unless you are one of the great ones (and
if you are one of the great ones, woe betide you), you
will still be an age behind your children.

" Imagine what it must be to have an unborn

'' '

'il

rifi

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

quartered upon you, who is of a different temperament
to your own ; nay, half a dozen such, who will not love
you though you may tell them that you have stinted
yourself in a thousand ways to provide for their well-
being, — who will forget all that self-sacrifice of which
you are yourself so conscious, and of whom you may
never be sure that they are not bearing a grudge
against you for errors of judgment into which you may
have fallen, but ^'hich you had hoped had been long
since atoned for. Ingratitude such as this is not un-
common, yet fancjT" what it must be to bear ! It is hard
upon the duckling to have been hatched by a hen, but
is it not also hard upon the hen to have hatched the
duckling ?

" Consider it again, we pray you, not for our sake
but for your own. Your initial character you must
draw by lot ; but whatever it is, it can only come to
a tolerably successful development after long training ;
remember that over that training you will have no
control. It is possible, and even probable, that what-
ever you may get in after life which is of real pleasure
and service to you, will have to be won in spite of,
rather than by the help of, those whom you are now
about to pester, and that ycu will only win your
freedom after years of a painful struggle, in which it
will be hard to say whether you have suffered most
injury, or inflicted it.

" Eemember also, that if you go into the world you
will have free will; that you will be obliged to have
it, that there is no escaping it, that you will be fettered
to it during your whole life, and must on every occasion
do Lhat which on the whole seems best to you at any
given time, no matter whether you are right or wrong
in choosing it. Your mind will be a balance for con-

r^-^^'^iii^— -

THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN.

siderations, and your action will go with the heavier
scale. How it shall fall will depend upon the kind of
scales which you may have drawn at birth, the bias
which they will have obtained by use, and the weight
of the immediate considerations. If the scales were
good to start with, and if they have not been out-
rageously tampered with in childhood, and if the com-
binations into which you enter are average ones, you
may come off well ; but there are too many " ifs " in
this, and with the failure of any one of them your
misery is assured. Eeflect on this, and remember that
should the ill come upon you, you will have yourself to
thank, for it is your own choice to be born, aui there
is no compulsion in the matter.

" Not that we deny the existence of pleasures among
mankind ; there is a certain show of sundry phases of
contentment which may even amount to very consider-
able happiness ; but mark how they are distributed over
a man's life, belonging, all the keenest of them, to the
fore part, and few indeed to the after. Can there be
any pleasure worth purchasing with the miseries of a
decrepit age ? If you are good, strong, and handsome,
you have a fine fortune indeed at twenty, but how
much of it will be left at sixty ? For you must live
on your capital ; there is no investing your powers so
that you may get a small annuity of life for ever : you
must eat up your principal bit by bit and be tortured
by seeing it grow continually smaller and smaller, even
though you happen to escape being rudely robbed of it
by crime or casualty. Eemember, too, that there never
yet was a man of forty who would not come back into
the world of the unborn if he could do so with decency
and honour. Being in the world, he will as a general
rule stay till he is forced to go ; but do you think that

■ 1

' i

:iiil

SELECTIONS FROM EREWHON.

he would consent to be born again, and re-live his life,
if he had the offer of doing so? Do not think it.
If he could so alter the past as that he should never
have come into being at all, do you not think that he
would do it very gladly ? What was it that one of
their own poets meant, if it was not this, when he cried
out upon the day in which he was born, and the night
in which it was said there is a man child conceived ?
* For now,' he says, * I should have lain still and been
quiet, I should have slept ; then had I been at rest
with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built
desolate places for themselves ; or with princes that
had gold, who filled their houses with silver; or as an
hidden untimely birth, I had not been ; as infants
which never saw light. There the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest.' Be very sure
that the guilt of being born carries this punishment at
times to all men ; but how can they ask for pity, or
complain of any mischief that may befall them, having
entered open-eyed into the snare ?

" One word more and we have done. If any faint
remembrance, as of a dream, flit in some puzzled mo-
ment across your brain, and you shall feel that the
potion which is to be given you shall not have done
its work, and the memory of this existence which you
are leaving endeavours vainly to return ; we say in
such a moment, when you clutch at the dream but it
eludes your grasp, and you watch it, as Orpheus
watched Eurydice, gliding back again into the twi-
light kingdom, fly — fly — if you can remember the
advice — to the haven of your present and immediate
duty, taking shelter incessantly in the work which
you have in hand. This much you may perhaps recall ;
and this, if you will imprint it deeply upon your every

t" ^ *^^^i - jw J-

THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN.

faculty, will be most likely to bring you safely and
honourably home through the trials that are before

you."-"-

This is the fashion in which they reason with those
who would be for leaving them, but it is seldom that
they do much good, for none but the unquiet and
unreasonable ever think of being born, and those who
are foolish enough to think of it are generally foolish
enough to do it. Finding therefore that they can do
no more, the friends follow weeping to the courthouse
of the chief magistrate, where the one who wishes to
be born declares solemnly and openly that he accepts
the conditions attached to his decision. On this he is
presented with the potion, which immediately destroys
his memory and sense of identity, and dissipates the
thin gaseous tenement which he has inhabited : he
becomes a bare vital principle, not to be perceived
by human senses, nor appreciated by any chemical test.
He has but one instinct, which is that he is to go to
such and such a place, where he will find two persons
whom he is to importune till they consent to undertake
him ; but whether he is to find these persons among the
race of Chowbok or the Erewhonians themselves is not
for him to choose.

* The myth above alluded to exists in Erewhon with changed names
and considerable modifications. I have taken the liberty of referring
to the story as familiar to ourselves.

lil

SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

t : : i!

I ''i 1

■i .,1;

MEMOIR OF THE LATE yOHN PICKARD

OWEN.

(chapter I. OF THE FAIR HAVEN. *)

rriHE subject of this memoir, and author of the work
J- which follows it, was born in Goodge Street,
Tottenham Court Eoad, London, on the 5 th of Feb-
ruary 1832. He was my elder brother by about
eighteen months. Our father and mother had once
been rich, but through a succession of unavoidable
misfortunes they were left with but a slender income
when my brother and myself were about three and
four years old. My father died some five or six years
afterwards, and we only recollected him as a singularly
gentle and humorous playmate who doted upon us
both and never spoke unkindly.

The charm of such a recollection can never be dis-
pelled ; both my brother and myself returned his love
with interest, and cherished his me nory with the most
affectionate regret, from the day on which he left us
till the time came that the one of us was again to see
him face to face. So sweet and winning was his
nature that his slightest wish was our law — and
whenever we pleased him, no matter how little, he
never failed to thank us as though we had done him

* The first edition of the Fair Haven was published April 1873.

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

a service which we should have had a perfect right to
withhold. How proud were we upon any of these
occasions, and how we courted the opportunity of
being thanked ! He did indee> well know the art
of becoming idolised by his children, and dearly did
he prize the results of his own proficiency ; yet truly
there was no art about it ; all arose spontaneously
from the well-spring of a sympathetic nature which
was quick to feel as others felt, whether old or young,
rich or poor, wise or foolish. On one point alone did
he neglect us — I refer to our religious education. On
all other matters he was the kindest and most careful
teacher in the world. Love and gratitude be to his
memory !

My mother loved us no less ardently than my
father, but she was of a quicker temper, and less
adept at conciliating affection. She must have been
exceedingly handsome when she was young, and was
still comely when we first remembered her ; she was
also highly accomplished, but she felt my father's loss
of fortune more keenly than my father himself, and
it preyed upon her mind, though rather for our sake
than for her own. Had we not known my father we
should have loved her better than any one in the
world, but affection goes by comparison, and my father
spoiled us for any one but himself; indeed, in after
life, I remember my mother's telling me, with many
tears, how jealous she had often been of the love we
bore him, and how mean she had thought it of him to
entrust all scolding or repression to her, so that he
might have more than his due share of our affection.
Not that I believe my father did this consciously ; still,
he so greatly hated scolding that I dare say we might often
have got off scot-free when we really deserved reproof

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h'Sr i |i !"

iti -'

had not my mother undertaken the onus of scolding
us herself. We therefore naturally feared her more
than my father, and fearing more we loved less. For
as love casteth out fear, so fear love.

This must have been hard to bear, and my mother
scarcely knew the way to bear it. She tried to up-
braid us, in little ways, into loving her as much as my
father ; the more she tried this, the less we could suc-
ceed in doing it; and so on and so on in a fashion
which need not be detailed. Not but what we really
loved her deeply, while her affection for us was insur-
passable; still we loved her less than we loved my
father, and this was the grievance.

My father entrusted our religious education entirely
to my mother. He was himself, I am assured, of a
deeply religious turn of mind, and a thoroughly con-
sistent member of the Church of England ; but he con-
ceived, and perhaps rightly, that it is the mother who
should first teach her children to lift their hands in
prayer, and impart to them a knowledge of the One in
whom we live and move and have our being. My
mother accepted the task gladly, for in spite of a cer-
tain narrowness of view — the natural but deplorable
result of her earlier surroundings — she was one of the
most truly pious women whom I have ever known ;
unfortunately for herself and us she had been trained
in the lowest school of Evangelical literalism — a school
which in after life both my brother and myself came
to regard as the main obstacle to the complete over-
throw of unbelief; we therefore looked upon it with
something stronger than aversion, and for my own part
I still deem it perhaps the most insidious enemy which
the cause of Christ has ever encountered. But of this
more hereafter.

yOHN PICKARD OWEN.

colding
ir more

I. For

mother
to up-
i as my
lid suc-
fashion
I really
I insur-
^ed my

entirely
id, of a
ily con-
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who
mds in
One in
My
a cer-
orable
of the
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trained
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came
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^n part
which
of this

My mother, as I said, threw her whole soul into the
work of our religious education. Whatever she be-
lieved she believed literally, and, if I may say so, with
a harshness of realisation which left little scope for
imagination or mystery. Her ideas concerning heaven
and her solutions of life's enigmas were clear and simple,
but they could only be reconciled with certain obvious
facts — such as the omnipotence anu all-goodness of
God — by leaving many things absolutely out of sight.
And this my mother succeeded effectually in doing.
She never doubted that her opinions comprised the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ; she
therefore made haste to sow the good seed in our
tender minds, and so far succeeded that when my
brother was four years old he could repeat the Apostles'
Creed, the general confession, and the Lord's Prayer
without a blunder. My mother made herself believe
that he delighted in them ; but, alas ! it was far other-
wise ; for strange as it may appear concerning one
whose later life was a continual prayer, in childhood
he detested nothing £,0 much as being made to pray,
and to learn his catechism. In this I am sorry to say
we were both heartily of a mind. As for Sunday the
less said the better.

I have already hinted (but as a warning to other
parents had better, perhaps, express myself more plainly)
that this aversion was probably the result of my mother's
undue eagerness to reap an artificial fruit of lip-service,
which could have little meaning to the heart of one so
young. I believe that the severe check which the
natural growth of faith experienced in my brother's
case was due almost entirely to this cause, and to the
school of literalism in which he had been trained ; but,
however this may be, we both of us hated being made

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SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

to say our prayers. Morning and evening it was our
one bugbear, and we would avoid it, as indeed children
generally will, by every artifice ^\hicll we could em-

Tlius we were in the habit of feigning to be asleep
shortly before prayer time, and would gratefully hear
my father tell my mother that it was a shame to wake
lis ; whereon he would carry us up to bed in a state
apparently of the profoundest slumber when we were
really wide awake and in great fear of detection. For
we knew how to pretend to be asleep, but we did not
know Low we ought to wake again ; there was nothing
for it therefore when we were once committed, but to
go on sleeping till we were fairly undressed and put to
bed, and could wake up safely in the dark. But de-
ceit is never long successful, and we ^ere at last igno-
miniously exposed.

It happened one evening that my mother suspected
my brother John, and tried to open his little hands
which were lying clasped in front of him. iNow my
brother was as yet very crude and inconsistent in his
theories concerning sleep, and had no conception what
a real sleeper would do under these circumstances.
Fear deprived him of his powers of reflection, and he
thus unfortunately concluded that because sleepers, so
far as he had observed them, were always motionless,
therefore they must be rigid and incapable of motion ;
and indeed that any movement, under any circum-
stances (for from his earliest childhood he liked to
carry his theories to their legitimate conclusion), would
be physically impossible for one who was really sleep-
ing ; forgetful, oh ! unhappy one, of the flexibility of
his own body on being carried up stairs, and, more un-
happy still, ignorant of the art of waking. He there-

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

fore clenclied his fingers harder and harder as he felt
my motlier trying to unfold them, while his head hung
listless, and his eyes were closed as though he were
sleeping sweetly. It is needless to detail the agony of
shame that followed. My mother begged my father
to box his ears, which my father flatly refused to do.
Then she boxed them herself, and there followed a
scene, and a day or two of disgrace for both of us.

Shortly after this there happened another misad-
venture. A lady came to stay with my mother, and
was to sleep in a bed that had been brought into cur
nursery, for my father's fortunes had already railed,
and we were living in a humble way. We were still
but four and five years old, so the arrangement was
not unnatural, and it was assumed that we should be
asleep before the lady went to bed, and be down stairs
before she would get up in the morning. But the
arrival of this lady and her being put to sleep in the
nursery were great events to us in those days, and
being particularly wanted to go to deep, we of course
sat up in bed talking and keeping ourselves awake till
she should come up stairs. Perhaps we had fancied
that she would give us something, but if so we were
disappointed. However, whether this was the case or
not, we were wide awake when our visitor came to bed,
and having no particular object to gain, we made no
pretence of sleeping. The lady kissed us both, told
us to lie still and go to sleep like good children, and
then began doing her hair,

I remember this was the occasion on which my
brother discovered a good many things in connection
with the fair sex which had hitherto been beyond his
ken ; more especially that the mass of petticoats and
clothes which envelop the female form were not, as he

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SELECTIONS FROM THE F.ilR HAVEN.

expressed it to me, " all solid woinnn, " but that women
were not in reality more substantially built than men,
and had legs as much as lie had — a fact which he had
never yet realised. On this he for a long time
considered them as impostors, who had wronged him
by leading him to suppose that they had far more
" body in them " (so he said) than he now found they
had.

This was a sort of thing which he r'^garded with
stern moral reprobation. If he had been old enough
to have a solicitor I believe he would have put the
matter into his hands, us well as certain other things
which had lately troubled him. For but recently my
mother had bought a fowl, and he had seen it plucked,
and the inside taken out ; his irritation had been
extreme on discovering that fowls were not all solid
flesh, but that their in sides — and these formed, as it
appeared to him, an enormous percentage of the bird —
were perfactly useless. He was now beginning to
understand that sheep and cows were also hollow as
far as good meat was concerned ; the flesh they had
was only a mouthful in comparison with what they
ought to have considering their apparent bulk ; insig-
nificant, mere skin and bone covering: a cavern. What
right had they, or anything else, to assert themselves
as so big, and prove so empty ? And now this dis-
covery of woman's falsehood was quite too much for
him. The world itself was hollow, made up of shams
and delusions, full of sound and fury signifying
nothing.

Truly a prosaic young gentleman enough. Every-
thing with him was to be exactly in all its parts what
it appeared on the face of it, and everything was to
go on doing exactly what it had been doing hitherto.

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

If a thing looked solid, it was to be very solid ; if
hollow, very hollow; notliing was to bo half and half,
and nothing was to change unless he had himself
already beronie accustomed to its times and manners
of changing ; there were to be no exceptions and no
contradictions ; all things were to he perfectly con-
sistent, and all premisses to be carried with extremest
rigour to their legitimate conclusions. Heaven was to
be very neat (for he was always tidy himself), and
free from sudden shocks to the nervous system, such
as those caused by dogs barking at him, or cows driven
in the streets. God was to resemble my father, and
the Holy Spirit to bear some sort of indistinct analogy
to my mother.

Such were the ideal theories of his childhood —
unconsciously formed, but very firmly believed in. As
he grew up he made such modifications as were forced
upon him by enlarged perceptions, but every modifi-
cation was an effort to him, in spite of a continual
and successful resistance to what he recoL-nised as his
initial mental defect.

I may perhaps be allowed to say here, in reference
to a remark in the preceding paragraph, that both my
brother and myself used to notice it as an almost
invariable rule that children's earliest ideas of God
are modelled upon the character of their father — if
they have one. Should the father be kind, considerate,
full of the warmest love, fond of showing it, and
reserved only about his displeasure, the child, having
learned to look upon God as his Heavenly Father
through the Lord's Prayer and our Church Services,
will feel towards God as he does towards his own
father ; this conception will stick to a man for years
and years after he has attained manhood — probably it

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SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

will never leave him. On the other hand, if a man
has found his earthly father harsh and uncongenial,
his conception of his Heavenly Parent will be painful.
He will begin by seeing God as an exaggerated like-
ness of his father. He will therefore shrink from
Him. The rottenness of still-born love in the heart of
a child poisons the blood of the soul, p' 1 hence, later,
crime.

To return, however, to the lady. When she had
put on her night-gown, she knelt down by her bed-side
and, to our consternation, began to say her prayers.
This was a cruel blow to both of us ; we had always
been under the impression that grown-up people were
not made to say their prayers, and the idea of any
one saying them of his or her own accord had never
occurred to us as possible. Of course the lady would
not say her prayers if she were not obliged ; and yet
she did say them ; therefore she must be obliged to
say them; therefore we should be obliged to say them,
and this was a great disappointment. Awe-struck and
open-mouthed we listened while the lady prayed aloud
and with a good deal of pathos for many virtues and
blessings which I do not now remember, and finally
for my father and mother and for both of us — shortly
afterwards she rose, blew out the light and got into
bed. Every word that she said had confirmed our
worst apprehensions ; it was just what we had been
taught to say ourselves.

Next morning we compared notes and drew some
painful inferences ; but in the course of the day our
spirits rallied. We agreed that there were many
mysteries in connection with life and things which it
was high time to unravel, and that an opportunity was
now afforded us which might not readily occur again.

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

All we had to do was to be true to ourselves and equal
to the occasion. We laid our plans with great astute-
ness. We would be fast asleep when the lady came
up to bed, but our heads should be turned in the
liirection of her bed, and covered with clothes, all but
a single peep-hole. My brother, as the eldest, had
clearly a right to be nearest the lady, but I could see
sufficiently, and could depend on his reporting faithfully
whatever should escape nie.

Tliere was no chance of her giving us anyi:hing —
if she had meant to do so she would have done it
sooner; she might, indeed, consider the moment of
her departure as the most auspicious for this purpose,
but then she was not going yet, and the interval was
at our own disposal. We spent the afternoon in trying
to learn to snore, but we were not certain about it, and
in the end concluded that as snoring was not de rigiteur
we had better dispense with it.

We were put to bed ; the light was taken away ;
we were told to go to sleep, and promised faithfully
that we would do so ; the tongue indeed swore, but
the mind was unsworn. It was agreed that we should
keep pinching one another to prevent our going to
sleep. We did so at frequent intervals; at last our
patience was rewarded with the heavy creak, as of a
stout elderly lady labouring up the stairs, and presently
our victim entered.

To cut a long story short, the lady on satisfying
herself that we were asleep, never said her prayers
at all; during the remainder of her visit whenever
she found us awake she always said them, but when
she thought we were asleep, she never prayed. I
should perhaps say that we had the matter out with
her before she left, and that the consequences were

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SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

unpleasant for all parties ; they added to the troubles
in whicli we were already involved as to our prayers,
and were indirectly among the earliest causes which
led my brother to look with scepticism upon religion.

For awhile, however, all went on as though nothing
had happened. An effect of distrust, indeed, remained
after the cause had been forgotten, but my brother was
still too young to oppose anything that my mother
told him, and to all outward appearance he grew in
grace no less rapidly than in stature.

For years we led a quiet and eventless life, broken
only by the one great sorrow of our father's death.
Shortly after this we were sent to a day school in
Bloomsbury. We were neither of us very happy
there, bu.t my brother, who always took kindly to
his books, picked up a fair knowledge of Latin and
Greek ; he also learned to draw, and to exercise him-
self a little in English composition. When I was
about fourteen my mother capitalised a part of her
income and started me off to America, where she had
friends who could give me a helping hand; by their
kindness I was enabled, after an absence of twenty
years, to return with a handsome income, but not, alas !
before the death of my mother.

Up to the time of my departure my mother con-
tinued to read the Bible with us and explain it. She
had become enamoured of those millenarian opinions
which laid hold of so many some twenty- five or thirty
years ago. The Apocalypse was perhaps her favourite
book in the Bible, and she was imbued with a con-
viction that all the many ?.nd varied horrors with which
it teems were upon the eve of their accomplishment.
The year eighteen hundred and forty-eight was to be
(as indeed it was) a time of general bloodshed and con-

'4i,r

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

con-
She
tnions

-hirty

fusion, while in eighteen hundred and sixty-six, should
it please God to spare her, her eyes would be gladdened
by the visible descent of the Son of Man with a shout,
with the voice of the Archangel, with the trump of
God, and the dead in Christ should rise first ; then
she, as one of them that were alive, would be caught
up with other saints into the air, and would possibly
receive while rising some distinguishing token of con-
fidence and approbation which should fall with due
impressiveness upon the surrounding multitude ; then
would come the consummation of all things, and she
would be ever with the Lord. She died peaceably in
her bed before she could know that a commercial panic
was the nearest approach to the fulHlment of prophecy
which the year eighteen hundred and sixty-six brought
forth.

These opinions of my mother's injured her naturally
healthy and vigorous mind by leading her to indulge
in all manner of dreamy and fanciful interpretations
of Scripture, which any but the most narrow literalist
would feel at once to be untenable. Thus several
times she expressed to us her conviction that my
brother and myself were to be the two witnesses men-
tioned in the eleventh chapter of the Book of Eevela-
tion, and dilated upon the gratification she should ex-
perience upon finding that we had indeed been reserved
for a position of such distinction. We were as yet
mere children, and naturally took all for granted that
our mother told us ; we therefore made a careful exam-
ination of the passage which threw light upon our future.
On finding that the prospect was gloomy and full of
bloodshed we protested against the honours which were
intended for us, more especially when we reflected that
the mother of the two witnesses was not menaced in

!I1*

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SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

Scripture with any particular discomfort. If we were
to be martyrs, my mother ought to wish to be a martyr
too, whereas nothing was farther from her intention.
Her notion clearly was that we were to be massacred
somewhere in the streets of London, in consequence of
the anti- Christian machinations of the Pope ; that after
lying about unburied for three days and a half we were
to come to life again ; and finally, that we should con-
spicuously ascend to heaven, in front, perhaps, of the
Foundling Hospital.

She was not herself indeed to share either our martyr-
dom or our glorification, but was to survive us many
years on earth, living in an odour of great sanctity
and reflected splendour, as the central and most august
figure in a select society. She would perhaps be able
indirectly, through her sons' influence with the Almighty,
to have a voice in most of the arrangements both of
this world and of the next. If all this were to come
true (and things seemed very like it), those friends
who ha I neglected us in our adversity would not find
it too easy to be restored to favour, however greatly
they might desire it — that is to say, they would not
have found it too easy in the case of one less mag-
nanimous and spiritually-minded than herself. My
mother said but little of the above directly, but the
fragments which occasionally escaped her were pregnant,
and on looking back it is easy to perceive that she must
have been building one of the most stupendous aerial
fabrics that have ever been reared.

I have given the above in its more amusing aspect,
and am half afraid that I may appear to be making a
jest of weakness on the part of one of the most de-
votedly unselfish mothers who have ever existed. But
one can love whUe smiling, and the very wildness of

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

my mother's dream serves to show how entirely her
whole soul was occupied with the things which are
above. To her, religion was all in all ; the earth was
but a place of pilgrimage — only so far important as it
was a possible road to heaven. She impressed this
upon both of us by every word and action — instant in
season and out of season, so that she might but fill us
more deeply with a sense of the things belonging to
our peace.

But the inevitable consequences happened; my
mother had aimed too high and had overshot her mark.
The influence indeed of her guileless and unworldly
nature remained impressed upon my brother even
during the time of Lis extremest unbelief (perhaps his
ultimate safety is in the main referable to this cause,
and to the happy memories of my father, which had
predisposed him to love God), but my mother had
insisted on the most minute verbal accuracy of every
part of the Bible ; she had also dwelt upon the duty
of independent research, and on the necessity of
giving up everything rather than assent to things which
our conscience did not assent to. No one could have
more effectually taught us to try to think the truth,
and we had taken her at her word because our hearts
told us that she was right. But she required three
incompatible things. When my brother grew older he
came to feel that independent and unflinching examina-
tion, with a determination to abide by the results,
would lead him to reject the point which to my mother
was more important than any other — I mean the
absolute accuracy of the Gospel records. My mother
was inexpressibly shocked at hearing my brother doubt
the authenticity of the Epistle to the Hebrews ; and
then, as it appeared to him, she tried to make him

SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

[M: :)

i' is In
B!;Fr

11 H'

violate the duties of examination and candour which he
had learnt too thoroughly to unlearn. Thereon came
pain and an estrangement which was none the less pro-
found for being mutually concealed. It seemed to my
mother that he would not give up the wilfulness of his
own opinions for her and for his Redeemer's sake. To
him it seemed that he was ready to give up not only
his mother but Christ Himself for Christ's sake.

Tliis estrangement was the gradual work of some
five or six years, during which my brother was between
eleven and seventeen years old. At seventeen, I am
told that he was remarkably well informed and clever.
His manners were, like my father's, singularly genial,
and his appearance very prepossessing. He had as yet
no doubt Cuucerning the soundness of any fundamental
Christian doctrine, but his mind was already too active
to allow of his being contented with my mother's child-
like faith. There were points on which he did not
indeed doubt, but which it would none the less be
interesting to consider ; such for example as the per-
fectibility of the regenerate Christian, and the mean) ,
of the mysteiious central chapters of the Epistle to tn
Eomans. He was engaged in these researches though
still only a boy, when an event occurred which gave the
first real shock to his faith.

He was accustomed to teach in a school for the
poorest children every Sunday afternoon, a task for
which his patience and good temper well fitted him.
On one occasion, however, while he was explaining
the effect of baptism to one of his favourite pupils, he
discovered to his great surprise that the boy had never
been baptized. He pushed his inquiries further, and
found that out of the fifteen boys in his class only five
had been baptized, and, not only so, but that no differ-

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

ence in disposition or conduct could be discovered be-
tween the regenerate boys and the unregenerate. The
good and bad boys were distributed in proportions equal
to the respective numbe 's of the baptized and unbap-
tized. In spite of a certain impetuosity of natural
character, he was also of a matter-of-fact and experi-
mental turn of mind ; he therefore went through the
whole school, which numbered about a hundred boys,
and found out who had been baptized and who had
not. The same results appeared. The majority had
not been baptized ; yet the good and bad dispositions
were so distributed as to preclude all possibility of
maintaining that the baptized boys were better than
the unbaptized.

The reader may smile at the idea of any one's faith
being troubled by a fact of which the explanation is so
obvious, but as a matter of fact my brother was seri-
ously and painfully shocked. The teacher to whom he
applied for a solution of the difficulty was not a man
of any real power, and reported my brother to the
rector for having disturbed the school by his inquiries.
The rector was old and self-opinionated ; the difficulty,
indeed, was plainly as new to him as it had been to
my brother, but instead of saying so at once, and
referring to any recognised theological authority, he
tried to put him off with words which seemed intended
to silence him rather than to satisfy him ; finally he
lost his temper, and my brother fell under suspicion of
unorthodoxy.

This kind of treatment did not answer with ray
brother. He alludes to it resentfully in the introduc-
tory chapter of his book. He became suspicious that
a preconceived opinion was being defended at the ex-
pense of honest scrutiny, and was thus driven upon

'■I

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SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

his own unaided investigation. The result may be
guessed : he began to go astray, and strayed further
and furtlier. The children of God, he reasoned, the
members of Christ and inheritors of the kingdom of
heaven, were no more spirit uaiiy minded than the
children of the world and the devil. Was then the
grace of God a gift which left no trace whatever upon
those who were possessed of it ? A thing the presence
or absence of which might be ascertained by consulting
the parish registry, but was not discernible in conduct ?
Tlie grace of man was more clearly perceptible than
this. Assuredly there must be a screw loose some-
where, which, for aught he knew, might be jeopardising
the salvation of all Christendom. Wl'ere then was
this loose screw to be found ?

He concluded after some months of reflection that
the mischief was caused by the system of sponsors and
by infant baptism. He, therefore, to my mother's
inexpressible grief, joined the Baptists, and was im-
mersed in a pond near Dorking. With the Baptists he
remained quiet about three months, and then began to
quarrel with his instructors as to their doctrine of pre-
destination. Shortly afterwards he came accidentally
upon a fascinating stranger who was no less struck
with my brother than my brother with him, and this
gentleman, who turned out to be a Eoman Catholic
missionary, landed him in the Church of Eome, where
he felt sure that he had now found rest for his soul.
But here, too, he was mistaken ; after about two years
he rebelled against the stifling of all free inquiry ; on
this rebellion the flood-gates of scepticism were opened,
and he was soon battling with unbelief. He then fell
in with one who was a pure Deist, and was shorn of
every shred of dogma which he had ever held, except

JOHN PICKARD OWEN.

a belief in the personality and providence of the
Creator.

On reviewing his letters written to me about this
time, I am painfully struck with the manner in which
they show that all these pitiable vagaries were to be
traced to a single cause — a cause which still exists to
the misleading of hundreds of thousands, and which, I
fear, seems likely to continue in full force for many a
year to come — I mean, to a false system of training
which teaches people to regard Christianity as a thing
one and indivisible, to be accepted entirely in the
strictest reading of the letter, or to be rejected as
absolutely untrue. The fact is, that all permanent
truth is as one of those coal measures, a seam of which
lies near the surface, and even crops up above the
ground, but which is generally of an inferior quality
and soon worked out ; beneath it there comes a labour
of sand and clay, and then at last the true seam of
precious quality, and in virtually inexhaustible supply.
The truth which is on the surface is rarely the whole
truth. It is seldom until this has been worked out
and done with — as in the case of the apparent flatness
of the earth — that unchangeable truth is discovered.
It is the glory of the Lord to conceal a matter : it is
the glory of the king to iind it out. If my brother,
from whom I have taken the above illustration, had
had some judicious and wide-minded friend, to correct
and supplement the mainly admirable principles which
had been instilled into him by my mother, he would
have been saved years of spiritual wandering ; but, as
it was, he fell in with one after another, each in his
own way as literal and unspiritual as the other — each
impressed with one aspect of religious truth, and with
one only. In the end he became perhaps the widest-

HI H;

SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR HAVEN.

I. hi

IIk

minded and most original thinker whom I have ever
met ; hut no one from his early manhood could have
anguied this result ; on the contrary, he showed every
sign of being li^'ely to develop into one of those who
can never see i .'"e ;an one side of a question at a
time, in spite o. . eeing that side with singular
clearness of menta. isioi; Tn after life, he often met
with mere lads who seemed to him to be years and
years in advance of what he had been at their age, and
would say, smiling, " With a great sum obtained I
this freedom ; bat thou wast free-born."

Yet when one comes to think of it, a late develop-
ment and laborious growth are generally more fruitful
than those which are over early luxuriant. Drawing
an illustration from the art of painting, with which he
was well acquainted, my brother used to say that all
the greatest painters had begun with a hard and
precise manner, from which they had only broken after
several years of effort ; and that in like manner all
the early schools were founded upon definiteness of
outline to the exclusion of truth of effect. This may
be true ; but in my brother's case there was something
even more unpromising than this ; there was a com-
monness, so to speak, of mental execution, from which
no one could have foreseen his after- emancipation.
Yet in the course of time he was indeed emancipated
to the very uttermost, while his bonds will, I firmly
trust, be found to have been of inestimable service to
the whole human race.

For although it was so many years before he was
enabled to see the Christian scheme as a whole, or
even to conceive the idea that there was any whole
at all, other than each one of the stages of opinion
through which he was at the time passing ; yet when

•rOHN PICKARD OWEN.

may

the idea was at length presented to him by one whom
I must not name, the discarded fragments of his faith
assumed shape, and formed themselves into a con-
sistently organised scheme. Then became apparent
the value of his knowledge of the details of so many
different sides of Christian verity. Buried in the
details, he had hitherto ignored the fact that they
were only the unessential developments of certain
component parts. Awakening to the perception of
the whole after an intimate acquaintance with the
details, he was able to realise the position and
meaning of all that he had hitherto experienced in a
way wldch has been vouchsafed to few, if any others.
Thus he became truly a broad Churchman. Not
broad in the ordinary and ill-considered use of the
term (for the broad Churchman is as little able to
sympathise with Eomanists, extreme High Church-
men and Dissenters, as these are with himself — he
is only one of a sect which is called by the name
of broad, though it is no broader than its own base),
but in the true sense of being able to believe in the
naturalness, legitimacy, and truth qud Christianity
even of those doctrines which seem to stand most
widely and irreconcilably asunder.

,-■*

>•*<;

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS.

(from chapter I. OF LIFE AND HABIT.*)

IT will be our business in the following chapters to
consider whether the unconsciousness, or quasi-
unconsciousness, with which we perform certain ac-
quired actions, throws any light upon Embryology and
inherited instincts, and otherwise to follow the train
of thouirht which the class of actions above mentioned
may suggest. More especially I propose to consider
them in so far as they bear upon the origin of species
and the continuation of life by successive generations,
whether in the animal or vegetable kingdoms.

Taking then, the art of playing the piano as an
example of the kind of action we are in search of, we
observe that a practised player will perform very diffi-
cult pieces apparenciy without effort, often, indeed,
while thinking and talking of something quite other
than hiS music ; yet he will play accurately and, pos-
sibly, with much expression. If he has been playing
a fugue, say in four parts, he will have kept each part
well distinct, in such a manner as to prove that his
mind was not prevented, by its other occupations,
from consciously or unconsciously following four dis-
tinct trains of musical thought at the same time, nor

* The first edition of Life and Habit was published in December, 1877,

ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS.

nor

from making liis fingers act in exactly the required
manner as regards each note of each part.

It commonly happens that in the course of four or
live minutes a player may have struck four or five
thousand notes. If we take intj consideration the
rests, dotted notes, accidentals, variations of time, &c.,
we shall find his attention must have been exercised
on many more occasions than when he was actually
striking notes: so that it may not be too much to
say that the attention of a first-rate player has been
exercised — to an infinitesimally small extent — but
still truly exercised — on as many as ten thousand
occasions within the space of five minutes, for no note
can be struck nor point attended to without a certain
amount of attention, no matter how rapidly or uncon-
sciously given.

Moreover, each act of attention has been followed
by an act of volition, and each act of volition by a
muscular action, which is composed of many minor
actions ; some so small that we can no more follow
them than the player himself can perceive them;
nevertheless, it may have been perfectly plain that the
player was not attending to what he was doing, but
was listening to conversation on some other subject,
not to say joining in it himself. If he has been play-
ing the violin, he may have done all the above, and
may also have been walking about. Herr Joachim
would unquestionably be able to do all that has hero
been described.

So complete may be the player's unconsciousness
of the attention he is giving, and the brain power he
is exerting, that we may find it difficult to awaken
his attention to any particular part of his performance
without putting him out. Indeed we cannot do so.

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

We observe that he finds it hardly less difficult to
compass a voluntary consciousness of what ho has
once learnt so thoroughly that it has passed, so to
speak, into the domain of unconsciousness, than he
found it to learn the note or passai^e in the first
instance. The eflbrt alter a second consciousness of
detail baffles him — compels him to turn to his music
or play slowly. In fact it seems as though he knows
the piece too well to be able to know that he knows
it, and is only conscious of knowing those passages
which he does not know so thoroughly.

At the end of his performance, his pov.er of re-
collecting appears to be no less annihilated than was
his consciousness of attention and volition. For of
the thousands of acts requiring the exercise of both
the one and the other, which he has done during the
five minutes, we will say, of his performance, he will
remember hardly one when it is over. If he calls to
mind anything beyond the main fact that he has
played such and such a piece, it will probably be
some passage wliich he has found more difficult than
the others, and with the like of which he has not been
so long familiar. All the rest he will forget as com-
pletely as the breath which he has drawn while
playing.

He finds it difficult to remember even the difficulties
he experienced in learning to play. A few may have
so impressed him that they remain with him, but the
greater part will have escaped him as completely as the
remembrance of what he ate, or how he put on his
clothes, this day ten years ago ; nevertheless, it is
plain he does in reality remember more than he re-
members remembering, for he avoids mistakes which
he made at one time, and his performance proves that

ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS.

all the notes are in his memory, thou<];h if cuUod upon
to play such and such a bar at random from the
inid(U(3 of the piece, and neitlicr more nor less, lie ^vill
probably say that he cannot remember it unless he
begins from the bei,nnning of tlie phrase wliieli leads
to it.

In spite, however, of the performer's present pro-
ficiency, our experience of the manner in whicli pro-
ficiency is usually acquired warrants us in assuming
that there must have been a time when what is now
so easy as to be done without conscious eflbrt of the
brain was only done by means of brain work which
•was very keenly perceived, even to fatigue and positive
distress. Even now, if the player is playing something
the like of which he has not met before, we observe he
pauses and becomes immediately conscious of attention.

We draw the inference, therefore, as regards piano-
forte or violin playing, that the more the familiarity or
knowledge of the art, the less is there consciousness of
such knowledge ; even so far as that there should be
almost as much difficulty in awakening consciousness
which has become, so to speak, latent, — a consciousness
of that which is known too well to admit of recognised
self-analysis while the knowledge is being exercised —
as in creating a consciousness of that which is not yet
well enough knov n to be properly designated as known
at all. On the other hand, we observe that the less
the familiarity or kii owledge, the greater the conscious-
ness of whatever knowledge there is.

To sum up, then, briefly. It would appear as
though perfect knowledge and perfect ignorance were
extremes which meet and become indistinguishable
from one another; so also perfect volition and perfect

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

absence of volition, perfect memory and perfect forget-
fulness ; for we are unconscious of knowing, willing,
or remembering, either from not yet having known or
willed, or from knowing and willing so well and so
intensely as to be no longer conscious of either.
Conscious knowledge and volition are of attention ;
attention is of suspense ; suspense is of doubt ; doubt
is of uncertainty ; uncertainty is of ignorance ; so that
the mere fact of conscious knowing or willing implies
the presence of more or less novelty and doubt.

It would also appear as a general principle on a
superficial view of the foregoing instances (and the
reader may readily supply himself with others which
are perhaps more to the purpose), that unconscious
knowledge and unconscious volition are never acquired
otherwise than as the result of experience, familiarity,
or habit ; so that whenever we observe a person able
to do any complicated action unconsciously, we may
assume both that he must have done it very often
before he could acquire so great proficiency, and also
that there must have been a time when he did not
know how to do it at all.

We may assume that there was a time when he
was yet so nearly on the point of neither knowing nor
willing perfectly, that he was quite alive to whatever
knowledge or volition he could exert; going further
back, we shall find him still more keenly alive to a
less perfect knowledge ; earlier still, we find him well
aware that he does not know nor will correctly, but
trying hard to do both the one and the other ; and so
on, bpck and back, till both difficulty and consciousness
become little more than " a sound of going," as it v/ere,
in the brain, a flitting to and fro of something barely
recognisable as the desire to will or know at all — much

ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS.

less as the desire to know or will definitely this or
that. Finally they retreat beyond our ken into the
repose — the inorganic kingdom — of as yet unawakened
interest.

In either case — the repose of perfect ignorance or
of perfect knowledge — disturbance is troublesome.
When first starting on an Atlantic steamer, our rest is
hindered by the screw ; after a short time, it is hindered
if the screw stops. A uniform impression is practically
no impression. One cannot either learn or unlearn
without pains or pain.

■1*

( 74 )

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS
— THE LAW AND GRACE.

(FUOM chapter II. OF LIFE AND HABIT.)

CERTAIN it is that we know best what we are least
conscious of knowing, or at any rate least able to
prove ; as, for example, our own existence, or that there
is a country England. If any one asks us for proof on
matters of this sort, we have none ready, and are justly
annoyed at being called to consider what we regard
as settled questions. Again, there is hardly anything
which so much afi'ects our actions as the centre of the
earth (unless, perhaps, it be that still hotter and more
unprofitable s )ot the centre of the universe), for we
are incessantly trying to get as near it as circum-
stances will allow, or to avoid getting nearer than is for
the time being convenient. Walking, running, standing,
sitting, lying, waking, or sleeping, from birth till death
it is a paramount object with us ; even after death —
if it be not fanciful to say so — it is one of the few
things of which what is left of us can still feel the in-
fluence ; yet what can engross less of our attention
than this dark and distant spot so many thousands of
miles away ?

The air we breathe, so long as it is neither too hot
nor cold, nor rough, nor full of smoke — that is to say,
so long as it is in that state with which we are best

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS. 75

acquainted — seldom enters into our thoughts ; yet there
is hardly anything with which we are more incessantly
occupied night and day.

Indeed, it is not too much to say that we have no
really profound knowledge upon any subject — no know-
ledge on the strength of which we are ready to act at
moments unhesitatingly without either preparation or
after-thought — till we have left off feeling conscious of
the possession of such knowledge, and of the grounds
on which it rests. A lesson thoroughly learned must
be like the air which feels so light, though press-
ing so heavily against us, because every pore of our
skin is saturated, so to speak, with it on all sides
equally. This perfection of knowledge sometimes ex-
tends to positive disbelief in the thing known, so that
the most thorough knower shall believe himself alto-
getlier ignorant. No thief, for example, is such an
utter thief — so good a thief — as the kleptomaniac.
Until he has become a kleptomaniac, and can steal a
horse as it were by a reflex action, he is still but half
a thief, with many unthievish notions still clinging to
him. Yet the kleptomaniac is probably unaware that
he can steal at all, much less that he can steal so well.
He would be shocked if he were to know the truth.
So again, no man is a great hypocrite until he has left
off knowing that he is a hypocrite. The great hypo-
crites of the world are almost invariably under the
impression that they are among the very few really
honest people to be found ; and, as we must all have
observed, it is rare to find any one strongly under this
impression without ourselves having good reason to
differ from him.

Again, it has been often and very truly said that it
is not the conscious and self-styled sceptic, as Shelley,

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

I I

, I

for example, who is the true unbeliever. Such a man
as Shelley will, as indeed his life abundantly proves,
have more in common than not with the true unself-
conscious believer. Gallio again, whose indifference to
religious animosities has won him the cheapest immor-
tality which, so far as I can remember, was ever yet
won, was probably, if the truth were known, a person
of the sincerest piety. It is the unconscious un-r
believer who is the true infidel, however greatly he
would be surprised to know the truth. Mr. Spurgeon
was reported as having asked God to remove Lord
Beaconsfield from office "as soon ris possible." There
lurks a more profound distrust of God's power in these
words than in almost any open denial of His existence.

In like manner, the most perfect humour and irony
is generally quite unconscious. Examples of "joth are
frequently given by men whom the world considers s
deficient in humour; it is more probably true that
these persons are unconscious v. ihe^v own delightful
power through the very mastery and prfection with
which they hold it. There is a pla/, for instance, of
genuine fun in some of the more serious scientific and
theological journals which for some time past we have
looked for in vain in " ."

The following extract, from a journal which I will
not advertise, may serve as an example :

" Lycurgus, when they had abandoned to his revenge
him wlio had put out his eyes, took him home, and
Uie punishment he inflicted upon him was sedulous in-
fc;tructi( ns to virtue." Yet this truly comic paper does
not probably know that it is comic, any more than
the Klc])iomaniac knows that he steals, or than John
"^arl'.on kwdw lie was a humorist when he wrote a
liyjT^n upon the circumcision, and spent his honey-

n
a

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS. 77

moon in composing a treatise on divorce. No more
again did Goethe know how exquisitely humorous he
was when he wrote, in his Wilhehn Meister, that a
beautiful tear glistened in Theresa's right eye, and then
went on to explain that it glistened in her right eye
and not in her left, because she had had a wart on
her left which had been removed — and successfully.
Goethe probably wrote this without a chuckle ; he
believed what a good many people who have never
read Wilhelm Meister believe still, namely, that it was
a work full of pathos — of fine and tender feeling ; yet
a less consummate humorist must have felt that there
was scarcely a paragraph in it from first to last the
chief merit of which did not lie in its absurdity.

But enough has perhaps been said. As the fish in
the sea, or the bird in the air, so unreasoningly and
inarticulately safe must a man feel before he can be
said to know. It is only those who are ignorant and
uncultivated who can know anything at all in a proper
sense of the words. Cultivation will breed in any
man a certainty of the uncertainty even of his most
assured convictions. It is perhaps fortunate for our
comfort that we can none of us be cultivated upon
very many subjects, so that considerable scope fo.
assurance will still remain to us; but however this
may be, we certainly observe it as a fact that those
are the greatest men who are most uncertain in s te
of certainty, and at the same time most certain in
spite of uncertainty, and who are thus best able to feel
that there is nothing in such complete harmony with
itself as a flat contradiction in terms. For nature
hates that any principle should breed, so to speak,
hermaphroditically, but will give to each an help meet
for it which shall cross it and be the undoing of it ; as

i -1

SI- LECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

L, ii

ill tliG case of descont with moiliticatioii, of which the
essence is tliat every oficpriiii^ resembles its parents,
anil yet, at the same time, tliat no oHspring resembles
its parents. ])Ut for the slij,'litly irritating stimulant
of this ])('r]H'tual crossinjj;, we should pass our lives un-
consciously as tliouuh in slumber.

Until we have «;ot to uuderstand that thougli black
is not white, yet it may be whiter tlian white itself
(and any ])ainter will readily paint that which shall
show obviously as black, yet it shall be whiter than
that which shall show no less obviously as white), we
may be <j;ood loL,Mciaus, but we are still poor reasoners.
Knowledge is in an inchoate state as long as it is
capable of logical treatment; it must be transmuted
into that sei"^o or instinct which rises 1 together above
the sphere in which words can have being at all, other-
wise it is not yet incarnate. For sense is to knowledge
what conscience is to reasoning about right and wrong ;
the reasoning nmst be so rapid as to defy conscious
reference to ilrst p(inci]>les, and even at times to be
apparently subversive of them altogether, or the action
will halt. It must become automatic before we are
safe with it. While we are fumbling for the grounds
of our conviction, our conviction is i)rone to fall, as
Peter for lack of faith sinking into the waves of Galilee ;
so that the very power to prove at all is an d, priori
argument against the truth — or at any rate the prac-
tical importance to the vast majority of mankind — of
all that is supported by demonstration. For the power
to prove implies a sense of the need of proof, and
things which the majority of mankind find practically
important are in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred
above proof. The need of proof becomes as obsolete in
the case of assured knowledge, as the practice of forti-

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS. 79

fyiiig towns in tlie middle of an old and lonj^-settled
country. Who builds defences for that whicli is im-
pregnable or little likely to bo assailed ? The answer
is ready, that unless tlie defences had been built in
former times it would be impossible to do without them
now ; but this does not touch the argument, which is
not that demonstration is unwise but that as long as a
demonstration is still felt necessary, and therefore kept
ready to hand, the subject of such demonstration is not
yet securely known. Qui s excuse, s accuse ; and unless
a matter can hold its own without the brag and self-
assertion of continual demonstration, it is still more or
less of a parvenu, which we shall not lose much by
neglecting till it has less occasion to blow its own
trumpet. The only alternative is that it is an error in
process of detection, for if evidence concerning any
opinion has long been deemed superfluous, and ever
after this comes to be again felt necessary, we know
that the opinion is doomed.

If there is any truth in the above, it follows that
our conception of the words " science " and " scientific "
must undergo some modification. Not that we should
speak slightingly of science, but that we should recog-
nise more than we do, that there are two distinct classes
of scientific people, corresponding not inaptly with the
two main parties into which the political world is
divided. The one class is deeply versed in those
sciences which have already become the common pro-
perty of mankind ; enjoying, enforcing, perpetuating,
and engraining still more deeply into the mind of man
acquisitions already approved by common experience,
but somewhat careless about extension of empire, or
at any rate disinclined, for the most part, to active
effort on their own part for the sake of such extension

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

■■! ■

1^1

— neither progressive, in fact, nor aggressive — but
quiet, peaceable people, who wish to live and let live,
as their fathers before them ; while the other class is
chiefly intent upon pushing forward the boundaries of
science, and is comparatively indifferent to what is
; aown already save in so far as necessary for purposes
of extension. These last are called pioneers of science,
and to them alone is the title " scientific " commonly
accorded ; but pioneers, important to an army as
they are, are still not the army itself, which can get
on better without the pioneers than the pioneers with-
out the army. Surely the class which knows thoroughly
well what it knows, and which adjudicates upon the
value of the discoveries made by the pioneers — surely
this class has as good a right or better to be called
scientific than the pioneers themselves.

These two classes above described blend into one
another v,;-.'th every shade of gradation. Some are ad-
mirably proficient in the well-known sciences — that is
to say, they have good health, good looks, good temper,
common sense, and energy, and they hold all these good
things in such perfection as to be altogether without
introspection — to be not under the law, but so entirely
under grace that every one who sees them likes them.
But such may, and perhaps more commonly will, have
very little inclination to extend the boundaries of human
knowledge ; their aim is in another direction altogether.
Of the pioneers, on the other hand, some are agreeable
people, well versed in the older sciences, though still
more eminent as pioneers, while others, whose services
in this last capacity have been of inestimable value,
are noticeably ignorant of the sciences which have
already become current with the larger part of man-
kind — in other words, tht^y are ugly, rude, and disagree-

. CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS.

able people, very progressive, it may be, but very
aggressive to boot.

The main difference between these two classes lies
in the fact that the knowledge of tlie one, so far as it
is new, is known consciously, while that of the other
is unconscious, consisting of sense and instinct rather
than of recognised knowledge. So long as a man has
these, and of the same kind as the more powerful body
of his fellow-countrymen, he is a man of science though
he can hardly read or write. As my great namesake
said so well, " He knows what's what, and that's as
high as metaphysic wit can fly." As is usual in cases
of great proficiency, these true and thorough knowers
do not know that they are scientific, and can seldom
give a reason for the faith that is in them. They be-
lieve themselves to be ignorant, uncultured men, nor
can even the professors whom they sometimes outwit
in their own professorial domain perceive that they
have been outwitted by men of superior scientific
attainments to their own. The following passage from
Dr. Carpenter's " Mesmerism, Spiritualism," &c., may
serve as an illustration : —

" It is well known that persons who are conversant
with the geological structure of a district are often
able to indicate with considerable certainty in what
spot and at what depth water will be found ; and men
of less sdentijic knovjledge, hut of considerdbU 'practical
experience " — (so that in Dr. Carpenter's mind there
seems to be some sort of contrast or difference in kind
between the knowledge which is derived from obser-
vation of facts and scientific knowledge) — " frequently
arrive at a true conclusion upon this point without
being able to assign reasons for their opinions."

" Exactly the same may be said in regard to the

'il

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

illi!

mineral structure of a iiiining district ; tlie course of a
metallic vein beinf]^ often correctly indicated by the
shrewd <fuess of an observant workman, when the
scientific rcasoniiuj of the mining engiuijer altogether
fails."

I'recisely. Here we have exactly the kind of thing
we are in search of : the man who has observed and
observed till the facts are so thoroughly in liis head
that through familiarity he has lost sight both of them
and of the processes whereby he deduced his conclu-
sions from them — is apparently not considered scientific,
though he knows how to solve the problem before liim ;
the mining engineer, on the other hand, who reasons
scientifically — that is to say, with a knowledge of his
own knowledge — is found not to know, and to fail in
discovering the mineral.

" It is an experience we are continually encounter-
ing in other walks of life," continues Dr. Carpenter,
" that particular persons are guided- — some apparently
by an original and others by aii acquired intuition —
to conclusions for which they can give no adequate
reason, but which subsequent events prove to have
been correct." And this, 1 take it, implies what I have
been above insisting on, namely, that on becoming in-
tense, knowledge seems also to become unaware of the
grounds on which it rests, or that it has or requires
grounds at all, or indeed even exists. The only issue
between myself and Dr. Carpenter would appear to be
that Dr. Carpenter, himself an acknowledged leader in
the scientific world, restricts the term "scientific " to the
people who know that they know, but are beaten by
those who are not so conscious of their own knowledge ;
while 1 say that the term " scientific " should be applied
(only that they would not like it) to the nice sensible

(

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS.

people who know what's what rather than to the pro-
fessorial classes.

And this is easily understood when we remember
that the pioneer cannot hope to acquire any of the
new sciences in a single lifetime so perfectly as to
become unaware of his own knowledge. As a general
rule, we observe him to be still in a state of active
consciousness concerning whatever particular science
he is extending, and as long as he is in this state
he cannot know utterly. It is, as I have already so
often insisted, those who do not know that they know
so much who have tlie firmest grip of their knowledge :
the best class, for example, of our English youth, who
live much in the open air, and, as Lord Beaconsfield
finely said, never read. These are the people who
know best those thin<j;s which are best worth knowinfj —
that is to say, they are the most truly scientific.

Unfortunately, the apparatus necessary for this kind
of science is so costly as to be within the reach of few,
involving, as it does, an experience in the use of it for
some preceding generations. Even those who are
born with the means within their reach must take no
less pains, and exercise no less self-control, before they
can attain the perfect unconscious use of them, than
would go to the making of a James Watt or a Stephen-
son ; it is vain, therefore, to hope that this best kind
of science can ever be put within the reach of the
many ; nevertheless it may be safely said that all the
other and more generalbj recognised kinds of science
are valueless except in so far as they minister to this
the highest kind. They have no raison d'etre unless
they tend to do away with the necessity for work, and to
diffuse good health, and that good sense which is above
self-consciousness. They are to be encouraged because

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SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

\i ■

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they have rendered the most fortunate kind of modern
European possible, and because they tend to make
possible a still more fortunate kind than any now
existing. But the man who devotes himself to science
cannot — with the rarest, if any, exceptions — belong
to this most fortunate class himself. He occupies a
lower place, both scientifically and morally, for it is
not possible but that his drudgery should somewhat
soil him both in mind and health of body, or, if this
be denied, surely it must let him and hinder him in
running the race for unconsciousness. We do not feel
that it increases the glory of a king or great nobleman
that he should excel in what is commonly called
science. Certainly he should not go further than
Prince Eupert's drops. Nor should he excel in music,
art, literature, or theology — all which things are more
or less parts of science. He should be above them
all, save in so far as he can without effort reap renown
from the labours of others. It is a Idche in him that
he should write music or books, or paint pictures at
all ; but if he must do so, his work should be at best
contemptible. Much as we must condemn Marcus
Aurelius, we condemn James I. even more severely.

It is a pity there should exist so general a confusion
of thought upon this subject, for it may be asserted
without fear of contradiction that there is hardly any
form of immorality now rife which produces more dis-
astrous effects upon those who give themselves up to it,
and upon society in general, than the so-called science
of those who know that they know too well to be able
to know truly. With very clever people — the people
who know that they know — it is much as with the
members of the early Corinthian Church, to whom St.
Paul wrote, that if they looked their numbers over,

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS. 85

they would not find many wise, nor powerful, nor well-
born people among them. Dog-fanciers tell us that
performing dogs never carry their tails ; '^.uch dogs have
eaten of the tree of knowledge, and are convinced of
sin accordingly — they know that they know things, in
respect of which, therefore, they are no longer under
grace, but under the law, and they have yet so much
grace left as to be ashamed. So with the human
clever dog ; he may speak with the tongues of men
and angelc5, but so long as he knows that he knows, his
tail will droop.

More especially does this hold in the case of those
who are born to wealth and of old family. We must
all feel that a rich young nobleman with a taste for
science and principles is rarely a pleasant object. We
do not understand the rich young man in the Bible
who wanted to inherit eternal life, unless, indeed, he
merely wanted to know whether there was not some
way by which he could avoid dying, and even so he is
hardly worth considering. Principles are like logic,
which never yet made a good reasoner of a bad one,
but might still be occasionally useful if they did not
invariably contradict each other whenever there is any
temptation to appeal to them. They are like fire, good
servants but bad masters. As many people or more
have been wrecked on principle as from want of
principle. They are, as their name implies, of an
elementary character, suitable for beginners only, and
he who has so little mastered them as to have occasion
to refer to them consciously, is out of place in the
society of well-educated people. The truly scientific
invariably hate him, and, for the most part, the more
profoundly in proportion to the unconsciousness with
which they do so.

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

If the reader hesitates, let him go down into the
streets and look in the shop-windows at the photo-
graphs of eminent men, whether literary, artistic, or
scientific, and note the work which the consciousness
of knowledge has wrought on nine out of every ten of
them ; then let him go to the masterpieces of Greek
and Italian art, the truest preachers of the truest gospel
of grace ; let him look at the Venus of Milo, the Dis-
cobolus, the St. George of Donatello. If it had pleased
these people to wish to study, there was no lack of
brains to do it with ; but imagine " what a deal of
scorn" would "look beauUful in the contempt and
anger " of the Venus of Milo's lip if it were suggested
to her that she should learn to read. Which, think
you, knows most, the Theseus, or any modern professor
taken at random ? True, learning must have a great
share in the advancement of beauty, inasmuch as
beauty is but knowledge perfected and incarnate — but
with the pioneers it is sic vos non vohis; the grace is
not for them, but for those who come after. Science is
like offences. It must needs come, but woe unto that
man through whom it comes ; for there cannot be much
beauty where there is consciousness of knowledge, and
while knowledge is still new it must in the nature of
things involve much consciousness.

It is not knowledge, then, that is incompatible with
beauty ; there cannot be too much knowledge, but it
must have passed through many people who it is to
be feared must be both ugly and disagreeable, before
beauty or grace will have anything to say to it ; it
must be so diffused throughout a man's whole being
that he shall not be aware of it, or he will bear him-
self under it constrainedly as one under the law, and
not as one under grace.

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS. 87

And grace is best, for where grace is, love is not dis-
tant. Grace ! the old Pagan ideal whose charm even
unlovely Paul could not withstand, but, as the legend
tells us, his soul fainted within him, his heart misgave
him, and, standing alone on the seashore at dusk, he
" troubled deaf heaven with his bootless cries," his thin
voice pleading for grace after the flesh.

The waves came in one after another, the sea-gulls
cried together after their kind, the wind rustled among
the dried canes upon the sandbanks, and there came a
voice from heaven saying, " Let My grace be sufficient
for thee." Whereon, failing of the thing itself, he
stole the word and strove to crush its meaning to the
measure of his own limitations. But the true grace,
with her groves and high places, and troops of young
men and maidens crowned with flowers, and singing of
love and youth and wine — the true grace he drove out
into the wilderness — high up, it may be, into Piora,
and into such-like places. Happy they who harboured
her in her iU report.

It is common to hear men wonder what new faith
will be adopted by mankind if disbelief in the Christian
religion should become general. They seem to expect
that some new theological or quasi-theological system
will arise, which, mutatis mutandis, shall be Christianity
over again. It is a frequent reproach against those who
maintain that the supernatural element of Christianity
is without foundation, that they bring forward no such
system of their own. They pull down but cannot
build. We sometimes hear even those who have come
to the same conclusions as the destroyers say, that
having nothing new to set up, they will not attack the
old. But how can people set up a new superstition,
knowing it to be a superstition ? Without faith in

SELIXTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

111

their own platform, a faith as intense as that mani-
fested l)y tlie early Christians, how can they preach ?
A new superstition will come, but it is in the very
essence of thinjjjs tliat its apostles should have no sus-
picion of its real nature ; that they should no more
recognise the common element between the new and the
old than the early Christians recognised it between
their faith and I'aganism. If they did, they would be
paralysed. Others say that the new fabric may be seen
rising on every side, and that the coming religion is
science. Certainly its apostles preach it without mis-
giving, but it is not on that account less possible that
it may prove only to be the coming superstition — like
Christianity, true to its true votaries, and, like Chris-
tianity, false to those who follow it introspectively.

It may well be we shall find we have escaped from
one set of taskmasters to fall into the hands of others
far more ruthless, Tiie tyranny of the Church is light
in comparison with that which future generations may
have to undergo at the hands of the doctrinaires. The
Church did uphold a grace of some sort as the sum-
mum. honum, in comparison with which all so-called
earthly knowledge — knowledge, that is to say, which
had not passed through so many people as to have
become living and incarnate — was unimportant. Do
what we may, we are still drawn to the unspoken
teaching of her less introspective ages with a force
which no falsehood could command. Her buildings,
her music, her architecture, touch us as none other on
the whole can do ; when she speaks there are many of
us who think that she denies the deeper truths of her
own profounder mind, and unfortunately her tendency
is now towards more rather than less introspection.
The more she gives way to this — the more she becomes

CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS.

conscious of knowing — the less she will know. But
still her ideal is in grace.

The so-called man of science, on the other hand,
seems now generally inclined to make light of all know-
ledge, save of the pioneer character. His ideal is in
self-conscious knowledge. Let us have no more Lo,
here, with the professor ; he very rarely knows what
he says he knows ; no sooner has he misled the world
for a sufficient time with a great flourish of trumpets
than he is toppled over by one more plausible than
himself. He is but medicine-man, augur, priest, in its
latest development ; useful it may be, but requiring to
be well watched by those who value freedom. Wait
till he has become more powerful, and note the vagaries
which his conceit of knowledge will indulge in. The
Church did not persecute while she was still weak. Of
course every system has had, and will have, its heroes,
but, as we all very well know, the heroism of the
hero is but remotely due to system ; it is due not to
arguments, nor reasoning, nor to any consciously recog-
nised perceptions, but to those deeper sciences which
lie far beyond the reach of self- analysis, and for the
study of which there is but one schooling — to have had
good forefathers for many generations.

Above all things let no unwary reader do me the
injustice of believing in me. In that I write at all I
am among the damned. If he must believe in any-
thing, let him believe in the music of Handel, the
painting of Giovanni Bellini, and in the thirteenth
chapter of St. Paul's First Epistle to the Corinthians.

But to return. Whenever we find people knowing
that they know this or that, we have the same story
over and over again. They do not yet know it per-
fectly.

9°

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

We come, therefore, to the conclusion that our know-
ledge and reasonings thereupon, only become perfect,
assured, unhesitating, when they have become auto-
matic, and are thus exercised without further con-
scious effort of the mind, much in the same way as we
cannot walk nor read nor write perfectly till we cau
do so automatically.

< I

( 91 )

know-
perfect,
I auto-
r con-
as we
ve can

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS TO
CERTAIN HABITS ACQUIRED AFTER BIRTH
WHICH ARE COMMONLY CONSIDERED IN-
STINCTIVE.

(chapter III. OF LIFE AND HABIT.)

WHAT is true of knowing is also true of willing.
The more intensely we will, the less is our will
deliberate and capable of being recognised as will at all.
So that it is common to hear men declare under certain
circumstances that they had no will, but were forced
into their own action under stress of passion or tempta-
tion. But in the more ordinary actions of life, we
observe, as in walking or breathing, that we do not
will anything utterly and without remnant of hesita-
tion, till we have lost sight of the fact that we are
exercising our wilL

The question, therefore, is forced upon us, how far
this principle extends, and whether there may not be
unheeded examples of its operation which, if we con-
sider them, will land us in rather unexpected conclu-
sions. If it be granted that consciousness of knowledge
and of volition vanishes when the knowledge and the
volition have become intense and perfect, may it not
be possible that many actions which we do without
knowing how we do them, and without any conscious
exercise of the will — ^actions which we certainly could

9»

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

not do if we tried to do them, nor refrain from doing
if for any reason we wished to do so — are done so
easily and so unconsciously owing to excess of know-
ledge or experience rather than deficiency, we having
done them too often, knowing how to do them too
well, and having too little hesitation as to the method
of procedure, to be capable of following our own action,
without the derangement of such action altogether ; or,
in other crises, because we have so long settled the
question that we have stowed away the whole appar-
atus with which we work in corners of our system
which we cannot now conveniently reach ?

It may be interesting to see whether we can find
any class or classes of actions which link actions which
for some time after birth we could not do at all, and in
which our proficiency has reached the stage of uncon-
scious performance obviously through repeated effort
and failure, and through this only, with actions which
we could do as soon as we were born, and concerning
which it would at first sight appear absurd to say that
they can have been acquired by any process in the
least analogous to what we commonly call experience,
inasmuch as the creature itself which does them has
only just begun to exist, and cannot, therefore, in the
very nature of things, have had experience.

Can we see that actions, for the acquisition of which
experience is such an obvious necessity, that whenever
we see the acquisition we assume the experience,
gradate away imperceptibly into action? which seem,
according to all reasonable analogy, to necessitate
experience — of which, however, the time and place are
so obscure, that they are not now commonly supposed
to have any connection with bond fide experience at all.

Eating and drinking appear to be such actions. The

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

new-born child cannot eat, and cannot drink, but he
can swallow as soon as he is born ; and swallowing
appears (as we may remark in passing) to have been
an earlier faculty of animal lite than that of eating
with teeth. The ease and unconsciousness with which
we eat and drink is clearly attributable to practice ;
but a very little practice seems to go a long way — a
suspiciously small amount of practice — as though
somewhe or at some other time there must have been
more practice than we can account for. We can very
readily stop eating or drinking, and can follow our own
action without difficulty in either pro.' iss ; but as re-
gards swallowing, which is the earlier habit, we have
less power of self-analysis and control : when we have
once committed ourselves beyond a certain point to
swallowing, we must finish doing so, — that is to say,
our control over the operation ceases. Also, a still
smaller experience seems necessary for the acquisition
of the power to swallow than appeared necessary in
the case of eating ; and if we get into a difficulty we
choke, and are more at a loss how to become intro-
spective than we are about eating and drinking.

Why should a baby be able to swallow — which one
would have said was the more complicated process of
the two — with so much less practice than it takes him
to learn to eat ? How comes it that he exhibits in
the case of the more difficult operation all the pheno-
mena which ordinarily accompany a more complete
mastery and longer practice ? Analogy points in the
direction of thinking that the necessary experience
cannot have been wanting, and that, too, not in such
a quibbling sort as when people talk about inherited
habit or the experience of the race, which, without
explanation, is to plain-speaking persons very much the

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

same, in reL^'ard to the individual, as no experience at
all, but bond fide in the child's own person.

Hreathinji;, again, is an action acquired after birth,
generally with some little hesitation and difficulty, but
still acquired in a time seldom longer, as I am informed,
than ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. For an art
which has to be acquired {it all, there seems here, as
in the case of eating, to be a disproportion between, on
the one hand, the intricacy of the process performed,
and on the other, the shortness of the time taken to
acquire the practice, and the ease and unconsciousness
with which its exercise is continued from the moment
of acquisition.

We observe that in later life much less difficult and
intricate operations than breathing require much longer
practice before they can be mastered to the extent of
unconscious performance. We observe also that the
phenomena attendant on the learning by an infant to
breathe are extremely like those attendant upon the
repetition of some performance by one who has done it
very often before, but who requires just a little prompt-
ing to set him off, on getting which, the whole familiar
routine presents itself before him, and he repeats his
task by rote. Surely then we are justified in suspect-
ing that there must have been more hond fide perbonal
recollection and experience, with more effort and failure
on the part of the infant itself, than meet the eye.

It should be noticed, also that our control over
breathing is very limited. We can hold our breath a
little, or breathe a little faster for a short time, but we
cannot do this for long, and after having gone without
air for a certain time we must breathe.

Seeing and hearing require some practice before their
free use is mastered, but not very much. They are so

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

far within our control that we can see more by looking
harder, and hear more by listening attentively — but
they are beyond our control in so far as that we must
see and hear tlie greater part of what presents itself to
us as near, and at the same time unfamiliar, unless we
turn away or shut our eyes, or stop our ears by a
mechanical process ; and when we do this it is a sign
that we have already involuntarily seen or heard more
than we wished. The familiar, whether sight or sound,
very commonly escapes us.

Take a^ain the processes of digestion, tlie action of
the heart, and the oxygenisation of the blood — pro-
cesses of extreme intricacy, done almost entirely un-
consciously, and quite beyond the control of our volition.

Is it Dossible that our unconsciousness concerninjj
our own performance of all these processes arises from
over-experience ?

Is tliere anything in digestion or the oxygenisation
of the blood different in kind to the rapid unconscious
action of a man playing a difficult piece of music on
the piano ? There may be in degiee, but as a man
who sits down to play what he well knows, plays on
when once started, almost, as we say, mechanically, so,
having eaten his dinner, he digests it as a matter of
course, unless it has been in some way unfamiliar to
him or he to it, owing to some derangement or occur-
rence with which he is unfamiliar, and under which
therefore he is at a loss liow to comport himself, as a
player would be at a loss bow to play with gloves on,
or with gout in his fingers, or if set to play music up-
side down.

Can we show that all the acquired actions of child-
hood and after-life, which we now do unconsciously,
or without conscious exercise of the will, are familiar

*v^

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

acts — acts which we have already done a very great
number of times ?

Can we also show that there are no acquired actions
which we can perform in this automatic manner which
were not at one time difficult, requiring attention, and
liable to repeated failure, our volition failing to com-
mand obedience from the members which should carry
its purposes into execution ?

If so, analogy will point in the direction of thinking
that other acts which we do even more unconsciously
may only escape our power of self-examination and
control because they are even more familiar — because
we have done them oftener ; and we may imagine that
if there were a microscope which could show us the
minutest atoms of consciousness and volition, we should
find that even the apparently most automatic actions
were yet done in due course, upon a balance of consi-
derations, and under the deliberate exercise of the will.

We should also incline to think that even such an
action as the oxygenisaticn of its blood by an infant
of ten minutes' old, can only be done so well and so
unconsciously, after repeated failures on the part of the
infant itself.

True, as has been already implied, we do not imme-
diately see when the baby could have m.dc the
necessary mistakes and acquired that infinite practice
without which it could never go through such complex
processes satisfactoi-ily ; we have therefore invented the
word " heredity,'"' and consider it as accounting for the
phenomena ; but a little reflection will show that though
this word may be a very good way of stating the difficulty,
it does nothing whatever towards removing it.*

* See page 228 of this book, " Remarks on Mr. Romanes' ' Mental
T'] volution in Animals.' "

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

great

,hough

' Mental

Why should heredity enable a creature to dispense
with the experience which we see to be necessary in
all other cases before difficult operations can be per-
formed successfully ?

What is this talk that is made about the experien3e
of the race, as though the experience of one man could
profit another who knows nothing about him? If a
man eats his dinner, it nourishes him and not his neigh-
bour ; if he learns a difficult art, it is he that can do it
and not his neighbour. Yet, practically, we see that
the vicarious experience, which seems so contrary to
our common observation, does nevertheless appear to
hold good in the case of creatures and their descend-
ants. Is there, then, any way of bringing these appar-
ently conflicting phenomena under the operation of one
law ? Is there any way of showing that this experience
of the race, of wliich so much is said without the least
ati-empt to show in what way it may or doe.^ become
the experience of the individual, is in sober seriousness
the experience of or.3 single being only, repeating in a
great many different ways certain performances with
which it has become exceedingly familiar ?

It comes to this — that we must either suppose the
conditions of experience to differ during the earlier
stages of life from those which we observe them to be-
come during the heyday of any existence — and this
would appear very gratuitous, toitrable only as a
suggestion because the beginnings of life are so obscure,
that in such twilight we may do pretty much whatever
we please without fear of being found out — or that
we must suppose continuity of life and sameness be-
tween living beings, whether plants or animals, and
their descendants, to be far closer than we have hither-
to believed; so that the experience of one person is

SEi^ECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

not enjoyed by his successor, so much as that the
successor is bond fide an elongation of the life of his
progenitors, imbued with their memories, profiting by
their experiences — which are, in fact, his own until
he leaves their bodies — and only unconscious of the
extend- of these memories and experiences owing to
their vastness and already infinite repetition.

Certainly it presents itself to us as a singular coin-
cidence —

I. That we are most conscious of, and have most con-
trol over, such habits as speech, the upright position,
the arts and sciences — which are acquisitions peculia.?
to the human race, always acquired after birth, and not
common to ourselves and any ancestor who had not
become entirely human.

II. That we are less conscious of, and have less control
over, the use of teeth, swallowing, breathing, seeing
and hearing — which were acquisitions of our prehuman
ancestry, and for which we had provided ourselves
with all the necessary apparatus before we saw ligl't,
but which arp still, geologically speaking, recent, or
comparatively recent.

III. That we are most unconscious of, and have least
control over, our digestion, which we have in comrion
even with our invertebrate ancestry, and which is a
habit of extreme antiquity.

There is something too like method in thi-^- for it
^0 be taken as the result of mere chance — chance again
beino: but another illustration of Nature's love of a
contradiction in terms ; for everything is chance, and
nothing is chance. And you may take it that all is
chance or nothing chance, according as you please, but
you must not have half chance and half not chance —
which, however, in practice is just what you must have.

-ii it

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

Does it not seem as though the oider and more
confirmed the habit, the more unquestioning the act
of volition, till, in the case of the oldest habits, the
practice of succeeding existences has so formulated the
procedure, that, on being once committed to such and
such a line beyond a certain point, the subsequent
course is so clear as to be open to no further doubt, and
admit of no alternative, till the very power of question-
ing is gone, and even the consciousness of volition ?
And this too upon matters which, in earlier stages of a
man's existence, admitted of passionate argument and
anxious deliberation whether to resolve them thu3 or
thus, with heroic hazard and experiment, which on
the losing side proved to be vice, and on the winning
virtue. For there was passionate argument once what
shape a man's teeth should be, nor can the colour
of his hair be x^onsidered as even yet settled, or likely
to be settled for a very long time.

It is one against legion when a creature tries to
differ from his own past selves. He must yield or
die if he wants to differ widely, so as to lack natural
instincts, such as hunger or thirs*:, or not to gratify
them. It is more righteous in a man that he should
" eat strange food," and that his cheek should " so
much as lank not," than that he should starve if the
strange food be at his command. His past selves are
living in unruly hordes within him at this moment and
overmastering him. " Do this, this, this, which we too
have done, and found oar profit in it," ci . the souls of
his forefathers wi'hin him. Faint are th^ far ones,
coming and going as the sound of bells wafted on to a
high mountain; loud and clear are the near ones,
urgent as an alarm of fire. "Withhold," cry some.
"Go on boldly," cry others. "Me, me, me, revert

loo

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

it rtf ■

liitlierward, my descendant," shouts one as it were from
some high vantage-ground over the heads of the
clamorous multitude. " Nay, but me, m^, me," echoes
another ; and our former selves fight within us and
wrangle for our possession. Have we not here wha*;
is commonly called an internal tumult, when dead
pleasures and pains tug within us hither and thither ?
Then may the battle be decided by what people are
pleased to call our own experience. Our own indeed !
What is our own save by mere courtesy of speech ?
A matter of fashion. Sanction sanctifieth and fashion
fashioneth. And so with deatii — the most inexorable
of all conventions.

However this may be, we may assume it as an axiom
with regard to actions acquired after birth, that we
never do them automatically save as the result of long
practice, and after having thus acquired perfect mastery
over the action in question.

But given the practice or experience, and the in-
tricacy of the process to be performed appears to matter
very little. There is hardly anything conceivable as
being done by man, which a certain amount of familia-
rity will not enable him to do, unintrospectively, and
without conscious effort. *• The most complex and diffi-
cult movements," writes Mr. Darwin, " can in time be
performed without the least effort or consciousness."
All the main business of life is done thus unconsciously
or semi-unconsciously. For what is the main business
of life ? We work that we may eat and digest, rather
than eat and digest that we may work , this, at any
rate, is the normal state of things ; the more important
business then is that which is carried on unconsciously.
So again, the action of the brain, which goes on prior
to our realising the idea in which it results, is not per-

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

lOI

ceived by the individual. So also all the deeper springs
of action and conviction. The residuum with which
we fret and worry ourselves is a mere matter of detail,
as the higgling and haggling of the market, which is
not over the bulk of the price, but over the last half-
penny.

Shall we say, then, that a baby of a day old sucks
(which involves the whole principle of the pump, and
hence a profound practical knowledge of the laws of
pneumatics and hydrostatics), digests, oxygenises its
blood (millions of years before Sir Humphry Davy dis-
covered oxygen), sees and hears — all most difficult and
complicated operations, involving an unconscious know-
ledge of the facts concerning optics and acoustics,
compared with which the conscious discoveries of
Newton sink into utter insignificance ? Shall we say
that a baby can do all these things at once, doing them
so well and so regularly, without being even able to direct
its attention to them, and without mistake, and at the
same time not know how to do them, and never have
done them before ?

Such an assertion would be a contradiction to the
whole experience of mankind. Surely the onus pro-
handi must rest with him who makes it.

A man may make a lucky hit now and again by
what is called a fluke, but even this must be only a
little in advance of his other performances of the same
kind. He may multiply seven by eight by a fluke
after a little study of the multiplication table, but he
will not be able to extract the cube root of 49 1 3 by
a fluke, without long training in arithmetic, any more
than an agricultural labourer would be able to operate
successfully for cataract. If, then, a grown man cannot
perform so simple an operation as that, we will say, for

102

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

cataract, unless he have been long trained in other
similar operations, and until he has done what comes
to the same thing many times over, with what show of
reason can we maintain that one who is so far less
capable than a grown man, can perform such vastly
more dilticult operations, without knowing how to do
them, and without ever having done them before ? There
is no sign of " fluke " about the circulation of a baby's
blood. There may perhaps be some little hesitation
about its earliest breathing, but this, as a general rule,
soon passes over, both breathing and circulation, within
an hour after birth, being as regular and easy as at any
time during life. Is it reasonable, then, to say that
the baby dov^s these things without knowing how to do
them, and without ever having done them before, and
continues to do them by a series of lifelong flukes ?

It would be well if those who feel inclined to hazard
such an assertion would find some other instances of
intricate processes gone through by people who know
nothing about them, and who never had any practice
therein. What is to know how to do a thing ? Surely
to do it. What is proof that we know how to do a
thing ? Surely the fact that we can do it. A man
shows that he knows how to throw the boomerang by
throwing the boomerang. No amount of talking or
writing can get over this ; ipso facto, that a baby
breathes and makes its blood circulate, it knows how to
do so ; and the fact that it does not know its own
knowledge is only proof of the perfection of that know-
ledge, and of the vast number of past occasions on
which it must have been exercised already. As has
been said already, it is less obvious when the baby
could have gained its experience, so as to be able so
readily to remember exactly what to do ; but it is more

R :

w f

APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.

103

baby

easy to suppose that the necessary occasions cannot have
ieen wanting, than that the power which we observe should
have heen obtained without practice and memory.

If we saw any self-consciousness on the buby's part
about its breathing or circulation, we might suspect
that it had had less experience, or had profited less by
its experience, than its neighbours — exactly in the same
manner as we suspect a deficiency of any quality which
we see a man inclined to parade. We all become in-
trospective when we find that we do not know our
business, and whenever we are introspective we may
generally suspect that we are on the verge of unpro-
ficiency. Unfortunately, in the case of sickly children
we observe that they sometimes do become conscious
of their breatliing and circulation, just as in later life
we become conscious that we have a liver or a diges-
tion. In that case there is always something wrong.
The baby that becomes aware of its breathing does not
know how to breathe and will suffer for his ignorance
and incapacity, exactly in the same way as he will
suffer in later life for ignorance and incapacity in any
other respect in which his peers are commonly knowing
and capable. In the case of inability to breathe, the
punishment is corporal, breathing being a matter of
fashion, so old and long settled that nature can admit
of no departure from the established custom, and the
procedure in case of failure is as much formulated as
the fashion itself. In the case of the circulation, the
whole performance has become one so utterly of rote,
that the mere discovery that we could do it at all was
considered one of the highest flights of human genius.

It has been said a day will come when the Polar
ice shall have accumulated, till it forms vast continents
many thousands of feet above the level of the sea, all of

104

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

solid ice. The weight of this mass will, it is believed,
cause the world to topple over on its axis, so that the
earth will be upset as an ant-heap overturned by
a ploughshare. In that day the icebergs will come
crunching against our proudest cities, razing them from
off the face of the earth as though they were made
of rotten blotting-paper. There is no respect now of
Handel nor of Shakespeare ; the works of Rembrandt
and Bellini fossilise at the bottom of the sea. Grace,
beauty, and wit, all that is precious in music, literature,
and art — all gone. In the morning there was Europe.
In the evening there are no more populous cities nor
busy hum of men, but a sea of jagged ice, a lurid sun-
set, and the doom of many ages. Then shall a scared
remnant escape in places, and settle upon the changed
continent when the waters have subsided — a simple
people, busy hunting shellfish on the drying ocean
beds, and with little time for introspection ; yet they
can read and write and sum, for by that time these
accomplishments will have become universal, and will
be acquired as easily as we now learn to talk; but
they do so as a matter of course, and without self-
consciousness. Also they make the simpler kinds of
machinery too easily to be able to follow their own
operations — the manner of their own apprenticeship
being to them as a buried city. May we not imagine
that, after the lapse of another ten thousand years or
so, some one of them may again become cursed with
lust of introspection, and a second Harvey may astonish
the world by discovering that it can read and write,
and that steam-engines do not grow, but are made ?
It may be safely prophesied that he will die a martyr,
and be honoured in the fourth generation.

( 105 )

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

(chapter v. of life and habit.)

" OTRANGE difficulties have been raised by some,"
^ says Bishop Butler, " concerning personal iden-
tity, or the sameness of living agents as implied in
the notion of our existing now and hereafter, or indeed
in any two consecutive moments." But in truth it is
not easy to see the strangeness of the difficulty, if the
words either " personal " or " identity " are used in
any strictness.

Personality is one of those ideas with which we are
so familiar that we have lost sight of the foundations
upon which it rests. We regard our personality as a
simple definite whole ; as a plain, palpable, individual
thing, which can be seen going about the streets or
sitting indoors at home ; as something which lasts us
our lifetime, and about the confines of which no doubt
can exist in the minds of reasonable people. But in
truth this " we," which looks so simple and definite, is
a nebulous and indefinable aggregation of many com-
ponent parts which war not a little among themselves,
our perception of our existence at all being perhaps
due to this very clash of warfare, as our sense of sound
and light is due to the jarring of vibrations. Moreover,
as the component parts of our identity change from
moment to moment, our personality becomes a thing

r nil

If 'i

1 1

1 06

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT-

dependent upon time present, which has no logical
existence, but lives only upon the sufrerance of times
past and future, slipping out of our hands into the domain
of one or other of these two claimants the moment we
try to apprehend it. And not only is our personality
as fleeting as the present moment, but the parts wliinh
compose it blend some of them so imperceptibly into,
and are so inextricably linked on to, outside things
wliich clearly form no part of our personality, that
when we try to bring ourselves to book and determine
wherein we consist, or to draw a line as to where we
begin or end, we find ourselves batHed. There is
nothing but fusion and confusion.

Putting theology on one side, and dealing only with
the common sense of mankind, our body is certainly
part of our personality. With the destruction of our
bodies, our personality, as far as we can follow it, comes
to a full stop ; and with every modification of them it
is correspondingly modified. But what are the limits
of our bodies ? They are composed of parts, some of
them so unessential as to be hardly included in person-
ality at all, and to be separable from ourselves with-
out perceptible effect, as hair, nails, and daily waste of
tissue. Again, other parts are very important, as our
hands, feet, arms, legs, &c., but still are no essential
parts of our " self " or " soul," which continues to exist,
though in a modified condition, in spite of their ampu-
tation. Other parts, as the brain, heart, and blood, are
so essential that they cannot be dispensed with, yet it
is impossible to say that personality consists in any
one of them.

Each one of these component members of our per-
sonality is continually dying and being born again,
supported in this process by the food we eat, the water

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

107

we drink, and the air we breathe ; which three things
link us on, and fetter us down, to the organic and
inorganic world about us. For our meat and drink,
though no part of our personality before we eat and
drink, cannot, after we have done so, be separated
entirely from us without the destruction of our person-
ality altogether, so fox as we can follow it ; and who
shall say at what precise moment our food has or has
not become part of ourselves ? A famished man eats
food ; after a short time his whole personality is so
palpably affected that we know the food to have entered
into him and taken, as it were, possession of him ; but
who can say at what precise moment it did so ? Thus
we find that we melt away into outside things and are
rooted into them as plants into the soil in which they
grow, nor can any man say he consists absolutely in
this or that, nor define himself so certainly as to include
neither more nor less than himself; many undoubted
parts of his personality being more separable from it,
and changing it less when so separated, both to his
own senses and those of other people, than other parts
which are strictly speaking no parts at all.

A man's clothes, for example, as they lie on a chair
at night are no part of him, but when he wears them
they would ap;^3ar to be so, as being a kind of food
which warms him and hatches him, and the loss of
which may kill him of cold. If this be denied, and a
man's clothes be considered as no part of his self, never-
theless they, with his money, and it may perhaps be
added his religious opinions, stamp a man's indivi-
duality as strongly as any natural feature can stamp
it. Change in style of dress, gain or loss of money,
make a man feel and appear more changed than having
his chin shaved or his nails cut. In fact, as soon as

io8

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

we leave common parlance on one side, and try for a
scientific definition of personality, we find that there
is none possible, any more than there can be a demon-
stration of the fact that we exist at all — a demonstration
for which, as for that of a personal God, many have
hunted but which none have found. The only solid
foundation is, as in the case of tlie eartli's crust, pretty
near the surface of things ; the deeper we try to go,
the damper, darker, and altogether more uncongenial
we find it. There is no quagmire of superstition into
which we may not be easily lured if we once cut our-
selves adrift from those superficial aspects of things, in
which alone our nature permits us to be comforted.

Common parlance, however, settles the difficulty
readily enough (as indeed it settles most others if they
show signs of awkwa. iness) by the simple process of
ignoring it : we decline, and very properly, to go into
the question of where personality begins and ends, but
assume it to be known by every one, and throw the
onus of not knowing it upon the over-curious, who had
better think as their neighbours do, right or wrong, or
there is no knowing into what villany they may not
presently fall.

Assuming, then, that every one knows what is
meant by the word " person " (and such superstitious
bases as this are the foundations upon which all action,
whether of man, beast, or plant, is constructed and
rendered possible ; for even the corn in the fields
grows upon a superstitious basis as to its own existence,
and only turns the earth and moisture into wheat
through the conceit of its own ability to do so, with-
out which faith it were powerless ; and the lichen
only grows upon the granite rock by first saying to
itself, " I think I can do it ; " so that it would not be able

d'^

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

109

to grow unless it thought it could grow, and would not
tliink it could grow unless it found itself able to grow,
and thus spends its life arguing most viituously in a
most vicious circle — basing action upon hypothesis,
which hypothesis is in turn based upon action) — assum-
ing that we know what is meant by the word " person,"
we say that we are one and the same person from birth
till death, so that whatever is done by or ha})pens to
any one between birth and death, is said to happen to
or be done by one individual. This in practice is found
sufiicient for the law courts and the purposes of daily
life, which, being full of hurry and the pressure of
business, can only tolerate compromise, or conventional
rendering of intricate phenomena. When facts of
extreme complexity have to be daily and hourly dealt
with by people whose time is money, they must be
simplified, and treated much as a painter treats them,
drawing them in squarely, seizing the more important
features, and neglecting all that does not assert itself
as too essential to be passed over — hence the slang and
cant words of every profession, and indeed all language ;
for language at best is but a kind of " patter," the only
way, it is true, in many cases, of expressing our ideas
to one another, but still a very bad way, and not for
one moment comparable to the unspoken speech which
we may sometimes have recourse to. The metaphors
and fagons de j^cirler to which even in the plainest
speech we are perpetually recurring (as, for example,
in this last two lines, " plain," " perpetually," and " re-
curring," are all words based on metaphor, and hence
more or less liable to mislead) often deceive us, as
though there were nothing more than what we see and
say, and as though words, instead of being, as they are,
the creatures of our convenience, had some claim to be

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AID HABIT.

€

if;

■■1

the actual ideas themselves coiiceminii which we are

conversinix.

This is so well expressed in a lo.^.ter I liave recently
received from a friend, now in New Zealand, and
certainly not intended by him for publication, that I
shall venture to quote the passage, but should say that
I do so without his knowledge or permission which I
should not be able to receive before this book nmst be
completed.

" Words, words, words," he writes, " are the stum-
bling-blocks in the way of truth. Until you think of
tilings as they are, and not of the words that misre-
present them, you cannot think rightly. Words pro-
duce the ajipearauce of hard and fast lines where there
are none. Words divide ; thus we call this a man,
that an ape, that a monkey, while they are all only
(lifTerontiation? of the same thing. To think of a thing
they must be got rid of: they are the clothes that
thoughts wear — only the clothes. I say this over and
over again, for there is nothing of more importance.
Other men's words v/ill stop you at the beginning of
an investigation. A rcdu may play with words all his
life, arranging them and rearranging them like dominoes.
If I could (hi7ik to you without words you would under-
stand me better."

If such remarks as the above hold good at all, they
do so with the words "personal identity." The least
reflection will show that personal identity in any sort
of strictness is an impossibility. The expression is one
of the many ways in which we are obliged to scamp
our thoughts through pressure of other business which
pays us better. For surely all leasonable people will
feel that an infant an hour before birtli, when in the
eye of the law he has no existence, and could not be

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

Ill

we are

recently
nd, and
, that I
say that
^vhich I
must be

3 stum-
-hink of

misre-
ds pro-
:e there
a man,
-11 only
a thing
es that
^er and
)rtance.
ling of

all his
ninoes.
under-

1, they
least
y sort
is one
scamp
which
e will
n the
ot be

called a peer for another sixty minutes, though his
father were a peer, and already dead, — surely such an
embryo is more personally identical with the baby
into which he develops withii: an hour's time than the
born baby is so with itself (if tlie expression may be
pardoned), one, twenty, or it may be eighty years after
birtli. There is more sameness of matter; tliere are
fewer differences of any kind perceptible by a third
person ; there is more sense of continuity on the
part of the person himself, and far more of all that
goes to make up our sense of sameness of personality
between an embryo an hour before birth and the child
on being born^ than there is between the child just
born and the man of twenty. Yet there is no hesita-
tion about admitting sameness of personality between
these two last.

On the other hand, if that hazy contradiction in
terms, " personal identity," be once allowed to retreat
behind the threshold of the womb, it has eluded us
once for all. What is true of one hour before birth is
true of two, and so on till we get back to the impreg-
nate ovum, which may fairly claim to have been per-
sonally identical with the man of eighty into which it
ultimately developed, in spite of the fact that there is
no particle of same matter nor sense of continuity
between them, nor recognised community of instinct,
nor indeed of anything which on a primd facie view
of the matter goes to the making up of that which we
call identity.

There is far more of all these things common to the
impregnate ovum and the ovum immediately before
impregnation, or again between the impregnate ovum,
and both the ovum before impregnation and the
spermatozoon which impregnated it. Nor, if we admit

p 1,

nni U

1 1

: I

. *l

I.. * I!

112

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

personal identity between the ovu.n and the octogena-
rian, is there any sufficient reason why we should not
admit it between the impregnate ovum and the two
factors of which it is composed, which two factors are
but ol'lshoots from two distinct personalities, of which
they are as much part as the apple is of the apple-tree ;
so that an impregnate ovum cannot without a violation
of first principles be debarred from claiming personal
identity with both its parents, and hence, by an easy
chain of reasoning, with each of the impref/7iatc ova
from vjhich its parents were developed.

So that each ovum when impre.unate should be con-
sidered not as descended from its ancestors, but as
being a continuation of the personality of every ovum
in the chain of its ancestry, every which ovum it
actually is as truly as the octogenarian is the same
identity with the ovum from which he has been de-
veloped. The two cases stand or fall together.

This process cannot stop short of the primordial cell,
which again will probably turn out to be but a brief
resting-place. We therefore prove each one of us to
he actually the primordial cell which never died nor
dies, but has differentiated itself into the life of the
world, all living beings whatever, being one with it,
and members one of another.

To look at the matter for a moment in another light,
it will be admitted that if the primordial cell had been
killed before leaving issue, all its possible descendants
would have I 3en killed at one and the same time. It
is hard to see how this single fact does not establish
at the point, as it were, of a logical bayonet, an identity
between any creature and all others that are descended
from it.

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

ctogena-
)uld uot
the two
3 tors are
if which
pie-tree ;
(Violation
personal
an easy
*iate ova

be con-
but as
?y ovum
3vum it
le same
een de-

liul cell,
a brief
)f us to
led nor
of the
with it,

er light,
ad been
andants
me. It
stablish
dentity
jcended

The fencing (for it does not deserve the name of
serious disputation) with which Bishop Butler meets
his opponents is rendered possible by the laxuess with
which the words " identical " and " identity " are ordi-
narily used. Bishop Butler would not seriously deny
that personality undergoes great changes between in-
fancy and old age, and hence that it must undergo some
change from moment to moment. So universally is
this recognised, that it is common to hear it said of
sucli and such a man that he is not at all the person
he was, or of such and such another that he is twice
the man he used to be — expressions than which none
nearer the truth can well be found. On the other hand,
those whom Bishop Butler is intending to confute
would '>e the first to admit that, though there are many
changes between infancy and old age, yet they come
about in any one individual under such circuinstrmces
as we are all agreed in considering as the iactors of
personal identity rather than as hiudrances thereto —
that is to say that there has been no entire and perma-
nent death on the part of the individual between any
two phases of his existence, and that any one phase
has had a lasting though perhaps imperceptible effect
upon all succeeding ones. So that no one ever seriously
argued in the manner supposed by Bishop Butler, unless
Avitli moditicfttions and saving clauses, to which it does
not suit his purpose to call attention.

No doubt it would be more strictly accurate to say
" you are the now phase of the person I met last night,"
or " you are the being which has been evolved from the
being I met last night," than " you are the person I
met last night." But life is too short for the peri-
phrases which would crowd upon us from every

Tf •'*•■?■'■«-

114

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

quarter, if we did not set our face against all that is
under the surface of things, unless, that is to say, the
going beneath the surface is, for some special chance
of profit, excusable or capable of extenuation.

1 1

Take again the case of some weeping trees, whose
boughs spring up into fresh trees when they have
reached the ground, who shall say at what time they
cease to be mambers of the parent tree ? In the case
of cuttings from plants it is easy to elude the difficulty
by making a parade of the sharp and sudden act of
separation from the parent stock, but this is only a
piece of mental sleight of hand ; the cutting remains
PS much part of its parent plant as though it had never
been severed from it ; it goes on profiting by the ex-
perience which it had before it was cut off, as much as
though it had never been cut off at all. This will be
more readily seen in the case of T"orms which have
been cut in half. Let a worm be cut in half, and the
two halves will become fresh worms ; which of them is
the original worm ? Surely both. Perhaps no simplor
case than this could readily be found of the manner in
which personality eludes us, the moment we try to in-
vestigate its real nature. There are few ideas which
on first consideration appear so simple, and none wnich
becomes more utterly incapable of limitation or defini-
tion as soon as it is examined closely.

It has gone the way of species. It is now generally
held that species blend or have blended into one an-
other ; so that any possibility of arrangement and appa-
rent subdivision into definite groups, is due to the sup-
pression by death both of individuals and whole genera,
which, had they been now existing, would have linked all
living beings by a series of gradations so subtle that

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

IIS

little classification could have been attempted. What we
have failed to see is that the individual is as much linked
onto other individuals as the species is linked on to other
species. How it is that the one great personality of
life as a whole, should have split itself up into so many
centres of thought and action, each one of which is
wholly, or at any rate nearly unconscious of its con-
nection with the other members, instead of having
grown up into a huge polyp, or as it were coral reef
or compound animal over the whole world, which
should be conscious but of its own one single existence ;
how it is that the daily waste of this creature should
be carried on by the conscious death of its individual
members, instead of by the unconscious waste of tissue
which goes on in the bodies of each individual (if in-
deed the tissue which we waste daily in our own bodies
is so unconscious of its birth and death as we suppose);
how, again, that the daily repair of this huge creature
life should have become decentralised, and be carried
on by conscious reproduction on the part of its com-
ponent items, instead of by the unconscious nutrition
of the whole from a single centre, as the nutrition of
our own bodies would appear (though perhaps falsely)
to be carried on ; these are matters upon which I dare
not speculate here,, but on which some reflections may
follow in subsequent chapters.

•vr.

{ ii6 )

li'i

INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.

(chapter XI. OF LIFE AND HABIT.)

OBVIOUSLY the memory of a habit or experience
will not commonly be transmitted to offspring in
that perfection which is called " instinct," till the habit
or experience has been repeated in several generations
with mo:e or less uniformity ; for otherwise the im-
pression made will not be strong enough to endure
through the busy and difficult task of reproduction.
This of course involves that the habit shall have at-
tained, as it were, equilibrium with the creature's sense
of its own needs, so that it shall have long seemed the
best course possible, leaving upon the whole and under
ordinary circumstances littlo further to be desired, and
hence that it should have been little varied during
many generations, We should expect that it would
be transmitted in a more or less partial, varying, im-
perfect, and intelligent condition before equilibrium
had been attained ; it would, however, continually tend
towards equilibrium.

Wheii this stage has been reached, as regards any
habit, the creature will cease trying to improve ; on
which the repetition of the habit will become stable,
and hence capable of more unerring transmission — but
at the same time improvement will cease ; the habit
will become fixed, and be perhaps transmitted at

INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.

an earlier and earlier age, till it has reached that date
of manifestation which shall be found most agreeable
to the other habits of the creature. It will also be
manifested, as a matter of course, without further con-
sciousness or reflection, for people cannot be always
opening up settled questions ; if they thought a matter
iiU over yesterday they cannot think it all over again
to-day, what they thought then they will think now,
and will act upon their opinion ; and this, too, even in
spite sometimes of misgiving, that if they were to think
still further they could find a still better course. It is
not, therefore, to be expected that " instinct " should
show signs of that hesitating and tentative action which
results from knowledge that is still so imperfect as to
be actively self-conscious ; nor yet that it should grow
or vary perceptibly unless under such changed con-
ditions as shall baffle memory, and present the alterna-
tive of either invention — that is to say, variation — or
death.

But every instinct must have passed through the
laboriously intelligent stages through which human
civilisations and mechanical inventions are now passing ;
and he who would study the origin of an instinct with
its development, partial transmission, further growth,
further transmission, approach to more unreflecting
stability, and finally, ics perfection as an unerring and
unerringly transmitted instinct, must look to laws, cus-
toms, and machinery as his best instructors. Customs
and machines are instincts and organs now in process
of development ; they will assuredly one day reach the
unconscious state of equilibrium which we observe in
the structures and instincts of bees and ants, and an
approach to which may be found among some savage
nations. We may reflect, however, not without plea-

il8

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

I il

■•I

sure, that this condition — the true millennium — is still
distant. Nevertheless the ants and bees seem happy ;
perhaps more happy than when so many social ques-
tions were in as hot discussion among them as other
and not dissimilar ones will one day be amongst our-
selves.

And this, as will be apparent, opens up the whole
question of the stability of species, which we cannot
follow further here, than to say, that according to the
balance of testimony, many plants and animals do
appear to have reached a phase of being from which
they are hard to move — that is to say, they will die
sooner than be at the pains of altering their habits —
true martyrs to their convictions. Such races refuse to
see changes in their surroundings as long as they can,
hut when compelled to recognise them, they throw up
the game because they cannot and will not, or will not
and cannot, invent.

This is perfectly intelligible, for a race is nothing
but a long-lived individual, and like any individual, or
tribe of men whom we have yet observed, will have its
special capacities and its special limitations, though, as
in the case of the individual, so also with the race, it
is exceedingly hard to say what those limitations are,
and why, having been able to go so far, it should go
no further. Every man and every race is capable of
education up to a certain point, but not to the extent
of being made from a sow's ear into a silk purse. The
proximate cause of the limitation seems to lie in the
absence of the wish to go further ; the presence or ab-
sence of the wish will depend upon the nature and
surroundings of the individual, which is simply a way
of saying that one can get no further, but that as the
song (with a slight alteration) says : —

III

INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.

119

'• Some breeds do, and some breeds don't,
Some breeds will, but this breed won't :
I tried very often to see if it would.
But it said it really couldn't, and I don't think it could."

• ••••••

M. Uibot in his work on Heredity'"" writes (p. 14): —
" The duckling hatched hy the hen makes straight for
water." In what conceivable way can we account for
this, except on the supposition that the duckling knows
perfectly well what it can and what it cannot do with
water, owing to its recollection of what it did when it
was still one individuality with its parents, and hence,
when it was a duckling before ?

" The squirrel, belbre it knows anything of winter,
lays up a store of nuts. A bird when hatched in a cage
will, when given its freedom, build for itself a nest like
that of its parents, out of the same materials, and of
the same shape."

If this is not due to memory, " even an imperfect "
explanation of what else it can be due to, " would," to
quote from Mr. Darwin, " be satisfactory."

" Intelligence gropes about, tries this way and that,
misses its object, commits mistakes, and corrects them,"

Yes. Because intelligence is of consciousness, and
consciousness is of attention, and attention is of uncer-
tainty, and uncertainty is of ignorance or want of con-
sciousness. Intelligence is not yet thoroughly up to
its business.

" Instinct advances with a mechanical certainty,
hence comes its unconscious character. It knows no-
thing either of ends, or of the means of attaining them :
it implies no comparison, judgment, or choice."

This is assumption. What is certain is that instinct
does not betray signs of self-consciousness as to its own

* Kegan Paul, 1875.

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120

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

knowledge. It has dismissed reference to first prin-
ciples, and is no longer under the law, but under the
grace of a settled conviction.

" All scorns directed by thought."

Yes ; because all has hccn in earlier existences
directed by thought.

" Without ever arriving at thoui,dit."

Because it has got past thought, and though " directed
by thought " originally, is now travelling in exactly the
opposite direction. It is not likely to reach thought
again, till people get to know worse and worse how to
do things, the oftener they practise them.

" And if this phenomenon appear strange, it must
be observed that analogous states occur in ourselves.
All that u'c do from habit — icalking, writing, or practis-
ing a mechanical act, for instance — all these and many
other vc. ij complex acts are performed without conscious-
ness.

" Instinct appears stationary. It does not, like
intelligence, seem to grow and decay, to gain and to
lose. It does not improve."

Naturally. For improvement can only as a general
rule be looked for along the line of latest development,
that is to say, in matters concerning which the creature
is being still consciously exercised. Older questions
are settled, and the solution must be accepted as final,
for the question of living at all would be reduced to an
absurdity, if everything decided upon one day was to
be undecided again the next ; as with painting or
music, so with life and politics, let every man be fully
persuaded in his own mind, for decision with wrong
will be commonly a better policy than indecision — I
had almost added with right ; and a firm purpose with
risk will be better than an infirm one with temporary

,■■■&

INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.

lai

exemption from disaster. Every race has made its
<,'reat blunders, to which it has nevertlieless adhered,
inasmucli as the corresponding moditication of other
structures and instincts was found preferable to the
revolution which would be caused by a radical change
of structure, with consequent havoc among a legion of
vested interests, liudimentary organs are, as has been
often said, the survivals of these interests — the signs
of their peaceful and gradual extinction as living faiths;
they are also instances of the difiiculty of breaking
through any cant or trick which we have long practised,
and which is not sufficiently troublesome to make it a
sericus object with us to cure ourselves of the habit.

"If it does not remain perfectly invariable, at least
it only varies within very narrow limits ; and though
this question has been warmly debated in our day
and is yet unsettled, we may yet say that in instinct
immutability is the law, variation the exception."

This is quite as it should be. Genius will occasion-
ally rise a little above convention, but with an old
convention immutability will be the rule.

" Such," continues M. Eibot, " are the admitted
characters of instinct."

Yes ; but are they not also the admitted characters
of habitual actions that are due to memory ?

M. Ribot says a little further on : " Originally man
had considerable trouble in taming the animals which
are now domesticated ; and his work would have been
in vain had not heredity " (memory) " come to his aid.
It may be said that after man has modified a wild
animal to his will, there goes on in its progeny a silent
conflict between two heredities " (memories), " the one
tending to fix the acquired modifications and the other

122

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

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to preserve the primitive instincts. Tiie latter often
get the mastery, and only after several generations is
training sure of victory. But we may see that in
either case heredity " (memory) " always asserts its
ri-lits."

How marvellously is the above passage elucidated
and made to fit in with the results of our recognised
experience, by the simple substitution of the word
" memory " for heredity.

I cannot refrain from bringing forward a few more
instances of wliat I think must be considered by every
reader as hereditary memory. Sydney Smith writes : —

" Sir James Hall hatched some chickens in an oven.
Within a few minutes after the shell was broken, a
spider was turned loose before this very youthful
brood ; the destroyer of flies liad hardly proceeded
more than a few inches, before he was descried by one
of these oven-born chickens, and, at one peck of his
bill, immediately devoured. This cert; inly was not
imitation. A female goat very near aeiivery died ;
Galen cut out the young kid, and placed before it a
bundle of hay, a bunch of fruit, and a pan of milk ;
the young kid smelt to them all very attentively, and
then began to lap the milk. This was not imitation.
And what is commonly and rightly called instinct,
cannot be explained away under • the notion of its
being imitation." (Lecture xvii. on Moral Philo-
sophy.)

It cannot, indeed, be explained away under the notion
of its being imitation, but I think it may well be so
under that of its being memory.

Again, a little further on in the same lecture as
that above quoted from, we find : —

INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.

" Ants and beavers lay up magazines. "Where do
tliey get their knowledge that it will not be so easy
to collect food in rainy weather us it is in summer ?
Men and women know these things, because their
grandjjapas and grandmammas have told them so.
Ants hatched from the egg artilicially, or birds hatched
in this manner, have all this knowledge by intuition,
witliout the smallest communication with any of their
relations. Now observe what the solitary wasp does ;
she digs several holes in the sand, in each of which
she deposits an egg, though she certainly knows not (?)
that an animal is deposited in that egg, and still less
that this animal must be nourished with other animals.
She collects a few green Hies, rolls th^.m up neatly in
several parcels (like IJologna sausages), and stuffs one
parcel into each hole where an egg is deposited. When
the wasp worm is hatched, it finds a store of provision
ready made ; and what is most curious, the quantity
allotted to each is exactly sufficient to support it, till
it attains the period of wasphood, and can provide for
itself. This instinct of the parent wasp is the more
remarkable as it does not feed upon flesh itself. Here
the little creature has never seen its parent ; for by the
time it is born, the parent is always eaten by sparrows ;
and yet, without the slightest education, or previous
experience, it does everything that the parent did before
it. Now the objectors to the doctrine of instinct may
say what they please, but young tailors have no intui-
tive method of making pantaloons ; a new-born mer-
cer cannot measure diaper ; nature teaches a cook's
daughter nothing about sippets. All these things re-
quire with us seven years' apprenticeship ; but insects
are like Moliere's persons of quality — they know every-
thing (as Moliere says) without having learnt any-

•' ' II

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124

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

Les gens

de quality saveiit tout, sans avoir

thing.

rien appris.' "

How completely all difficulty vanishes from the
facts so pleasantly told in this passage when we bear in
mind the true nature of personal identity, the ordinary
working of memory, and the vanishing tendency of con-
sciousness concerning what we know exceedingly well.

My last instance I take from M. Eibot, who writes: —
" Gratiolet, in his Anatomic Compar^e du Si/steme Ner-
veiix, states that an old piece of wolf's skin, with the
hair all worn away, when set before a little dog, threw
the animal into convulsions of fear by the slight scent
attaching to it. The dog had never seen a wolf, and
we can only explain this alarm by the hereditary trans-
mission of certain sentiments, coupled with a certain
perception of the sense of smell." (" Heredity ,'' p. 43.)

I should prefer to say " we can only explain the
alarm by supposing tliat the smell of the wolf's skin "
— the sense of smell being, as we all know, more
powerful to recall the ideas that have been associated
with it than any other sense — " brought up the ideas
with which it had been associated in the dog's mind
during many previous existences " — he on smelling the
wolf's skin remembering all about wolves perfectly
well.

IS avoir

( 125 )

CONCLUDING REMARKS.

(from chapter XV. OF LIFE AND HABIT.)

HERE, then, I leave, my case, though well aware that
I have crossed the threshold only of my subject.
My work is of a tentative character, put before the
public as a sketch or design for a, possibly, further
endeavour, in which I hope to derive assistance from
the v^riticisms which this present volume may elicit.*
Such as it is, however, for the present I must leave it.

We have seen that we cannot do anything thoroughly
till we can do it unconsciously, and that we cannot do
anything unconsciously till we can do it thoroughly ;
this at first seems illogical ; but logic and consistency
are luxuries for the} gods, and the lower animals, only.
Thus a boy cannot really know how to swim till he can
swim, but he cannot swim till he knows how to swim.
Conscious effort is but the process of rubbing off the
rough corners from these two contradictory statements,
till they eventually fit into one another so closely that
it is impossible to disjoin them.

Whenever we see any creature able to go through
any complicated and difficult process with little or no
effort — whether it be a bird building her nest, or a

* It is now (January 1 884) more than six years since Life and Habit
was published, but I have come across nothing which makes me wish
to alter it to any material extent.

'■nr

ill

Bll

i:- ;

Ife

I'll

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125

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

hen's eg^ making itself into a chicken, or an ovum
turning itself into a baby — we may conclude that the
creature has done the same thing on a very great
number of past occasions.

We found tlie phenomena exhibited by heredity to
be so like those of memory, and to be so inexplicable
on any otlier supposition than that they were modes of
memory, that it was easier to suppose them due to
memory in spite of the fact that we cannot remember
having recollected, than to believe that because we
cannot so remember, therefore the phenomena cannot
be due to memory.

We were thus led to consider "personal identity,"
in order to see whether there was sufficient reason for
denying that the experience, which we must have
clearly gained somewhere, was gained by us when we
were in the persons of our forefathers ; we found, not
without surprise, that unless we admitted that it might
be so gained, in so far as that we once actually/ were
our remotest ancestor, we must change our ideas con-
cerning personality altogether.

We therefore assumed that the phenomena of here-
dity, whether as regards instinct or structure, were due
to memory of past experiences, accumulated and fused
till they had become automatic, or quasi automatic,
much in the same way as after a long life —

. . . " Old experience doth attain
To something like prophetic strain."

After dealing with certain phenomena of memory,
but more especially with its abeyance and revival, we
inquired what the principal corresponding phenomena
of life and species should be, on the hypothesis that
they were mainly due to memory.

I think I may say that we found the hypothesis fit

CONCLUDING REMARKS.

127

in with actual facts in a sufficiently satisfactory manner.
We found not a few matters, as, for example, the
sterility of hybrids, the principle underlying longevity,
the phenomena of old age, and puberty as generally
near the end of development, explain themselves with
more completeness than I have yet heard of their being
explained on any other hypothesis. Most indeed of
these phenomena have been left hitherto without even
an attempt at an explanation.

"^Ve considered the most unportant difficulty in the
way of instinct as hereditary habit, namely, the struc-
ture and instincts of neuter insects ; these are very
unlike those of their parents, and cannot, apparently,
be transmitted to offspring by individuals of the pre-
vious generation, in whom such structure and instincts
appeared, inasnmch as these creatures are sterile. I
do rot say that the difficulty is wholly removed,
inasmuch as some obscurity must be admitted to remain
as to the manner in which the structure of the larva
is aborted ; this obscurity is likely to remain till we
know more of the early history of civilisation among
bees than I can find that we know at present; but I
believe the difficulty was reduced to such proportions
as to make it little likely to be felt in comparison with
that of attributing instinct to any other cause than
inherited habit, or memory on the part of offspring, of
habits contracted in the persons of its ancestors. ■*"'

* It must be remembered that the late Mr. C. Darwin expressly
denied that instinct and inherited habit are generally to be con-
nected. — See Mr. Darwin's "Origin of Species," end of chapter viii.,
where he expresses his surprise that no one has hitherto adduced the
instincts of neuter insects "against the well-known doctrine of in-
herited habit as advanced by Lamarck."

Mr. Romanes, in his " Mental Evolution in Animals " (November,
1S83), refers to this passage of Mr. Darwin's, and endorses it with
approbation (p. 297).

128

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

^ '8

We then iiKiuired wliat was the great principle un-
derlying variation, and answered, with Lamarck, that it
must be "sense of need ; " and though not without being
haunted by suspicion of a vicious circle, and also well
aware that we were not much nearer the origin of life
than when we started, we still concluded that here
was the truest origin of species, and hence of genera ;
and that the accumulation of variations, which in time
amounted to specific and generic difl'erences, was due
to intelligence and memory on the part of the creature
varying, rather than to the operation of wdiat Mr. Dar-
win lias Cidled " natural selection." At the same time
we ad milted that the course of nature is very much
as Mr. Darwin has represented it, in this respect,
in so far as that there is a struggle for existence,
and that the weaker must uo to the wall. Ikit we
denied that this part of the course of nature would
lead to much, if any, accumulation of variation,
unless the \ariation was directed mainly by intelli-
gent sense of need, with continued personality and
memory.

We conclude, therefore, that the small, apparently
structureless, impregnate ovum from which we have each
one of us sprung, has a potential recollection of all that
has happened to each one of its ancestors prior to the
period at which any such ancestor has i&3ued from
the bodies of its progenitors — provided, that is to
say, a sufficiently deep, or sufficiently often-repeated,
impression has been made to admit of its being re-
membered at all.

Each step of normal development will lead the im-
pregnate ovum up to, and remind it of, its next ordinary
course of action, in the same way as we, when we recite
a well-known passage, are led up to each successive

H 'i

CONCLUDING REMARKS.

129

sentence by the sentence which has immediately pre-
ceded it.

And for this reason, namely, that as it takes two
people " to tell " a tiling — a speaker and a comprehend-
ing listener, without which last, though mucli may have
been said, there has been nothing told — so also it takes
two people, as it were, to " remember " a thing — the
creature remembering, and the surroundings of the
creature at the time it last remembered. Hence, though
the ovum immediately after impregnation is instinct
with all the memories of both parents, not one of these
memories can normally become active till both the
ovum itself, and its surroundings, are sufficiently like
what they respectively were, when the occurrence now
to be remembered ln°*- took place. The memory will
then immediately return, and the creature will do as it
did on the last occasion that it was in like case as now.
This ensures that similarity of order shall be preserved in
all the stages of development in successive generations.

Life then is the being possessed of memory. We
are all the same stuff to start with ; plants and animals
only differ from one another because they remember
different things ; they grow up in the shapes they bear
because these shapes are the embodiments of their
ideas concerning their own past history ; they are forms
of faith or faiths of form whichever the reader chooses.

Hence the term " Natural History," as applied to
the different plants and animals around us. For surely
the study of natural history means only the study of
plants and animals themselves, which, at the moment
of using the words " Natural History," we assume to be
the most important part of nature.

A living creature well supported by a mass of healthy
ancestral memory is a young and growing creature, free

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130

SELECTIONS FROM LIFE AND HABIT.

from aclie or pain, and thoroughly acquainted wiih its
business so far, but with much yet to be reminded of.
A creature which finds itself nnd itf surroundings not
so unlike those of its parents about the time of their
begetting it, as to be compelled to recognise that it
never yet was in any such position, is a creature in the
heyday of life. A creature which begins to be aware
of itself is one which is beginning to recognise that the
situation is a new one.

It is the young and fair, then, who are the truly old
and truly experienced ; it is they who alone have a
trustworthy memory to guide them ; they alone know
things as they are, and it is from them that, as we
grow older, we must study if we would still cling to
truth. The whole charm of youth lies in its advantage
over age in respect of experience, and where this has
for some reason failed, or been misapplied, the charm is
broken. When we say that we are getting old, we should
say rather that we are getting new or young, and are
suffering from inexperience, which drives us into doing
things which we do not understand, and lands us, even-
tually, in the utter impotence of death. The kingdom
of heaven is the kingdom of little children.

SELECTIONS
FROM EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW/

IMPOTENCE OF PALEY'S CONCLUSION.
TELEOLOGY OF THE EVOLUTIONIST.

THE

(from chapter III. OF EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.)

TF we conceive of ourselves as looking simultaneously
•*- upon a real foot, and upon an admirably constructed
artificial one, placed by the side of it, tlie idea of design,
and design by an intelligent living being with a body
and soul (without which, the use of the word design
is delusive), will present itself str9ngly to our minds
in connection both with the true foot and with the
model ; but we find another idea asserting itself with
even greater strength, namely, that the design of the
true foot is infinitely more intricate, and yet is carried
into execution in far more masterly manner than that
of the model. We not only feel that there is a wider
difference between the ability, time, and care which
have been lavished on the real foot and upon the
model, than there is between the skill and the time
taken to produce Westminster Abbey, and that be-
stowed upon a gingerbread cake stuck with sugar plums
so as to represent it, but also that these two objects
must have been manufactured on different principles.
We do not for a moment doubt that the re?! foot was
designed, but we are so astonished ut the dexterity of

* Evolution, Old and New, was published in May, 1879.

i i 1

III

1 , ^

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B '

1. . '

133

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

the designer that we are at a loss for some time to
think who could have designed it, where he can live,
in what manner he studied, for how long, and by what
processes he carried out his design, when matured, into
actual practice. Until recently it was thought that
there was no answer to many of these questions, more
especially to those which bear upon the mode of manu-
facture. For the last hundred years, however, the
importance of a study has been recognised which does
actually reveal to us in no small degree the processes
by which the human foot is manufactured, so that in
our endeavour to lay our hands upon the points of
difference between the kind of design with which the
foot itself is designed, and the design of the model,
we turn naturally to the guidance of those who have
made this study their specialty ; and a very wide differ-
ence does this study, embryology, at once reveal to us.
Writing of the successive changes through which
each embryo is forced to pass, the late Mr. G. H. Lewes
says that " none of these phases have any adaptation
to the future state of the animal, but are in positive
contradiction to it or are simply purposeless ; v hereas
all show stamped on them the unmistakable characters
of ancestral adaptation, and the progressions of organic
evolution. What does the I'act imply ? There is not
a single known example of a complex organism which
is not developed out of simpler forms. Before it can
attain the complex structure which distinguishes it,
there must be an evolution of forn ^ s'.milar to those
which distinguish the structure of organisms lower in
the series. On the hypothesis of a plan which pre-
arranged the organic world, nothing could be more
unworthy of a supreme intelligence than this inability
to construct an organism at once, without making several

TELEOLOGY OF THE EVOLUTIONIST.

133

])revious tentative efforts, undoing to-day what was so
carefully done yesterday, and rcpmtinf/ for centuries the
saive tentatives in the same succession. Do not let us
blink this consideration. There is a traditional phrase
much in vogue among the anthropomorphists, which
arose naturally enough from a tendency to take human
methods as an explanation of the Divine phrase
which becomes a sort of argument — ' The . cat Archi-
tect.' But if we are to admit the human point of view,
a glance at the facts of embryology must produce very
uncomfortable reflections. For what should we say
to an architect who was unable, or being able was
obstinately unwilling, to erect a palace except by first
using his materials in the shape of a hut, then pulling
them down and rebuilding them as a cottage, then
adding story to story and room to room, not with any
reference to the ultimate purposes of the palace, but
wholly with reference to the way in which houses were
constructed in ancient times ? What should we say
to the architect who could not form a museum out of
bricks and mortar, but was forced to begin as if going
to construct a mansion, and after proceeding some way
in this direction, altered his plan into a palace, and
that again into a museum ? Yet this is the sort of
succession on which organisms are constructed. The
fact has long been familiar ; how has it been reconciled
with infinite wisdom ? Let the following passage
answer for a thousand : — ' The embryo is nothing like
the miniature of the adult. For a long while the body
in its entirety and in its details, presents the strangest
of spectacles. Day by day and hour by hour, the
aspect of the scene changes, and this instability is ex-
hibited by the most essential parts no less than by the
accessory parts. One would say that nature feels her

1^4

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

way, and only reaches the goal after many times miss-
ing the path ' (on dirait que la nature tutonne et ne
conduit son CEUvre k bon tin, qu'apres s'etre souvent
tromp^e)." '"'

The above passage does not, I think, affect the evi-
dence for design whicli we adduced in the preceding
chapter.t However strange the process of manufacture
may appear, when the work conies to be turned out
the design is too manifest to be doubted.

If the reader were to come upon some lawyer's deed
which dealt with matters of such unspeakable intricacy
that it baffled his imagination to conceive how it could
ever have been drafted, and if in spite of this he were
to find the intricacy of the provisions to be made, ex-
ceeded only by the oe and simplicity with which the
deed providing for them was found to work in practice ;
and after this, if he were to discover that the deed, by
whomsoever drawn, had nevertheless been drafted upon
principles which at first seemed very foreign to any
according to which he was in the habit of drafting
deeds himself, as for example, that the draftsman had
begun to draft a will as a marriage settlement, and so
forth — 'yet an observer would not, I take it, do either
of two things. He would not in the face of the result
deny the design, making himself judge rather of the
method of procedure than of the achievement. Nor
yet after insisting in the manner of Paley, on the
wonderful proofs of intention and on the exquisite pro-
visions which were to be found in every syllable — thus
leading us up to the highest pitch of expectation —

* Quatrefages, "Metamorphoses de I'Homme et des Aniniaux," 186:?,
p. 42 ; G. H. Lewes, "Physical Basis of Mind," 1877, p. 83.

+ I have been unable, through want of space, to give this chapter
here.

TELEOLOGY OF THE EVOLUTIONIST.

'35

would he present us with such an impotent conclusion
as that the designer, though a living person and a true
designer, was yet immaterial and intangible, a some-
thing, in fact, which proves to be a nothing ; an omni-
scient and omnipotent vacuum.

Our observer would feel he need not have been at
such pains to establish his design if this was to be the
upshot of his reasoning. He would therefore admit the
design, and by consequence the designer, but would
probably ask a little time for reflection before he
ventured to say who, or what, or where the designer
was. Then gaining some insight into . the manner in
which tlie deed had been drawn, he would conclude
that the draftsman was a specialist who had had long
practice in this particular kind of work, but who now
worked almost as it niiglit be said automatically and
without consciousness, and found it difiicult to depart
from a habitual method of procedure.

We turn, then, on Paley, and say to him : " We
have admitted your design and your designer. Where
is he ? Show him to us. If you cannot show him to
us as flesh and blood, show him as flesh and sap ; show
him as a living cell ; show him as protoplasm. Lower
than this we should not fairly go ; it is not in the bond
or nexus of our ideas that something utterly inanimate
and inorganic should scheme, design, contrive, and
elaborate structures which can make mistakes : it may
elaborate low unerring thing!?, like crystals, but it can-
not elaborate those which have the power to err.
Kevertheless, we will commit such abuse with our
understandings as to waive this point, and we will ask
you to show him to us as air which, if it cannot be seen
yet can be felt, weighed, handled, transferred from
place to i)lace, be judged by its efiects, and so forth ; or

i;,6

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

i I 'li

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if tin's may not Le, give us half a pmin of hydrogen,
diflused through all space and invested with some of
the minor attributes of matter ; or if you cannot do
this, give us an imponderable like electricity, or even
the higher mathematics, but give us something or throw
off the mask and tell us fairly out that it is your paid
profession to hoodwink us on this matter if you can,
and that you are but doing your best to earn an
honest living."

We may fancy Paley as turning the tables upon us
and as saying ; " liut you too have admitted a designer
— you too then must mean a designer with a body and
soul, who must be somewhere to be found in space, and
who must live in time. Where is this your designer ?
Can you show him more than I can ? Can you lay
your finger on him and demonstrate him so that a child
shall see him and know him, and find what was hereto-
fore an isolated idea concerning him, combine itself
instantaneously with the idea of the designer, we will
say, of the human foot, so that no power on earth shall
henceforth tear those two ideas asunder ? Surely if
you cannot do this, you too are trifling with words, and
abusing your own mind and that of your reader.
Where, then, is your designer of man ? Who made
him ? And where, again, is your designer of beasts
and birds, of fishes and of plants ? "

Our answer is simple enough ; it is that we can and
do point to a living tangible person with flesh, blood,
eyes, nose, ears, organs, senses, dimensions, who did of
his own cunning after infinite proof of every kind of
hazard and experiment scheme out and fashion each
organ of the human body. This is the person whom
we claim as the designer and artificer of that body, and
he is the one of all others the best fitted for the task

ft ■'

TELEOLOGY OF THE EVOLUTIONIST.

•37

by liis antecedents, and his practical knowledge of the
requirements of the case — for he is man himself.

Not man, the individual of any given generation,
but man in the entirety of his existence from the
dawn of life onwards to the present moment. In
like manner we say that the desijjner of all organisms
is so incorporate with the organisms themselves — so
lives, moves, and has its being in those organisms, and
is so one with them — they in it, and it in them — that
it is more consistent with reason and the common use
of words to see the designer of each living form in the
living form itself, than to look for its designer in some
other place or person.

Thus we have a third alternative presented to us.

Mr. Charles Darwin and his followers deny design,
as having any appreciable share in the formation of
organism at all.

Paley and the theologians insist on design, but upon
a designer outside the universe and the organism.

The third opinion is that suggested in the first instance
and carried out to a very high degree of development
by Buffon. It was improved, and indeed, made almost
perfect by Dr. Erasmus Darwin, but too much neg-
lected by him after he had put it forward. It was bor-
rowed, as I think we may say with some confidence,
from Dr. Darwin by Lamarck, and was followed up by
him ardently thenceforth, during the remainder of his
life, though somewhat less perfectly comprehended by
him than it had been by Dr. Darwin. It is that the
design which has designed organisms, has resided within,
and been embodied in, the organisms themselves.

( 138 )

; ,1
I

; ii

-if

FAILURE OF THE FIRST EVOLUTIONISTS TO SEE
THEIR POSITION AS TELEOLOGICAL.

(chapter IV. OF EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.)

TT follows from the doctrine of Dr. Erasmus Darwin
-L and Lamarck, if not from that of Buffbn himself,
that the majority of organs are as purposive to the
evolutionist as to the theologian, and far more intel-
ligibly so. Circumstances, however, prevented these
writers from acknowledging this fact to the world, and
perhaps even to themselves. Their criix was, as it still
is to so many evolutionists, the presence of rudimentary
organs, and the processes of embryological development.
Tliey would not admit that rudimentary and therefore
useless organs were designed by a Creator to take their
place once and for ever as part of a scheme whose main
idea was, that every animal structure ''^\t,s to serve some
useful end in connection vitli its possessor.

This was the doctrine of final causes as then com-
monly held ; in the face of rudimentary organs it was
absurd. Buffon was above all things else a plain matter
of fact thinker, who refused to go far beyond the obvious.
Like all other profound writers, he was, if I may say
so, profoundly superficial. He felt that the aim of
research does not consist in the knowing this or that,
but in the easing of the desire to know or understand
more completely — in the peace of mind which passeth
all understanding. His was the perfection of a healthy

CRUX OF THE EARLY EVOLUTIONISTS.

139

mental organism by which over effort is felt to be as
vicious and contemptible as indolence. He knew this
too well to know the grounds of his knowledge, but we
smaller people who know it less completely, can see
that such felicitous instinctive tempering together of
the two great contradictory principles, love of effort
and love of ease, has underlain every healthy step of
all healthy growth, whether of vegetable or animal, from
the earliest conceivable time to the present moment.
Nothing is worth looking at which is seen either too
obviously or with too much difficulty. Nothing is
worth doing or well done which is not done fairly
easily, and some little deficiency of ehort is more par-
donable than any very perceptible excess, for virtue
has ever erred on the side of self-indulgence rather
than of asceticism.

According to Buffon, then — as also according to
Dr. Darwin, who was just such another practical and
genial thinker, and who was distinctly a pupil of
Buffon, though a most intelligent and original one —
if an organ after a reasonable amount of inspection
appeared to be useless, it was to be called useless
without more ado, and theories were to be ordered out
of court if they were troublesome. In like manner, if
animals breed freely inter se before our eyes, as for
example the horse and ass, the fact was to be noted,
but no animals were to be classed as capable of inter-
breeding until they had asserted their right to such
classification by breeding with tolerable certainty. If,
again, an animal looked as if it felt, that is to say, if it
moved about pretty quickly or made a noise, it must be
held to feel ; if it did neither of these things it did not
look as if it felt, and therefore it must be said not to
feel. Be Twn apparentibvs et non cxistentihus eadcm est

I40

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

Iji

lex was one of the chief axioms of their philosophy ; no
writers have had a greater horror of mystery or of ideas
that have not become so mastered as to be, or to have
been, superficial. Lamarck was one of those men of
whom I believe it has been said that they have brain
upon the brain. He had his theory that an animal
could not feel unless it had a nervous system, and at
least a spinal marrow — and that it could not think at
all without a brain — all his facts, therefore, have to be
made to square with this. With Buffon and Dr. Darwin
we feel safe that however wrong they may sometimes
be, their conclusions have always been arrived at on
that fairly superficial view of things in which, as I have
elsewhere said, our nature alone permits us to be com-
forted.

To these writers, then, the doctrine of final causes for
rudimentary organs was a piece of mystification and an
absurdity ; no less fatal to any such doctrine were the
processes of embryological development. It was plain
that the commonly received teleology must be given
up ; but the idea of design or purpose was so associated
in their minds with theological design that they avoided
it altogether. They seem to have forgotten that an
internal purpose is as much purpose as an external
one ; hence, unfortunately, though their whole theory
of development is intciisely purposive, it is the fact
rather than the name of teleology which has hitherto
been insisted upon, even by the greatest writers on
evolution — the name having been most persistently
denied even by those who were most insisting on the
thing itself.

It is easy to understand the difficulty felt by the
fathers of evolution when we remember how much had
to be seen before the facts could lie well before them.

CRUX OF THE EARLY EVOLUTIONISTS.

141

It was necessary to attain, firstly, to a perception of
the unity of person between parents and offspring in
successive generations ; secondly, it must be seen that
an organism's memory (within the limitations to which
all memory is subject) goes back for generations beyond
its birth, to the first beginnings in fact, of which we
know anything whatever ; thirdly, the latency of that
memory, as of memory generally, till the associated
ideas are reproduced, must be brought to bear upon
the facts of heredity ; and lastly, the unconsciousness
with which habitual actions come to be performed,
must be assigned as the explanation of the unconscious-
ness with which we grow and discharge most of our
natural functions.

Buffbn was too busy with the fact that animals
descended with modification at all, to go beyond the
development and illustration of this great truth. I
doubt whether he ever saw more than the first, and
that dimly, of the four considerations above stated.

Dr. Darwin was the first to point out the first two
considerations ; he did so with some clearness, but can
hardly be said to have understood their full importance :
the two latter ideas do not appear to have occurred to
him.

Lamarck had little if any perception of any one of
the four. When, however, they are firmly seized and
brought into their due bearings one upon another, the
facts of heredity become as simple as those of a man
making a tobacco pipe, and rudimentary organs are
seen to be essentially of the same character as the little
rudimentary protuberance at the bottom of the pipe to
which I referred in * Erewhon.' *

These organs are now no longer useful, but they

* Page 210, first edition.

142

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

:' I

;!l

' I
'■

once were so, and were therefore once purposive, though
not so now. The^ are the expressions of a bygone use-
fuhiess ; sayings, as it were, about which there was at
one time infinite wrangling, as to what both the mean-
ing and the expression should best be, so that they then
had living significance in the mouths of those who
used them, though they have become such mere shib-
boleths and cant formulae to ourselves that we think
no more of their meaning than we do of Julius Ccesar
in the month of July. . They continue to be reproduced
through the force of habit, and through indisposition to
get out of any familiar groove of action until it becomes
too unpleasant for us to remain in it any longer. It
has long been felt that embryology and rudimentary
structures indicated community of descent. Dr. Darwin
and Lamarck insisted on this, as have all subsequent
writers on evolution ; but the explanation why and
how the structures come to be repeated — namely, that
they are simply examples of tlie force of habit — can
only be perceived intelligently by those who admit such
unity between parents and offspring as that the self-
development of the latter can be properly called
habitual (as being a repetition of an act by one and
the same individual), and can only be fully sympa-
thised with by those who recognise that if habit be
admitted as the key to the fact ^t all, the unconscious
manner in which the habit comet> to be repeated is only
of a piece with all our other observations concerning
habit. For the fuller development of the foregoing, I
must refer the reader to my work " Life and Habit."

The purposiveness, which even Dr. Darwin (and
Lamarck still less) seems never to have quite recog-
nised in spite of their having insisted so much on what
amounts to the same thing, now comes into full view.

r I

CRUX OF THE EARLY EVOLUTIONISTS.

It is seen that the organs external to the body, and
those internal to it, are the second as much as the first,
things which we have made for our own convenience,
and with a prevision that we shall have need of them ;
the main difference between the manufacture of these
two classes of organs being, that we have made the one
kind so often that we can no longer follow the processes
whereby we make them, while the others are new
things which we must make introspectively or not at
all, and which are not yet so incorporate with our
vitality as that we should think they grow instead of
being manufactured. The manufacture of the tool, and
the manufacture of the living organ prove therefore to
be but two species of the same genus, which, though
widely differentiated, have descended as it were from
one common filament of desire and inventive faculty.
The greater or less complexity of the organs goes for
very little. It is only a question of the amount of
intelligence and voluntary self-adaptation which we
must admit, and this must be settled rather by an
appeal to what we find in organism, and observe con-
cerning it, than by what we may have imagined d
priori.

Given a small speck of jelly with some power of
slightly varying its actions in accordance with slightly
varying circumstances and desires — given such a jelly-
speck with a power of assimilating other matter, and
thus of reproducing itself, given also that it should be
possessed of a memory and a reproductive system, and
we can show how the whole animal world can have
descended it may be from an amceba without inter-
ference Irom without, and how every organ in every
creature is designed at first roughly and tentatively
but finally fashioned with the most consummate

144

EVOLUTION OLD AND NEW.

I! llMli

s:!!

iJ: I

perfection, by the creature which lias had need of that
organ, which best knew what it wanted, and was never
satisfied till it had got that which was the best suited
to its varying circumstances in their entirety. We can
even show how, if it becomes worth the Ethiopian's
while to try and change his skin, or the leopard's to
change his spots, they can assuredly change them
within a not unreasonable time and adapt their cover-
ing to their own will and convenience, and to that of
none other ; thus what is commonly conceived of as
direct creation by God is moved back to a time and
space inconceivable in their remoteness, while the aim
and design so obvious in nature are shown to be still
at work around us, growing ever busier and busier, and
advancing from day to day both in knowledge and
power.

It was reserved for Mr. Charles Darwin and for
those who have too rashly followed him to deny pur-
pose as having had any share in the development of
animal and vegetable organs; to see no evidence of
design in those wonderful provisions which have been
the marvel and delight of observers in all ages. The
one who has drawn our attention more than perhaps
any other living writer to those very marvels of co-
adaptation, is the foremost to maintain that they are
the result not of desire and design, either within the
creature or without it, but of blind chance, working
no whither, and due but to the accumulation of innum-
erable lucky accidents.

" There are men," writes Professor Tyndal in the
Nineteenth Century for last November,'"" "and by no
means the minority, who, however wealthy in regard
to facts, can nevei rise into the region of principles ;

* 1878.

1^ ■ I

CRUX OF THE EARLY EVOLUTIONISTS.

145

and they are sometimes intolerant of those that can.
They are formed to plod meritoriously on in the lower
levels of thought ; unpossessed of the pinions necessary
to reach the heights, they cannot realise the mental
act — the act of inspiration it might well be called —
by which a man of genius, after long pondering and
proving, reaches a theoretic conception which unravels
and illuminates the tangle of centuries of observation
and experiment. There are minds, it may be said in
passing, who, at the present moment, stand in this
relation to Mr. Darwin."

The more rhapsodical parts of the above must go
for what they are worth, but I should be sorry to think
that what remains conveyed a censure which might
fall justly on myself. As I read the earlier part of
the passage I confess that I imagined the conclusion
was going to be very different from what it proved to
be. Fresh from the study of the older men and also
of Mr. Darwin himself, I failed to see that Mr. Darwin
had " unravelled and illuminated " a tangled skein, but
believed him, on the contrary, to have tangled and
obscured what his predecessors had made in great part,
if not wholly, plain. "With the older writers, I had
felt as though in the hands of men who wished to
understand themselves and to make their reader under-
stand them with the smallest possible exertion. The
older men, if not in full daylight, at any rate saw in
what quarter of the sky the dawn was breaking, and
were looking steadily towards it. It is not they who
have put their hands over their own eyes and ours,
and who are crying out that there is no light, but
chance and blindness everywhere.

11 ''' 1

m '

ii 1 1

( '46 )

THE TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF
ORGANISM.

(chapter v. of evolution, old and new.)

I HAVE stated the foregoing in what I take to be an
extreme logical development, in order that the
reader may more easily perceive the consequences of
those premises which I am endeavouring to re-establish.
But it must not be supposed that an animal or plant
has ever conceived the idea of .«ome organ widely dif-
ferent from any it was yet possassed of, and has set
itself to design it in detail and grow towards it.

The small jelly-speck, which we call the amoeba,
has no organs save what it can extemporise as occasion
arises. If it wants to get at anything, it thrusts out
part of its jelly, wliich thus serves it as an arm or
hand : wlien the arm has served its purpose, it is
absorbed into the rest of the jelly, and has now to do
the duty of a stomach by helping to wrap up what
it has just purveyed. The small round jelly-speck
spreads itself out and envelops its food, so that the
whole creature is now a stomach, and nothing but a
stomach. Having digested its food, it again becomes
a jelly-speck, and is again ready to turn part of itself
into hand or foot as its next convenience may dictate.
It is not to be believed that such a creature as this,
which is probably just sensitive to light and nothing
more, should be able to form any conception of an eye

I 9<'

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. 147

7 OF

w.)

1 to be an
that the
aences of
■establish.
. or plant
idely dif-
1 has set
it.

amoeba,

I occasion

rusts out

arm or

)se, it is

ow to do

up what

ly-speck

that the

ig but a

becomes

of itself

dictate.

as this,

nothing

)f an eye

and set itself to work to grow one, any more than it
is believable that he who first observed the magnify-
ing power of a dew-drop, or even he who first con-
structed a rude lens, should have had any idea in his
mind of Lord Eosse's telescope with all its parts and
appliances. Nothing could be well conceived more
foreign to experience and common sense. Animals
and plants have travelled to their present forms as a
man has travelled to any one of his own most compli-
cated inventions. Slowly, step by step, through many
blunders and mischances which have worked together
for good to those that have persevered in elasticity.
They have travelled as man has travelled, with but
little perception of a want till there was also some per-
ception of a power, and with but little perception of a
power till there was a dim sense of wane ; want stimu-
lating power, and power stimulating want ; and both
so based upon each other that no one can say which
is the true foundation, but rather that they must be
both baseless and, as it were, meteoric in mid air.
They have seen very little ahead of a present power or
need, and have been then most moral, when most
inclined to pierce a little into futurity, but also when
most obstinately declining to pierce too far, and busy
mainly with the present. They have been so far
blindfolded that they could see but for a few steps in
front of them, yet so far free to see that those steps
were taken with aim and definitely, and not in the
dark.

" Plus il a su," says Buffon, speaking of man, " plus
il a pu, mais aussi moins il a fait, moins il a su.'
This holds good wherever life holds good. Wherevei
there is life there is a moral government of rewards
and punishments understood by the amoeba neiilier

1^'

T\<

148

EVOLUTION, OLP AND NEW.

I'W'W'

'i\\

better nor worse than by man. The history of organic
development is the history of a moral struggle.

As for the origin of a creature able to feel want and
I)Ower and as to what want and power spring from,
we know nothing as yet, nor does it seem worth while
to go into this question until an understanding has been
come to as to whether the interaction of want and
l)Ower in some low form or forms of life which could
assimilate matter, reproduce themselves, vary their
actions, and be capable of remembering, will or vvill not
suffice to explain the development of the varied organs
and desires which ' e see in the higher vertebralt-s and
man. When this question has been settled, then it
will be time to push our inquiries farther back.

But given such a low form of life as here postulated,
and there is no force in Paley's pretended objection to
the Darwinism of his time.

" Give our philosopher," he says, " appetencies ; give
him a portion of living irritable matter (a nerve or the
clipping of a nerve) to work upon ; give also to his in-
cipient or progressive Ibrms the power of propagating
their like in every stage of their alteration ; and if he
is to be believed, he could replenish the world with all
the vegetable and animal productions which we now
see in it.""^^"

After meeting this theory with answers which need
not detain us, he continues : —

" The senses of animals appear to me quite incapable
of receiving the explanation of their origin which this
theory affords. Including under the word ' sense ' the
organ and the perception, we have no account of either.
How will our philosopher get at vision or make an eye ?
Or, suppose the eye formed, would the perception

* "Nat. Theol." ch. xxiii.

III!

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF 0RGANI3M. 149

les ; s'lve

follow ? The same of the other senses. And this ob-
jection holds its force, ascribe what you will to the hand
of time, to the power of habit, to changes too slow to
be observed by man, or brought withia any comparison
which he is able to make of past things with the present.
Concede what you please to these arbitrary and unat-
tested superstitions, how will they help you ? Here is
no inception. No laws, no course, no powers of nature
which prevail at present, nor any analogous to these
would give commencement to a new sense ; and it is in
vain to inquiic how that might proceed which woulil
never begin."

In answer to this, let us suppose that some inhabi-
tants of another world were to see a modern philoso-
pher so using a microscope that they should believe it
to be a part of the philosopher's own person, which he
could cut off from and join again to himself at pleasure,
and suppose there were a controversy as to how this
microscope had originated, and that one party main-
tained the man had made it little by little because he
wanted it, while the other declared this to be absurd
and impossible ; I ask, would this latter party be justi-
fied in arguing that microscopes could never have been
perfected by degrees through the preservation of and ac-
cumulation of small successive improvements inasmuch
as men could not have begun to want to use microscopes
until they had had a microscope which should show
them that such an instrument would be useful to them,
and that hence there is nothing to account for the
beginning, of microscopes, which might indeed make
some progress when once originated, but which could
never originate?

It might be pointed out to such a reasoner, firstly,
that as regards any acquired power the various stages

ISO

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

;i^

! ill!

I^Ulv it

in the acquisition of which he might be supposed able
to remember, he would find that logic notwithstanding,
the wish did originate the power, and yet was originated
by it, both coming up gradually out of something which
was not recognisable as either power or wish, and
advancing through vain beating of the air, to a vague
effort, and from this to definite efff 't with failure, and
from this to definite effort with success, and from this
to success with little consciousness of effort, and from
this to success with such complete absence of effort that
he now acts unconsciously and without power of intro-
spection, and that, do what he will, he can rarely or
never draw a sharp dividing line whereat anything
shall be said to begin, though none less certain that
there has been a continuity in discontinuity, and a dis-
continuity in continuity between it and certain other
past things ; moreover, that his opponents postulated
so much beginning of the microscope as that there
should be a dew-drop, even as our evolutionists start
with a sense of touch, of which sense all the others are
modifications, so that not one of them, but is resolvable
into touch by more or less easy stages ; and secondly,
that the question is one of fact and of the more evident
deductions therefrom, and should not be carried back
to those remote beginnings where the nature of the
facts is so purely a matter of conjecture and inference.
No plant or animal, then, according to our view,
would be able to conceive more than a very slight im-
provement on its organisation at a given time, so clearly
as to make the efforts towards it that would result in
growth of the required modification ; nor would these
efforts be made with any far-sighted perception of what
next and next and after, but only of what next ; while
many of the happiest thoughts would come like all other

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. 151

happy thoughts — tlioughtlessly ; by a chain of reason-
ing too swift and subtle for conscious analysis by the
individual. Some of these modifications would be
noticeable, but tlie mnjority would involve no more
noticeable diflerence that can be detected between tlie
length of the shortest day, and that of tlie shortest but
one.

Thus a bird whose toes were not webbed, but who
had under force of circumstances little by little in the
course of many generations learned to swim, either from
having lived near a lake, and having learnt the art
owing to its fishing habits, or from wading about in
shallow pools by the sea- side at low water and finding
itself sometimes a little out of its depth and just
managing to scramble over the intermediate yard or so
between it and safety — such a bird did not probably
conceive the idea of swimming on the water and set
itself to learn to do so, and then conceive the idea of
webbed feet and set itself to get webbed feet. The
bird found itself in some small difficulty, out of which
it either saw, or at any rate found that it could ex-
tricate itself by striking out vigorously with its feet
and extending its toes as far as ever it could ; it thus
began to learn the art of swimming and conceived the
idea of swimming synchronously, or nearly so ; or per-
haps wishing to get over a yard or two of deep water,
and trying to do so without being at the trouble of
rising to fly, it would splash and struggle its way over
the water, and thus practically swim, though without
much perception of what it had been doing. Finding
that no harm had come to it, the bird would do the
same again and again ; it would thus presently lose
fear, and would be able to act nore calmly ; then it
would begin to find out that it could swim a little, and

■ 4

^*!

I ..

I! ■pi

i VtM '

■ ' :*i!^

'.' i'

152

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

if its food lay much in the water so that it would be of
great advantage to it to be able to alight and rest
without being forced to return to land, it would begin
to make a practice of swimming. It would now dis-
cover that it could swim the more easily according as
its feet presented a more extended surface to the water;
it would therefore keep its toes extended wherever it
swam, and as far as in it lay, would make the most
of whatever skin was already at the base of its toes.
After many generations it would become web-footed, if
doincj as above described should have been found con-
tinuously convenient, so that the bird should have con-
tinuously used the skin about its toes as much as
possible in this direction.

For there is a margin in every organic structure
(and perhaps more than we imagine in things inor-
ganic also), which will admit of references, as it were,
side notes, and glosses upon the original text. It is on
this margin that we may err or wander — the greatness
of a mistake depending rather upon the extent of the
departure from the original text, than on the direction
that the departure takes. A little error on the bad side
is more pardonable, and less likely to hurt the organ-
ism than a too great departure upon the right one.
This is a fundamental proposition in any true system
of ethics, the question what is too much or too sudden
being decided by much the same higgling as settles
the price of butter in a country market, and being as
invisible as the link which connects the last moment
of desire with the first of power and performance, and
with the material result achieved.

It is on this margin that the fulcrum is to be found,
M'hereby we obtain the little purchase over our struc-
ture, that enables us to achieve great results if we use

A ^\

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. i

aid be of
and rest
Id begin
low dis-
L'ding as
le water;
srever it
he most
its toes,
'ooted, if
md con-
ave con-
nuch as

tructure
gs inor-
it were,

It is on
reatness

of the
irection
jad side

organ-
ht one.

system
sudden

settles
leing as
noment
ce, and

I found,
struc-
\ve use

it steadily, with judgment, and with neither too little
effort nor too much. It is by employing this tliat those
who have a fancy to move their ears or toes witliout
moving otiier organs learn to do so. There is a man
at the Agricultural Hall now '"' playing the violin with
his toes, and playing it, as I am told, sufficiently well.
The eye of the sailor, the wrist of the conjuror, the
toe of the professional medium, are all found capable
of development to an astonishing degree, even in a
single lifetime ; but in every case success has been
attained by the simple process of making the best
of whatever power a man has had at any given time,
and by being on the look-out to take advantage of
accident, and even of misfortune. If a man would
learn to paint, he must not theorise concerning art, nor
think much what he would do beforehand, but he must
do something — whatever under the circumstances will
come handiest and easiest to him; and he must do
that something as well as he can. This will presently
open the door for something else, and a way will show
itself which no conceivable amount of searching would
have discovered, but which yet could never have been
discovered by sitting still and taking no pains at all.
"Dans I'animal," says Buffon, "il y a moins de juge-
nient que de sentiment." f

It may appear as though this were blowing hot and
cold with the same breath, inasmuch as I am insisting
that important modifications of structure have been
always purposive ; and at the same time am denying
that the creature modified has had any far-seeing pur-
pose in the greater part of all those actions which
have at length modified both structure and instinct.
Thus I say that a bird learns to swim without having

* 1878. + " Oiseaux," vol. i. p. 5.

154

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

11 I

i u

'■( ii i

^1 lii

any purpose of learning to swim before it set itself to
make those movements which have resulted in its
being able to do so. At the same time I maintain
that it has only learned to swim by trying to swim,
and tliis involves the very purpose wliich I have just
denied. The reconciliation of these two apparently
irreconcilable contentions must be found in the con-
sideration that the bird was not the less trying to
swim, merely because it did not know the name we
have chosen to give to the art which it was trying
to master, nor yet how great were the resources of that
art. A person, who knew all about swimming, if from
some bank he could watch our supposed bird's first
attempt to scramble over a short space of deep water,
would at once declare that the bird was trying to
swim — if not actually swimming. Provided then that
there is a very little perception of, and prescience con-
cerning, the means whereby the next desired end may
be attained, it matters not how little in advance that
end may be of present desire or faculties ; it is still
reached through purpose, and must be called purposive.
Again, no matter how many of these small steps be
taken, nor how absolute was the want of purpose or
prescience concerning a!iy but the one being actually
taken at any given moment, this does not bar the
result from having been arrived at through design and
purpose. If each one of the small steps is purposive
the result is purposive, though there was never purpose
extended over more than one, two, or perhaps at most
three steps at a time.

Eeturning to the art of painting for an example, are
we to say that the proficiency which such a student as
was supposed above will certainly attain, is not due to
design, merely because it was not until he had already

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. 155

become three parts excellent that he knew the full pur-
port of all that he had been doing ? When he began
he had but vague notions of what he would do. He
had a wish to learn to represent nature, but the line
into which he has settled down has probably proved
very different from that which he proposed to himself
originally. Because he has taken advantage of his
accidents, is it, therefore, one whit the less true that,
his success is the result of his desires and his design ?
The Times pointed out some time ago that the theory
which now associates meteors and comets in the most
unmistakable manner, was suggested by one accident,
and confirmed by another. But the writer added well
that " such acciuents happen only to the zealous student
of nature's secrets." In the same way the bird that is
taking to the habit of swimming, and of making the
most of whatever skin it already has between its toes,
will have doubtless to thank accidents for no small
part of its progress ; but they will be such accidents as
could never have happened to or been taken advantage
of by any creature which was not zealously trying to
make the most of itself — and between such accidents
as this, and design, the line is hard to draw ; for if we
go deep enough we shall find that most of our design
resolves itself into as it were a shaking of the bag to
see what will come out that will suit our purpose, and
yet at the same time that most of our shaking of the
bag resolves itself into a design that the bag shall con-
tain only such and such things, or thereabouts.

Again, the fact that animals are no longer conscious
of design and purpose in much thui they do, but act
unreflectingly, and as we sometimes say concerning
ourselves " automatically " or " mechanically " — that
they have no idea whatever of the steps, wliereby they

ill-

■'SI

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)l.l*

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156

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

have travelled to their present state, and show no sign
of doubt about what must have been at one time the
subject of all manner of doubts, difficulties, and discus-
sions — that whatever sign of reflection they now exhibit
is to be found only in case of some novel feature or diffi-
culty presenting itself ; these facts do not bar that the
results achieved should be attributed to an inception
•in reason, design and purpose, no matter how rapidly
and as we call it instinctively, the creatures may now
act.

For if we look closely at such an invention as the
steam engine in its latest and most complicated develop-
ments, about which there can be no dispute but that
they are achievements of reason, purpose and design,
we shall find them present us with examples of all
those features the presence of which in the handiwork
of animals is too often held to bar reason and purpose
from having had any share therein.

Assuredly such men as the Marquis of Worcester and
Captain Savery had very imperfect ideas as to the up-
shot of their own action. The simplest steam » v; " '
now in use in England is probably a marvel of inge.. :
as compared with the highest development which c ;
peared possible to these two great men, while ou;
newest and most highly complicated engines would
seem to them more like living beings than machines.
Many, again, of the steps leading to the present deve-
lopment have been due to action which had but little
heed of the steam engine, being the inventions of
attendants whose desire was to save themselves the
trouble of turning this or that cock, and who were in-
different to any other end than their own immediate
convenience. No step in fact along the whole route
was ever taken with much perception of what would

now

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. 157

be the next step after the one being taken at any given
moment.

Nor do we find that an engine made after any old
and well-known pattern is now made with much more
consciousnesss of design than we can suppose a bird's
nest to be built with. The greater number of the parts
of any such engine, are made by the gross as it were
like screw and nuts, which are turned out by machinery,
and in respect of which the labour ot design is now no
more felt than is the design of him who first invented
tlie wheel. It is only when circumstances require any
modification in the article to be manufactured that
thought and design will come into play again ; but I
take it few will deny that if circumstances compel a
bird either to give up a nest three-parts built altogether,
or to make some trifling deviation from its ordinary
practice, it will in nine cases out of ten make such
deviation as shall show that it had thought the matter
over, and had on the whole concluded to take such and
such a course, that is to say, that it had reasoned and
had acted with such purpose as its reason had dictated.

And I imagine that this is the utmost that any one
can claim even for man's own boasted powers. Set the
man who has been accustomed to make engines of one
type, to make engines of another type without any
intermediate course of training or instruction, and he
will make no better figure with his engines than a
thrush would do if commanded by her mate to make
a nest like a blackbird. It is vain then to contend
that the ease and certainty with which an action is
performed, even though it may have now become
matter of such fixed habit that it cannot be suddenly
and seriously modified without rendering the whole
performance abortive, is any argument against that

iiifl

i;8

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

action having been an acliivement of design and reason
in respect of each one of the steps that have led to it; '
and if in respect of each one of the steps then as re-
gards the entire action ; for we see our own most
reasoned actions become no le&s easy, unerring, auto-
matic, and unconscious, than the actions which we call
instinctive when they have been repeated a sufficient
number of times.

n ■

If the foregoing be granted, and it be admitted that
the unconsciousness and seeming automatism with which
any action may be performed is no bar to its having a
foundation in memory, reason, and at one time con-
sciously recognised effort — and this I believe to be the
chief addition which I have ventured to make to the
theory of Buffon and Dr. Erasmus Darwin — then the
wideness of the difference between the Darwinism of
eighty years ago and the Darwinism of to-day becomes
immediately apparent, and it also becomes apparent,
how important and interesting is the issue which is
raised between them.

According to the older Darwinism the lungs are just
as purposive as the corkscrew. They, no less than the
corkscrew, are a piece of mechanism designed and
gradually improved upon and perfected by an intelli-
gent creature for the gratification of its own needs.
True there are many important differences between
mechanism which is part of the body, and mechanism
wliich is no such part, but the differences are such as
do not affect the fact that in each case the result,
whether, for example, lungs or corkscrew, is due to
desire, invention, and design.

And now I will ask one more question, which may
seem, perhaps, to have but little importance, but which

TELEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION OF ORGANISM. 159

I find personally interesting. I have been told by a
reviewer, of whoi>i upon the whole I have little reason
to complain, that the theory I put forward in " Life
and Habit," and which I am now again insisting on, is
pessimism — pure and simple. I have a very vague
idea what pessimism means, but I should be sorry to
believe that I am a pessimist. Which, I would ask, is
the pessimist ? He who sees love of beauty, design,
steadfastness of purpose, intelligence, courage, and
every quality to which success has assigned the name
of " worth " as having drawn the pattern of every leaf
and organ now and in all past time, or he wiio sees
nothing in the world of natur: but a chapter of acci-
dents and of forces interacting blindly ?

( i6o )

nilli ON— MEMOIR.

!:1

mi:

r I

(CIIAI'TEIl VIII. OF EVOj.UTIOX, OLD AND NEW.)

BUFFON, says M. Flourens, was born at Montbar, on
the 7th of September 1 707 ; he died in Paris,
at the Jardin du lloi, on the i6th of April 1788, aged
8 I years. More than fifty of these years, as lie used
himself to say, he had passed at his writing-desk. His
iatlier was a councillor of the parliament of Burgundy.
His mother was celebrated for her wit, and Butfon
cherished her memory.

He studied at Dijon with much Mat, and shortly
after leaving became accidentally acquainted with the
Duke of Kingston, a young Englishman of his own age,
who was travelling abroad with a tutor. The three
travelh^d together in France and Italy, and Buffon then
passed some months in England.

Eeturniiig to France, he translated Hales's Vegetable
Statics and Newton's Treatise on Fluxions. He refers
to several English writers on natural history in the
course of his work, but I see he repeated spells the
English name Willoughby, " Willulghby." He was
appointed superintendent of the Jardin du Eoi in 1739,
and from thenceforth devoted himself to science.

In 1 7 5 2 Bulfon married Mdlle de Saint Bolin, whose
beauty and charm of manner were extolled by all her
contemporaries. One son was born to him, who entered
the army, became a colouel, and I grieve to say, was

B UFFON— MEMOIR.

i6i

guillotined at the age of twenty-nine, a few days only
before the extinction of the Eeign of Terror.

Of this youth, who inherited the personal comeliness
and ability of his father, little is recorded except tlio
following story. Having fallen into the water and
been nearly drowned when he was about twelve years
old, he was afterwards accused of having been afraid :
" I was so little afraid," he answered, " that thoug^^ T
had been offered the hundred years which my grandfai er
lived, I would have died then and there, if I uld
have added one year to the life of my father : ' ta rr
thinking for a minute, a flush suffused his face am. iie
added, " but I should petition for one quarter of an
hour in which to exult over the thought of wha. i was
about to do."

On the scaffold he showed much composure, smil-
ing half proudly, half reproachfully, yet wholly kindly
upon the crowd in front of him. " Citoyens," he said,
" Je me nomme Buffon," and laid his head upon the
block.

The noblest outcome of the old and decaying order,
overwhelmed in the most hateful birth frenzy of the
new. So in those cataclysms and revolutions which
take place in our own bodies during their development,
when we seem studying in order to become fishes and
suddenly make, as it were, different arrangements and
resolve on becoming men — so, doubtless, many good
cells must go, and their united death cry comes up, it
may be, in the pain which an infant feels on teething.

But to return. The man who could be father of
such a son, and who could retain that son's affection,
as it is well known that Buffon retained it, may not
perhaps ahvays be strictly accurate, but it will be as
well to pay attention to whatever he may think fit to

I 62

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

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t!|

tell us. These are the only people whom it h worth
while to look to and study from.

" Glory," said liufTon, after speaking,' of the hours
during which he had laboured, " glory comes always
after labour if she can — and she gencralhf can." But
in his case she could not well help herself. " He was
conspicuous," says M. Flourens, " for elevation and fcjrce
of charfi.cter, for a love of greatness and true magni-
ficence in all he did. His great wealth, his handsome
person, and graceful manners seemed in correspondence
with the &})len(lour of his genius, so that of all the
gifts which Fortune has in it her power to bestow she
had denied him nothing."

Many of his epigrammatic sayings have passed into
proverbs : for example, that " genius is but a supreme
capacity for taking jiains." Another and still more
celebrated passage shall be given in its entirety and
with its original setting.

** Style," says Buffbn, " is the only passport to pos-
terity. It is not range of information, nor mastery of
some little known branch of science, nor yet novelty
of matter that will ensure immortality. "Works that
can claim all this will yet die if they are conversant
about trivial objects only, or written without taste,
genius, and true nobility of mind ; for range of infor-
mation, knowledge of details, novelty of discovery are
of a volatile essence and fly off readily into other hands
that know better how to treat them. The mat*:er is
foreign to the man, and is not of him; the manner is
the man himself.""^

" Le style, c'est I'homme meme." Elsewhere he tells
us what true style is, but I quote from memory and
cannot be sure of the passage. " Le style," he says

* "Discours de Reception k I'Acaddmie Fran^aise."

B UFFON— MEMOIR.

163

" est comme le bonheur ; il vient de la douceur de
lame."

Is it possible not to think of the following ? —
" But whether there be prophecies they shall fail ;
whether there be tongues they shall cease; whether
there be knowledge it shall vanish away .... and
now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three ; but
the greatest of these is charity." *

* I Cor. xiii. 8, 13.

( 164 )

BUFFO N'S METHOD— THE IRONICAL
CHARACTER OF HIS WORK.

(chapter IX. OK EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.)

"DUFFON'S idea of a method amounts almost to the
■^ denial of the possibility of method at all. " The
true method," he writes, " is the complete description
and exact history of each particular object," "'' and later
on he asks, " is it not more simple, more natural and
more true to call an ass an ass, and a cat a cat, than to
say, without knowing why, that an ass is a horse, and
a cat a lynx ? " t

He admits such divisions as between animals and
vegetables, or between vegetables and minerals, but
that done, he rejects all others that can be founded on
the nature of things themselves. He concludes that
one who could see living forms as a whole and without
jjreconceived opinions, would classify animals according
to the relations in which he found himself standinu'
towards them : —

" Those which he finds most necessary and useful to
him will occupy the first rank ; thus he will give the
precedence among the lower animals to the dog and
the horse ; he will next concern himself with those
which without being domesticated, nevertheless occupy
the 3ame country and climate as himself, as for example

* Tom. i. p. 24, 1749. t Tom. i. p. 40, 1749.

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 165

stags, hares, and all wild 'vnimals ; nor will it be till after
he has familiarised himself with all these that curiosity
will lead him to inquire what inhabitants there may be
in foreign climates, such as elephants, dromedaries, &c.
The same will hold good for tislies, birds, insects, shells,
and for all nature's other productions ; he will study
them in proportion to the profit which he can draw
from them ; he will consider them in that order in
which they enter into his daily life ; he will arrange
them in his head according to this order, which is in
fact that in which he has become acquainted with them,
and in which it concerns him to think about them,
This order — the most natural of all — is the one which
I have thought it well to follow in this volume. My
classification has no more mystery in it than the reader
has just seen ... it is preferable to the most pro-
found and ingenious that can be conceived, for there is
none of all the classifications which ever have been
made or ever can be, which has not more of an arbitrary
character than this has. Take it for all in all," he
concludes, " it is more easy, more agreeable, and more
useful, to consider things in their relation to ourselves
than from any other standpoint." '"

" Has it not a better effect not only in a treatise on
natural history, but in a picture or any work of art to
arrange oLj cts in the order and place in which they are
commonly tuimd, than to force them into association in
virtue of sonii theory of our own ? Is it not better to
let the dog which has toes, come after the horse which
has a single hoof, in the same way as we see him follow
the horse in daily life, than to follow up the horse by
the zebra, an animal which is little known to us, and

Vol. i. p. 34, 1749.

i66

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

II'

ii. i

ft :',i

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which has no other connection with the horse than the
fact that it nas a single hoof V '''

Can we suppose that Buffon really saw no more con-
nection than this ? The writer whom we shall pre-
sently find t declining to admit any essential difference
between the skeletons of man and of the horse, can
here see no resemblance between the zebra and the
horse, except that they each have a single hoof. Is
he to be taken at his' word ?

It is perhaps necessary to tell the reader that Buffon
carried the foregoing scheme into practice as nearly as
he could in the first fifteen volumes of his Natural
History. He begins with man — and then goes onto
the horse, the ass, the cow, sheep, goat, pig, dog, &c.
One would be glad to know whether he found it always
more easy to know in what order of familiarity this or
that animal would stand to the majority of his readers
than other classifiers have found it to know whether
an individual more resembles one species or another;
probably he never gave the matter a thought after he
hf..d gone through the first dozen most familiar animals,
but settled generally down into a classification which
becomes more and more specific — as when he treats of
the apes and monkeys — till he reaches the birds, when
he openly abandons his original idea, in deference, as
he says, to the opinion of " le peuple des naturalistes."

Perhaps the key to this piece of apparent extra-
vagance is to be f(jund in the word " mysterieuse." J
Buffon wished to raise a standing protest against
mysteiy mongeving. Or perhaps more probably, he
wished at once to turn to animals under domestication,
so as to insist early on the main object of his work — the
plasticity of animal forms.

* Tom. i. p. 36. t See p. 173. + Tom. i. p. 33.

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 167

I am inclined to think that a vein of irony pervades
the whole or much the greater part of Buffon's \York,
and that he intended to convey one meiining to one set
of readers, and another to another ; indeed, it is often
impossible to believe that he is not writing between his
lines for the discerning, what the undiscerning were not
intended to see. It must be remembered that his
Natural History has two sides, — a scientific and a
popular one. May we not imagine that Buffon would
be unwilling to debar himself from speaking to those
who could understand him, and yet would wish like
Handel and Shakespeare to address the many, as well
as the few ? But the only manner in which these
seemingly irreconcilable ends could be attained, would
be by the use of language which should be self-adjusting
to the capacity of the reader. So keen an observer can
hardly have been blind to the signs of the times which
were already close at hand. Free-thinker though he
was, he was also a powerful member of the aristocracy,
and lictle likely to demean himself — for so he would
doubtless hold it — by playing the part of Voltaire or
Ilousseau. He would help those who could see to
see still further, but he would not dazzle eyes that
were yet imperfect with a light brighter than they
could stand. He would therefore impose upon people,
as much as he thought was lor their good ; but, on the
other hand, he would not allow inferior men to mys-
tify them.

" In the private character of Buffon," says Sir
William Jardine in a characteristic passage, " we regret
there is not much to praise ; his disposition was kind
and benevolent, and he was generally beloved by his
inferiors, followers, and dependants, which were numerous
over his extensive property ; he was strictly honourable,

'.^bl!

;ll "^

■■m

♦

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EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

youth he

and was an affectionate parent. In ea:
entered into the pleasures and dissipations of life, and
licentious habits seem to have been retained to the end.
But the great blemish in such a mind was his declared
infidelity ; it presents one of those exceptions among
the persons who have been devoted to the study of
nature ; and it is not easy to imagine a mind apparently
with such powers, scarcely acknowledging a Creator,
and when noticed, only by an arraignment for what
appeared wanting or defective in His great works. So
openly, indeed, was the freedom of his religious opinions
expressed, that the indignation of the Sorbonne was
provoked. He had to enter into an explanation which
he in some way rendered satisfactory ; and while he after-
wards attended to the outward ordinances of religion,
he considered them as a system of faith for the multitude,
and regarded those most impolitic who most opposed
them." ^''

This is partly correct and partly not. Buffon was a
free-thinker, and as I have sufficiently explained, a
decided opponent of the doctrine that rudimentary and
therefore n eless organs were designed by a Creator in
order to serve some useful end throughout all time to
the creature in which they are found.

He was not, surely, to hide the magnificent con-
ceptions which he had been the first to grasp, from
those who were worthy to receive them ; on the other
hand he would not tell the uninstructed what they
would interpret as a licence to do whatever they p' eased,
inasmuch as there was no God. What he did was to
point so irresistibly in the right direction, that a reader
of any intelligence should be in no doubt as to the
road he ought to take, and then to contradict himself

* The Naturalist's Library, vol. ii. p. 23. Edinburgh, 1843.

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 169

SO flatly as to reassure those who would be shocked by
a truth for which they were not yet ready. If I am
right in the view which I have taken of Buffon's work,
it is not easy to see how he could have formed a finer
scheme, nor have carried it out more finely.

I should, however, warn the reader to be on his
guard against accepting my view too hastily. So far
as I know I stand alone in taking it. Neither Dr.
Darwin, nor Flourens, nor Isidore Geoffroy, nor Mr.
Charles Darwin see any subrisive humour in Buffon's
pages ; but it must be remembered that Flourens was
a strong opponent of mutability, and probably paid but
little heed to what Buffon said on this question; Isidore
Geoffroy is not a safe guide, few men indeed less so.
Mr. Charles Darwin seems to have adopted the one
half of Isidore Geoffrey's conclusions without verifying
either; and Dr. Erasmus Darwin, who has no small
share of a very pleasant conscious humour, yet some-
times rises to such heights of unconscious humour, that
Buffon's puny labour may well have been invisible to
him. Dr. Darwin wrote a great deal of poetry, some
of which was about the common pump. Miss Seward
tells us, that he " illustrated this familiar object with a
picture of Maternal Beauty administering sustenance
to her infant." Buffon could not have done anything
like this.

Buffon never, then, " arraigned the Creator for what
was wanting or defective in His works ; " on the con-
trary, whenever he was led up by an irresistible chain
of reasoning to conclusions which should make men
recast their ideas concerning the Deity, he invariably
retreats under cover of an appeal to revelation. Natu-
rally enough, the Sor'^onne objected to an artifice which
even Buffon could not conceal completely. They did

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170

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

not like being undermined ; like Buffon himself, they
preferred imposing upon the people, to seeing others
do so. Buffon made his peace with the Sorbonne
immediately, and, peril aps, from that time forward,
contradicted himself a little more impudently than
heretofore.

It is probably for the reasons above suggested that
Buffon did not propound a connected scheme of evolu-
tion or descent with modification, but scattered his
theory in fragments up and down his work in the pre-
fatory remarks with which he introduces the more
striking animals or classes of animals. He never
wastes evolutionary matter in the preface tc- an unin-
teresting animal ; and the more interesting the animal,
the more evolution will there be commonly f<,)UD<t.
When he comes to describe the animal tviore fv.mil-
iarly — and he generally begins a fresh cxiapter ov hiJl
chapter when he does so — he writes no mojo aboui^
evolution, but gives an adn i.-able description, which uo
one can fail to enjoy, and whic^; I c; -nnotthiiik is nearly

so inaccurate as is commo

r.^V

ur losed. These d».'

scriptions are the parts which Buffon intended for the
general reader, expecting, doubtless, and desiring that
such a reader should skip the dry parts he had been
addressing to the more studious. It is true the de-
scriptions are written ad captaiidum, as are all great
works, but they succeed in captivating, having been
composed with all the pains a man of. genius and of
great perseverance could bestow upon them. If I am
not mistaken, he looked to these parts of his work to
keep uhe whole alive till the time should come when
iLr* philosophical pide of his writings should be under-
stood aiC appT'eciated.

Thus the goat breeds with the sheep, and may there-

&: Jl

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 171

fore serve as the text for a dissertation on hybridism,
which is accordingly given in the preface to this
animal. The presence of rudimentary organs under a
pig's hoof suggests an attack upon the doctrine of final
causes in so far as it is pretended that every part of
every animal or plant was specially designed with a
view to the wants of the animal or plant itself, onco
and forever throughout all time. The dog with his
great variety of breeds gives an opportunity for an
article on the formation of breeds and sub-breeds by
man's artificial selection. The cat is not honoured
with any philosophical reflection, and comes in for
nothing but abuse. The hare suggests the rabbit, and
the rabbit is a rapid breeder, although the hare is ai;
unusually slow one ; but this is near enough, so the
hare shall serve us for the theme of a discourse on
the geometrical ratio of increase and the balance of
power which may be observed in nature. When we
come to the carnivora, additional reflections follow
upon the necessity for death, and even for violent
death ; this leads to the question whether the crea-
tures that are killed suffer pain ; here, then, will be e
proper place for considering the sensations of ani Is
generally.

Perhaps the most pregnant passage concerniuL vo-
lution is to be found in the preface to the ass, which
is so near the bemnning of the work as to be c Iv the
second animal of which Buffon treats after having de-
scribed man himself. It points strongly in the direc-
tion of his having believed all animal forms to have
been descended from one single common ancestral
type. Buffon did not probably choose to take his very
first opportunity in order to insist upon matter that
should point in this direction; but the considerations

»* ^

172

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

:;^

were too important to be deferred long, and are accord-
ingly put forward under cover of the ass, his second
animal.

When we consider the force with which Buffon's
conclusion is led up to ; the obviousness of the con-
clusion itself when the premises are once admitted ;
the impossibility that such a conclusion should be
again lost sight of if the reasonableness of its being
drawn had been once admitted ; the position in his
scheme which is assigned to it by its propounder ;
the persistency with which he demonstrates during
forty years thereafter that the premises, which he has
declared should establish the conclusion in question,
are indisputable ; — when we consider, too, that we
are dealing with a man of unquestionable genius, and
that the times and circumstances of his life were such
as would go far to explain reserve and irony — is it, I
would ask, reasonable to suppose that Bufibn did not, in
his own mind, and from the first, draw the inference to
which he leads his reader, merelv because from time to
time he tells the reader, with a shrug of the shoulders,
that he draws no inferences opposed to the Book of
Genesis ? Is it not more likely that Buffon intended his
reader to draw his inferences for himself, and perhaps
to value them a^l the more highly on that account ?
The passage to which I am alluding is as follows : —
" If from the boundless variety which animated
nature presents to us, we choose the body of some
animal or even that of man liimself to serve as a model
with which to compare the bodies of other organised
beings, we shall find that though all these beings have
an individuality of their own, and are distinguished
from one another by differences of which the gradations
are infinitely subtle, there exists at the same time a

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 173

primitive and general design which we can follow tor
a long way, and the departures from which {cUgdn4ra-
tions) are far more gentle than those from mere out-
ward resemblance. For not to mention organs of
digestion, circulation, and generation, which are com-
mon to all animals, and without which the animal
would cease to be an animal, and could neither con-
tinue to exist nor reproduce itself — there is none the
less even in those very parts which constitute the main
difference in outward appearance, a striking resemblance
which carries with it irresistibly the idea of a single
pattern after which all would appear to have been
conceived. The horse, for example — what can at first
sight seem more unlike mankind ? Yet when we com-
pare man and horse point by point and detail by detail,
is not our wonder excited rather by the points of
resemblance than of difference that are to be found
between them ? Take tlie skeleton of a man ; bend
forward the bones in the region of the pelvis, shorten
the thigh bones, and those of the leg and arm, lengthen
those of the feet and hands, run the joints together,
lengthen the jaws, and shorten the frontal bone, finally,
lengthen the spine, and the skeleton will now be that
of a man no longer, but will have become that of a
horse — for it is easy to imagine that in lengthening
the spine and the jaws we shall at the same time have
increased the number of the vertebnT, ribs, and teeth.
It is but in the number of these bones, which may be
considered accessory, and by the lengthening, shortening,
or mode of attachment of others, that the skeleton of
the horse differs from that of the human body. . . .
We find ribs in man, in all the quadrupeds, in birds,
in fishes, and we may find traces of them as far down
as the turtle, in which they seem still to be sketched

174

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

that

I'ows that arc to be found beneath
the shell. Let it be remembered that the foot of the
horse, which seems so different from a man's hand, is,
nevertheless, as M. Daubenton lias pointed out, com-
posed of the same bones, and that we have at the end
of eacli of our fingers a nail corresponding to the hoof
of a horse's foot. Judge, then, whether this hidden
resemblance is not more marvellous than any out-
ward differences — whether this constancy to a single
plan of structure which we may follow from man to
the quadrupeds, from the quaiirupeds to the cetacea,
from the cetacea to birds, from birds to reptiles, from
reptiles to fishes — in which all such essential parts as
heart, intestines, spine are invariably found — whether,
I say, this does not seem to indicate that the Creator
when He made them would use but a single main idea,
though at the same time varying it in every conceivable
way, so that man might admire equally the magnificence
of thi execution and the simplicity of the design.'"'

" ii we regard the matter thus, not only the ass and
the horse, hut even man himself, the apes, the quad-
rupeds, and all animals might he regarded hut as forming
memhers of one and the same familij. But are we to
conclude that within this vast family which the Creator
has called into existence out of nothing, there are
other and smaller families, projected as it were by
Nature, and brought forth by her in the natural course
of events and after a long time, of which some contain
but two members, as the ass and the liorse, others many
members, as the weasel, martin, stoat, ferret, &c., and
that on the same principle there are families of vege-
tables, containing ten, twenty, or thirty plants, as the
case may be ? If such families had any real existence

" Tom. iv. p. 381, 1753.

single

vege-

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 175

tliey could have been formed only by crossing, l)y the
accumulation of successive variations {variation succes-
sive), and by degeneration from an original type ; but
if we once admit that there are families of plants and
animals, so that the ass may be of the family of the
horse, and that the one may only differ from the other
through degeneration from a common ancestor, we
might be driven to admit that the ape is of the family
of man, that he is but a degenerate man, and that he
and man have had a common ancestor, even as the ass
and horse have had. It would follow then that every
family, wliether animal or vegetable, had sprung from a
single stock, which after a succession of generations bad
become higher in the case of some of its descendants
and lower in that of others."

What inference could be more aptly drawn ? But it
was not one which Buffon was going to put before the
general public. He had said enough for the discerning,
and continues with what is intended to make the con-
clusions they should draw even plainer to them, while
it conceals them still more carefully from the general
reader.

" The naturalists who are so ready to establish fami-
lies among animals and vegetables, do not seem to have
sufficiently considered the consequences which should
follov/ from their premises, for these would limit direct
creation to as small a number of forms as any one
might think fit (reduisoient le produit immediat de la
creation, ^un nombre d'individus aussi petit que Ton
voudroit). Fo7' if it were once shoiun that ive had right
grounds for establishing these families ; if the point were
once gained that among animals and vegetables there had
been, I do not say several species, hut even a single one,
which had hcc7i yrodiiccd in the course of direct descent

176

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NFAV.

from another specvs^ ; if for example it could he once
shown that the asHwas hut a degeneration frovi the horse
— tlien tltere is no further limit to he set to the jwwer of
nature, arid we should not he wrowj in supposin// that
vAth su^icicnt time she coidd have evolved all other
organised forms from one iirimordial type (et Von
n'auroit pas tort dc supjwser, que d'uii scul etre elle a
su tirer avec le temps tous les autres tires organises)."

Buf'ibn now felt that lie had sailed as near the wind
as was desirable. His next sentence is as follows : —

" But no ! It is cerlain from revelation that all
animals have alike been favoured with the grace of an
act of direct creation, and that the first pair of every
species issued full formed from the hands of the
Creator." *

This might be taken as hond Jide, if it had been
written by Bonnet, but it is impossible to acce[)t it
from Buffon. It is only those who judge him at second
hand, or by isolated passages, who can hold that he
failed to see the consequences of his own premises.
No one could have seen more clearly, nor have said
more lucidly, what should suffice to show a sympathetic
reader the conclusion he ought to come to. Even
when ironical, his irony is not the ill-natured irony of
one who is merely amusing himself at other people's
expense, but tlie seriijus and legitimate irony of one
who must either limit the circle of those to whom he
appeals, or must know how to make the same language
appeal di'Terently to the different capacities of his
readers, and who trusts to the good sense of the dis-
cerning to understand the difficulty of liis position
and make due allowance for it.

The compromise which he thought lit to put before

* Tom. iv. p. 3S3, 1753 (thii^ was the first volume on the lower animals).

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF nUFFON'S WORK. 177

he once
the horse
power of
itiij that
til other
{et I'on
re ellc a
s4s)."
he wind
ovvs : —
that all
,ce of ail
of every

of the

lad been

Lccept it
t second
that he
)reniises.
five said
pathetic
Even
irony of
people's
Y of one
i^honL he
anu'uaiie
! of his
the dis-
position

it before

r animals).

the public was that " Each species has a type of whicli
the principal features are engraved in indelible and eter-
nally permanent characters, while all accessory touches
vary." '"'" It would be satisfactory to Icikjw where an
accessory touch is supposed to begin and end.

And again : —

"The essential characteristics of every animal have
been conserved without alteration in their most impor-
tant parts. . . . The individuals of each genus still
represent the same forms as they did in the earliest
ages, especially in the case of the larger animals " (so
that the generic forms even of the larger animals prove
not to be the same, but only " especially " the same as
in the earliest ages), t

This transparently illogical position is maintained
ostensibly from lirst to last, much in the same spirit
as in the two foregoing passages, written at intervals
of thirteen years. But they are to be read by the
light of the earlier one — placed as a lantern to the
wary upon the threshold of his work in 1753 — to the
effect that a single, well-substantiated case of degene-
ration wouLl make it conceivable that all living beings
were descended from but one common ancestor. If
after having led up to this by a remorseless logic, a
man is found five-and-twenty years later still sub-
stantiating cases of degeneration, as he has been sub-
stantiating them unceasingly in thirty quartos during
the whole interval, there should be little question how
seriously we are to take him when he wishes us to
stop short of the conclusions he has told us we ought to
draw from the premises that he has made it the busi-
ness of his life to establish — especially when we know
that he has a Sorbonne to keep a sharp eye upon him.

* Tom. xiii. p. 1765. f Sup. torn. v. p. 27, 1778.

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i, -I

178

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

I believe that if the reader will bear in mind the
twofold, serious and ironical, character of Buffon's work
he will understand it, and feel an admiration for it
whi-ih will grow continually greater and greater the
more he studies it, otherwise he will miss the whole
point.

Buffon on one of the early pages of his first volume
protested against the introduction of either " jplaismiterie''
or " dquivoque " (p. 25) into a serious work. But I have
observed that there is an unconscious irony in most
disclaimers of this nature. When a writer begins by
saying that he has " an ineradicable tendency to make
things clear," we may infer that we are going to be
puzzled ; so when he shows that he is haunted by a
sense of the impropriety of allowing humour to intrude
into his work, we may hope to be amused as well as
interested. As showing how far the objection to
humour which he expressed upon his twenty-fifth page
succeeded in carrying him safely over his twenty-sixth
and twenty-seventh, I will quote the following, which
begins on page twenty-six : —

" Aldrovandus is the most learned and laborious of
all naturalists ; after sixty years of work he has left
an immense number of volumes behind him, which
have been printed at various times, the greater number
of them after his death. It would be possible to reduce
them to a tenth part if we could rid them of all useless
and foreign matter, and of a prolixity which I find
almost overwhelming ; were this only done, his books
should be regarded as among the best we have on the
subject of natural history in its entirety. The plan of
his work is good, his classification distinguished for its
good sense, his dividing lines well marked, his descrip-
tions sufficiently accurate — monotonous it is true, but

mind tlie
3n's work
on for it
eater the
he whole

,t volume
isa7iterie"
lut I have
■ in most
begins by
to make
ng to be
ited by a
;o intrude
LS well as
ection to
fifth page
iuty-sixth
ag, which

borious of
has left
m, which
T number
to reduce
ill useless
cli I find
his books
ve on the
le plan of
led for its
LS descrip-
true, but

IRONICAL CHARACTER OF BUFFON'S WORK. 179

painstaking ; the historical part of his work is less
good ; it is often confused and fabulous, and the author
shows too manifestly the credulous tendencies of his
mind.

" While going over his work, I have been struck
with that defect, or rather excess, which we find in
almost all the books of a hundred or a couple of hun-
dred years ago, and which prevails still among the
Germans — I mean with that quantity of useless erudi-
tion with which they intentionally swell out their
works, and the result of which is that their subject is
overlaid with a mass of extraneous matter on which
they enlarge with great complacency, but with no
consideration whatever for their readers. They seem,
in lact, to have forgotten what they have to say in
their endeavour to tell us what has been said by other
people.

" I picture to myself a man like Aldrovandus, after
he has once conceived the design of writing a complete
natural history. I see him in his library reading, one
after the other, ancients, moderns, philosophers, theo-
logians, jurisconsults, historians, travellers, poets, and
reading with no other end than with that of catch-
ing at all words and phrases which can be forced from
far or near into some kind of relation with his subject.
I see him copying all these passages, or getting them
copied for hun, and arranging them in alphabetical order.
He fills many portfolios with all manner of notes, often
taken without either discrimination or research, and
at last sets himself 1 write with a resolve that not one
of all these notes shall remain unused. The result is
that when he comes to his account of the cow or of the
hen, he will tell us all that has ever yet been said about
cows or hens ; all that the ancients ever thought about

f I

|8o

EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW.

them ; all that has ever been imagined concerning their
virtues, characters, and courage ; every purpose to
which they have ever yet been put; every story of
every old woman that he can lay hold of; all the
miracles which certain religions have ascribed to th«3m ;
all the superstitions they have given rise to ; all the
metaphors and allegories which poets have drawn from
them ; the attributes that have been assigned to them ;
the representations that have been made of them in
hieroglyphics and armorial bearings, in a word all the
histories and all fables in which there was ever yet any
mention either of a cow or h3n. How much natural
history is likely to be found in such a lumber-room ?
and how is one to lay one's hand upon the little that
there may actually be ? " ^'

It is hoped that the reader will see Buff on, much as
Buffon saw the learned Aldrovandus. He should see
him going into his library, &c., and quietly chuckling
to himself as he wrote such a passage as the one in
which we lately found him saying that the larger
animals had " especially " the same generic forms as
they had always had. And the reader should probably
see Daubenton chuckling also.

* Tom. i. p. 28, 1749.

EXTRACTS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

-0 —

e one in

RECAPITULATION AND STATEMENT OF AN

OBJECTION.

(chapter X. OF UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY."^'')

rilHE true theory of unconscious action is that of Pro-
-■- fessor Fering, from whose lecturet it is no strained
conclusion to gather that he holds the action of all
living beings, from the moment of conception to that
of fullest development, to be founded in volition and
design, though these have been so long lost sight of
that the work is now carried on, as it were, depart-
mentally and in due course according to an official
routine which can hardly be departed from.

This involves the older " Darwinism " and the theory
of Lamarck, according to which the modification of liv-
ing forms has been effected mainly through the needs
of the living forms themselves, which vary with vary-
ing conditions — the survival of the fittest (which, as
I see Mr. H. B. Baildon has just said, " sometimes
comes to mean merely the survival of the survivors "|)

* Unconscious Memory was published December, 1880.

+ See Unconscious Memory, chap. vi.

t The Spirit of Nature, p. 39. J. A. Churchill & Co. 1880. .

!!!'!»! i^

I !

182 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

being taken as a matter of course. According to this
view of evolution, there is a remarkable analogy be-
tween the development of living organs, or tools, and
that of those organs or tools external to the body which
has been so rapid during the last few thousand years.

Animals and plants, according to Professor Hering,
are guided throughout their development, and preserve
the due order in each step they take, through memory
of the course they took on past occasions when in the
persons of their ancestors. I am afraid I have already
too often said that if this memory remains for long
periods together latent and without effect, it is because
the vibrations of the molecular substance of the body
which are its supposed explanation are during these
periods too feeble to generate action, until they are
augmented in force through an accession of similar
vibrations issuing from exterior objects ; or, in other
words, until recollection is stimulated by a return of
the associated ideas. On this the internal agitation
becomes so much enhanced, that equilibrium is visibly
disturbed, and the action ensues which is proper to the
vibrations of the particular substance under the parti-
cular conditions. This, at least, is what I suppose
Professor Hering to intend.

Leaving the explanation of memory on one side, and
confining ourselves to the fact of memory only, a cater-
pillar on being just hatched is supposed, according to
this theory, to lose its memory of the time it was in
the egg, and to be stimulated by an intense but uncon-
scious recollection of the action taken by its ancestors
when they were first hatched. It is guided in the
course it takes by the experience it can thus command.
Each step it takes recalls a new recollection, and thus
it goes through a development as a performer performs

STATEMENT OF AN OBJECTION.

183

a piece of music, each bar leading his recollection to
the bar that should next follow.

In Life ard Habit will be found examples of the
manner in which this view solves a number of diffi-
culties for the explanation of which the leading men
of science express themselves at a loss. The follow-
ing from Professor Huxley's recent work upon the
crayfish may serve for an example. Professor Huxley
writes : —

" It is a widely received notion that the energies of living
matter have a tendency to decline and finally disappear, and
that the death of the body as a whole is a necessary correlate
of its life. That all living beings sooner or later perish needs
no demonstration, but it would be difficult to find satisfactory
grounds for the belief that they needs must do so. The ana-
logy of a machine, that sooner or later must be brought to a
standstill by the wear and tear of its parts, does not hold, in-
asmuch as the animal mechanism is continually renewed and
repaired ; and though it is true that individual components
of the body are constantly dying, yet their places are taken
by vigorous successors. A city remains notwithstanding the
constant death-rate of its inhabitants ; and such an organism
as a crayfish is only a corporate unity, made up of innumer-
able partially independent individualities." — Tlie Crayfish,
p. 127.

Surely the theory which I have indicated above
makes the reason plain why no organism can perma-
nently outlive its experience of past lives. The death
of such a body corporate as the crayfish is due to the
social condition becoming more complex than there is
memory of past experience to deal with. Hence
social disruption, insubordination, and decay. The
crayfish dies as a state dies, and all states that we
have heard of die sooner or later. There are some

l84 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

savages who have not yet arrived at the conception
that deatli is the necessary end of all living beings, and
who consider even the gentlest death from old age as
violent and abnormal ; so Professor Huxley seems to
find a difficulty in seeing that though a city commonly
outlives many generations of its citizens, yet cities and
states are in the end no less mortal than individuals.
" The city," he says, " remains." Yes, but not for ever.
When Professor Huxley can find a city that will last
for ever, he may wonder that a crayfish does not last
for ever.

I have already here and elsewhere said all that I
can yet bring forward in support of Professor Hering's
theory ; it now remains for me to meet the most
troublesome objection to it that I have been able to
think of — an objection which I had before me when I
wrote Life and Habit, but which then as now I
believe to lie unsound. Seeing, however, that a plaus-
ible case can be made out for it, I will state it and
refute it here. When I say refute it, I do not mean
that I shall have done with it — for it is plain that it
opens up a vaster question in the relations between
the so-called organic and inorganic worlds — but that I
will refute the supposition that it any way militates
against Professor Hering's theory.

" Why," it may be asked, " should we go out of our
way to invent unconscious memory — the existence of
which must at the best remain an inference* — when
the observed fact that like antecedents are invariably
followed by like consequents should be sufficient for
our purpose ? Why should the fact that a given ""rind

I !

* I have put these words into the mouth of my supposed objector,
and shall put others like them, because they are characteristic ; but
nothing can become so well known as to escape being an inference.

STATEMENT OF AN OBJECTION.

iSs

of chrysalis in a given condition will always become
a butterfly within a certain time be connected with
memory w. en it is not pretended that memory has any-
thing to do with the invariableness with which oxygen
and hydrogen when mixed in certain proportions make
water ? "

We assume confidently that if a drop of water were
decomposed into its component parts, and if these were
brought together again, and again decomposed and
again brought together any number of times over, the
results would be invariably the same, whether de-
composition or combination, yet no one will refer tlie
invariableness of the action during each repetition, to
recollection by the gaseous molecules of the course
taken when the process was last repeated. On the
contrary, we are assured that molecules in some distant
part of the world which had never entered into such
and such a known combination themselves, nor held
concert with other molecules that had been so combined,
and which, therefore, could have had no experience
and no memory, would none the less act upon one
another in that one way in which other like combin-
ations of atoms have acted under like circumstances,
as readily as though they had been combined and
separated and recombined again a hundred or a
hundred thousand times. It is this assumption, tacitly
made by every man, beast, and plant in the universe,
throughout all time and in every action of their lives,
that has made any improvement in action possible — for
it is this which lies at the root of the power to profit
by experience. I do not exactly know why we make
this assumption, and I cannot find out that any one
else knows much better than myself, but I do not re-
commend any one to dispute it.

i^ ]l

1 86 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

As we admit of no doubt concerning the main
result, so we do not suppose an alternative to lie
before any atom of any molecule at any moment
during the process of combination. This process is, in
all probability, an exceedingly complicated one, involv-
ing a multitude of actions and subordinate processes,
which follow one upon the other, and each one of which
has a beginning, a middle, and an end, though they all
come to pass in what appears to be an instant of time.
Yet at no point do we conceive of any atom as swerving
ever such a little to right or left of a determined
course, but invest each one of them with so much of
the divine attributes as that with it there shall be no
variableness neither shadow of turning.

We attribute this regularity of action to what we
call the necessity of things, as determined by the
nature of the atoms and the circumstances in which
they are placed. We say that only one proximate
result can ever arise from any given combination. If,
then, so great uniformity of action as nothing can
exceed is manifested by atoms to which no one will
impute memory, why this desire for memory, as though
it were the only way of accounting for regularity of
action in living beings ? Sameness of action may be
seen abundantly where there is no room for anything
that we can consistently call memory. In these cases
we say that it is due to sameness of substance in same
circumstances.

The most cursory reflection upon our actions will
show us that it is no more possible for living action to
have more than one set of proximate consequents at
any given time than for oxygen and hydrogen when
mixed in the proportions proper for the formation of
water. Why then not recognise this fact, and ascribe

MORY.

the main
bive to lie
y moment
'ocess is, in
DC, involv-

processes,
le of which
^h they all
nt of time.

STATEMENT OF AN OBJECTION.

187

s swerving
letermined
I much of
hall be no

what we
id by the

in which
proximate
ition. If,
thing can

one will
as though
ularity of
n may be

anything
tiese cases
!e in same

tions will
action to
quents at
gen when
nation of
id ascribe

repeated similarity of living action to the reproduction
of the necessary antecedents, with no more sense of
connection between the steps in the action, or memory
of similar action taken before, than we suppose on the
part of oxygen and hydrogen molecules between the
several occasions on which they may have been dis-
united and reunited ?

A boy catches the measles no I; because he remembers
having caugh them in the persons of his father and
mother, but because he is a fit soil for a certain kind
of seed to grow upon. In like manner he should be said
to grow his nose because he is a fit combi. ation for a

nose to spring from. Dr. X 's father died of angina

pectoris at the age of forty-nine ; so did Dr. X .

Can it be pretended that Dr. X remembered hav-
ing died of angina pectoris at the age of forty-nine when
in the person of his father, and accordingly, when he
came to be forty-nine years old himself, died also ?
For this to hold. Dr. X 's father must have begot-
ten him after he was dead ; for the son could not re-
member the father's death before it happened.

As for the diseases of old age, so very commonly in-
herited, they are developed for the most part not only
long after the average age of reproduction, but at a time
when no appreciable amount of memory of any previous
existence can remain ; for a man will not have many
male ancestors who become parents at over sixty years
old, nor female ancestors who did so at over forty. By
our own showing, therefore, recollection can have no-
thing to do with the matter. Yet who can doubt that
gout is due to inheritance as much as eyes and noses ?
In what respects do the two things differ so that we
should refer the inheritance of eyes and noses to me-
mory, while denying any connection between memory

;U I

r,)i

m ^

1 88 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

and gout ? We may have a ghost of a pretence for
saying that a man grows a nose by rote, or even that
he cotches the measles or whooping-cough by rote ; but
do we mean to say that he develops the gout by rote in
his old age if he comes of a gouty family ? If, then,
rote and red-tape have nothing to do with the one, why
should they with the other ?

Remember also the cases in which aged females de-
velop male characteristics. Here are growths, often of
not inconsiderable extent, which make their appearance
during the decay of the body, and grow with greater
and greater vigour in the extreme of old age, and even
for days after death itself. It can hardly be doubted
that an especial tendency to develop these characteristics
runs as an inheritance in certain families ; here tlien is
perhaps the best case that can be found of a develop-
ment strictly inherited, but having clearly nothing
whatever to do with memory. Why should not all
development stand upon the same footing ?

A friend who had been arguing with me for some
time as above, concluded with the following words : —

" If you cannot be content with the similar action
of similar substances (living or non-living) under simi-
lar circumstances — if you cannot accept this as an
ultimate fact, but consider it necessary to connect re-
petition of similar action with memory before you can
rest in it and be thankful — be consistent, and introduce
this memory which you find so necessary into the inor-
ganic world also. Either say that a chrysalis becomes
a butterfly because it is the thing that it is, and, being
that kind of thing, must act in such and such a man-
ner and in such a manner only, so that the act of one
generation has no more to do with the act of the next
than the fact of cream being churned into butter in a

MORY.

STATEMENT OF AN OBJECTION.

189

retence for
r even that
y rote ; but
b by rote in
' If, then,
le one, why

iemales de-
lis, often of
appearance
ith greater
;, and even
be doubted
racteristics
ere tlien is
a develop-
y nothing
Id not all

3 for some
words : —
lar action
nder simi-
his as an
onnect re-
e you can

introduce
3 the inor-
s becomes
md, being
)h a man-
LCt of one

the next
utter in a

dairy one day has to do with other creimi being churn-
able into butter in the following week — either say this
or else develop some mental condition — which I have
no doubt you will be very well able to do if you feel
the want of it — in which you can make out a case for
saying that oxygen and hydrogen on being brought to-
gether, and cream on being churned, are in some way
acquainted witli, and mindful of, action taken by other
cream, and other oxygen and hydrogen on past occa-
sions."

I felt inclined to reply that my friend need not twit
me with being able to develop a mental organism if I
felt the need of it, for his own ingenious attack on my
position, and indeed every action of his life, was but an
example of tliis omnipresent principle.

When he was gone, however, I thought over what
he had been saying. I endeavoured to see how far I
could get on without volition and memory, and reasoned
as follows : — A repetition of like antecedents will be
certainly followed by a repetition of like consequents,
whether the agents be men and women or chemical
substances. " If there be two cowards perfectly simi-
lar in every respect, and if they be subjected in a per-
fectly similar way to two terrifying agents, which are
themselves perfectly similar, there are few who will not
expect a perfect similarity in the running away, even
though ten thousand years intervene between the
original combination and its repetition." ^ Here cer-
tainly there is no coming into play of memory, more
than in the pan of cream on two successive churning
days, yet the action is similar.

A clerk in an office has an hour in the middle of the
day for dinner. About half-past twelve he begins to

* Erewhon, chap, xxiii.

•f ■

190 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

feel hungry ; at one he takes down his hat and leaves
the office. He does not yet know the neighbourhood,
and on getting down into the street asks a policeman
at the corner which is the best eatiog-house within easy
distance. The policeman tells him of three houses, one
of which is a little farther off than the other two, but
is cheaper. Money being a greater object to him than
time, the clerk decides on going to the cheaper house.
He goes, is satisfied, and returns.

Next day he wants his dinner at the same hour, and
— it will be said — remembering his satisfaction of yes-
terday, will go to the same place as before. But what
has his memory to do with it ? Suppose hiui to have
forgotten all the circumstances of the preceding day
from the moment of his beginning to feel hungry on-
ward, though in other respects sound in mind and body,
and unchanged generally. At half-past twelve he
would begin to be hungry ; Liit his beginning to be
hungry cannot be connected with his remembering hav-
ing begun to be hungry yesterday. He would begin
to be hungry just as much whether he remembered or
no. At one o'clock he again takes down his hat and
leaves the office, not because he remembers having done
so yesterday, but because he wants his hat to go out
with. Being again in the street, and again ignorant
of the neighbourhood (for he remembers nothing of
yesterday), he sees the same policeman at the corner
of the street, and asks him the same question as before ;
the policeman gives him the same answer, and money
being still an object to him, the cheapest eating-house
is again selected ; he goes there, finds the same menu,
makes the same choice for the same reasons, eats, is
satisfied, and returns.

What similarity of action can be greater than this,

MORY.

STATEMENT OF AN OBJECTION.

191

and leaves
hbourhood,
policeman
vithin easy
iiouses, one
r two, but
D him than
per house.

J hour, and
ion of yes-

But what
m to have
eding day
ungry on-

and body,
twelve he
ling to be
ering hav-
uld begin
nbered or

hat and
ving done
;o go out

ignorant
Dthing of
le corner
as before ;
d money
ing-house
ne menu,
3, eats, is

ihan this.

and at the same time more incontrovertible ? But it
has nothing to do with memory ; on the contrary, it is
just because the clerk has no memory that his action
of the second day so exactly resembles that of the first.
As long as he has no power of recollecting, he will day
after day lepeat the same actions in exactly the same
way, until some external circumstances, such as his
being sent away, modify the situation. Till this or
some other modification occurs, he will day after day
go down into the street without knowing where to go ;
day after day he will see the same policeman at the
corner of the same street, and (for we may as well sup-
pose that the policeman has no memory too) he will
ask and be answered, and ask and be answered, till he
and the policeman die of old age. This similarity of
action is plainly due to that — whatever it is — which
ensures that like persons or things when placed in like
circumstances shall behave in a like manner.

AUov/ the clerk ever such a little memory, and the
similarity of action will disappear ; for the fact of re-
membering what happened to him on the first day he
went out in search of dinner will be a modification in
him in regard to his then condition when he next goes
out to get his dinner. He had no such memory on the
first day, and he has upon the second. Some modifi-
cation of action must ensue upon this modification of
the actor, and this is immediately observable. He wants
his dinner, indeed, goes down into the street, and sees
the policeman as yesterday, but he does not ask the
policeman ; he remembers what the policeman told him
and what he did, and therefore goes straight to the et;t-
insi-liouse without wasting time : nor does he dine off
the same dish two days running, for he remembers what
he had yesterday and likes variety. If, then, similarity

192 SELECTrONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

of action is rather liindered than promoted by memory,
why introduce it into such cases as the repetition of the
embryonic processes by successive generations ? The
embryos of a well-fixed breed, such as the goose, are
almost as much alike as water is to water, and by con-
sequence one goose comes to be almost as like another
as watci' to water. "Why should it not be supposed to
become so upon the same grounds — namely, that it is
made of the same stuffs, and put together in like pro-
portions in the same manner ?

WRY.

{ 193 )

y memory,
tion of the
ns ? The
goose, are
id by con-
:e another
ipposed to
that it is
like pro-

ON CYCLES.

(chapter XI. OF UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.)

THE one faith on which all normal living beings con-
sciously or unconsciously act, is that like antece-
dents will be followed by like consequents. This is the
one true and catholic faith, undemonstrable, but except a
living being believe which, without doubt it shall perish
everlastingly. In the assurance of this all action is taken.
But if this fundamental article is admitted, it follows
that if ever a complete cycle were formed, so that the
whole universe of one instant were to repeat itself
absolutely in a subsequent one, no matter after what
interval of time, then the course of the events between
these two moments would go on repeating itself for
ever and ever afterwards in due order, down to the
minutest detail, in an endless series of cycles like a
circulating decimal. For the universe comprises every-
thing; there could therefore be no disturbance from
without. Once a cycle, always a cycle.

Let us suppose the earth of given weight, moving with
given momentum in a given path, and under given
conditions in every respect, 10 find itself at any o'^e time
conditioned in all these respects as it was conditioned
at some past moment ; then it must move exactly in
the same path as the one it took when at the beginnmg
of the cycle it has just completed, and must therefore
in the course of time fulfil a second cycle, and therefore

m '^

194 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

a third, and so on for ever and ever, with no more
chance of escape than a circulating decimal has, if
the circumstances have been reproduced with perfect
accuracy as to draw it into such a whirlpool.

We see something very like this actually happen in
the yearly revolutions of the planets round the sun.
But the relations between, we will say, the earth and
the sun are not reproduced absolutely. These relations
deal only with a small part of the universe, and even
in this small part the relation of the parts inter se has
never yet been reproduced with the perfection of
accuracy necessary for our argument. They are liable.,
moreover, to disturbance from events which may or may
not actually occur (as, for example, our being struck by
a comet, or the sun's coming within a certain distance of
another sun), but of which, if they do occur, no one can
foresee the effects. Nevertheless the conditions have
been so nearly repeated that there is noappreciable differ-
ence in the relations between the earth and sun on one
New Year's Day and on another, nor is there reason for
expecting such change within any reasonable time.

If there is to be an eternal series of cycles involv-
ing the whole universe, it is plain that not one single
atom must be excluded. Exclude a single molecule of
hydrogen from the ring, or vary the relative positions
of two molecules only, and the charm is broken; an
element of disturbance has been introduced, of which
the utmost that can be said is that it may not pre-
vent the ensuing of a long series of very nearly perfect
cycles before sirailarity in recurrence is destroyed, but
which must inevitably prevent absolute identity of repe-
tition. The movement of the series beccmes no longer
a cycle, but spiral, and convergent or divergent at a
greater or less rate according to circumstances.

'I I

ON CYCLES.

195

We cannot conceive of all the atoms in the universe
standing twice over in absolutely the same relation
each one of them to every other. There are too many
of them, and they are too much mixed ; but, as has
been just said, in the planets and their satellites we
do see large groups of atoms whose movements recur
with some approach to precision. The same holds
good also with certain comets and with the sun himself.
The result is that our days and nights and seasons
follow one another with nearly perfect regularity from
year to year, and have done so for as long time as we
know anything for certain. A vast preponderance of all
the action that takes place around us is cyclical action.

Within the great cycle of the planetary revolution
of our own earth, and as a consequence thereof, we
have the minor cycle of the seasons ; these generate
atmospheric cycles. Water is evaporated from the
ocean and conveyed to mountain-ranges, where it is
cooled, and whence it returns again to the sea. This
cycle of events is being repeated again and again with
little appreciable variation. The tides, and winds in
certain latitudes, go round and round the world with
what amounts to continuous regularity. There are
storms of wind and rain called cyclones. In the case
of these, the cycle is not very complete, the movement,
therefore, is spiral, and the tendency to recur is com-
paratively soon lost. It is a common saying that
history repeats itself, so that anarchy will lead to des-
potism and despotism to anarchy ; every nation can
point to instances of men's minds having gone round
and round so nearly in a perfect cycle that many
revolutions have occurred before the cessation of a
tendency to recur. Lastly, in the generation of plants
and animals we have, perhaps, the most striking and

196 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

«■ !

I I

'( :';i

common example of the inevitable tendency of all action
to repeat itself when it has once proximately done so.
Let only one living being have once succeeded in pro-
ducing a being like itself, and thus have returned, so
to speak, upon itself, and a series of generations must
follow of necessity, unless some matter interfere which
had no part in the original combination, and, as it may
happen, kill the first reproductive creature or all its
descendants within a few generations. If no such
mishap occurs as this, and if the recurrence of the
conditions is sufficiently perfect, a series of generations
follows with as much certainty as a series of seasons
follows upon the cycle of the relations between the
earth and sun.

Let the first periodically recurring substance — we
will say A — be able to recur or reproduce itself, not
once only, but many times over, as A\ A^, &c. ; let A
also have consciousness and a sense of self-interest,
which qualities must, ex hypothesi, be reproduced in
each one of its offspring ; let these get placed in cir-
cumstances which differ sufficiently to destroy the
cycle in theory without doing so practically — that is
to say, to reduce the rotation to a spiral, but to a
spiral with so little deviation from perfect cycularity
as for each revolution to appear practically a cycle,
though after many revolutions the deviation becomes
perceptible ; then some such differentiations of animal
and vegetable lite as we actually see follow as matters
of course. A^ and A'^ have a sense of self-interest as
A had, but they are not precisely in circumstances
similar to A's, nor, it may be, to each other's ; they
will therefore act somewhat differently, and every
living being is modified by a change of action. Having
become modified, they follow the spirit of A's action

:>RY.

all action
• done so.
d in pro-
;urned, so
ons must
ire which
as it may
or all its
no such
36 of the
merations
f seasons
;ween the

ance — we
itself, not
X. ; let A
f-interest,
iduced in
ed in cir-
stroy the
— that is
but to a
jycularity
r a cycle,
becomes
of animal
ls matters
nterest as
imstances
iv's; they
nd every
. Having
L's action

ON CYCLES.

197

more essentially in begetting a creature like them-
selves than in begetting one like A; for the essence
of A's act was not the reproduction of A, but the re-
production of a creature like the one from which it sprung
— that is to say, a creature bearing traces in its body of
the main influences that have worked upon its parent.

Within the cycle of reproduction there are cycles
upon cycles in the life of each individual, whether animal
or plant. Observe the action of our lungs and heart,
how regular it is, and how a cycle having been once
established, it is repeated many millions of times in an
individual of average health and longevity. Remember
also that it is this periodicity — this inevitable tendency
of all atoms in combination to repeat any combination
which they have once repeated, unless forcibly prevented
from doing so — which alone renders n Ire-tenths of
our mechanical inventions of practical use to us. There
is not internal periodicity about a hammer or a saw,
but there is in the steam-engine or waterraill when
once set in motion. The actions of these machines
recur in a regular series, at regular intervals, with the
unerringness of circulating decimals.

When we bear in mind, then, the omnipresence of
this tendency in the world around us, the absolute
freedom from exception which attends its action, the
manner in which it holds equally good upon the
vastest and the smallest scale, and the completeness
of its accord with our ideas of what must inevitably
happen when a like combination is placed in circum-
stances like those in which it was placed before —
when we bear in mind all this, is it possible not to
connect the facts together, and to refer cycles of living
generations to the same unalterableness in the action
of like matter under like circumstances which makes

■"^m

r '

if ^ i

,|i i; \ i

It'i i

l^i

^ri'

ffc; >> ' '

1 1

|;j- ■ ij 1

( 1

1-1' ■'! ■

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P* 'I '■

198 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

Jupiter and Saturn revolve round the sun, or tlie
piston of a steam-engine move up and down as long
as the steam acts upon it ?

But who will attribute memory to the hands of a
clock, to a piston-rod, to air or water in a storm or in
course of evaporation, to the earth and planets in their
circuits round the sun, or to the atoms of the universe,
if they too be moving in a cycle vaster than we can
take account of ? * And if not, why introduce it into
the embryonic development of living beings, when
there is not a particle of evidence in support of its
actual presence, when regularity of action can be en-
sured just as well without it as with it, and when at
the best it is considered as existing under circumstances
which it baffles us to conceive, inasmuch as it is sup-
posed to be exercised without any conscious recollec-
tion ? Surely a memory which is exercised without
any consciousness of recollecting is only a periphrasis
for the absence of any memory at all. f

* It must be remembered that this passage is put as if in the mouth
of an objector.

t Mr. Herbert Spencer denies that there can be memory without a
" tolerably deliberate succession of psychical states." * So that prac-
tically he denies that there can be any such thing as "unconscious
memory." Nevertheless a few pages later on he says that " conscious
memory passes into unconscious or organic memory." f It is plain,
therefore, that he could after all find no expression better suited for
hi.s purpose,

Mr. Romanes is, I think, right in setting aside Mr. Spencer's limita-
tion of memory to conscious memory. He writes, " Because I have so
often seen the sun shine that my memory of it as shining has become
automatic, I see no reason why my memory of this fact, simply on
account of its perfection, sliould be called no memory."
* Principles of P8ycliolo>,'y, I., 447.
t Ibid. p. 452.
t Mental Evolution in .\nlmals, p. 130.

( 199 )

in the mouth

REFUTATION — MEMORY AT ONCL A PROMOTER
AND A DISTURBER OF UNIFORMITY OF ACTION
AND STRUCTURE.

(chapter XII. OF UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.)

TO meet the objections in the two foregoing chapters,
I need do little more than show that the fact
of certain often inherited diseases and developments,
whether of youth or old age, being obviously not due
to a memory on the part of offspring of like diseases
and developments in the parents, does not militate
against supposing that embryonic and youthful deve-
lopment generally is due to memory.

This is the main part of the objection ; the rest
resolves itself into an assertion that there is no evi-
dence in support of instinct and embryonic develop-
ment being due to memory, and a contention that the
necessity of each particular moment in each particular
case is sufficient to account for the facts without the
introduction of memory.

I will deal with these two last points briefly first.
As regards the evidence in support of the theory that
instinct and growth are due to a rapid unconscious
memory of past experiences and developments in the
persons of the ancestors of the living form in which
they appear, I must refer my readers to Life and
Habit, and to the translation of Professor Bering's
lecture given in Chapter VI. of Unconscious Memory.

"?*S»S

e-au

200 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

'H'l

I will only repeat here that a chrysalis, we will say,
is as much one and the same person with the chrysalis
of its preceding generation, as this last is one and the
same person with the egg or caterpillar from which it
sprang. You cannot deny personal identity between
two successive generations without sooner or later deny-
ing it during the successive stages in the single life of
what we call one individual ; nor can you admit per-
sonal identity through the stages of a long and varied
life (embryonic and post-natal) without admitting it to
endure through an endless series of generations.

The personal identity of successive generations being
admitted, the possibility of the second of two genera-
tions remembering what happened to it in the first is
obvious. The d priori objection, therefore, is removed,
and the question becomes one of fact — does the off-
spring act as if it remembered ?

The answer to this question is not only that it does
so act, but that it is not possible to account for either
its development or its early instinctive actions upon
any other hypothesis than that of its remembering, and
remembering exceedingly well.

The only alternative is to declare with Von Hart-
mann that a living being may display a vast and varied
information concerning all manner of details, and be
able to perform most intricate operations, independently
of experience and practice. Once admit knowledge
independent of experience, and farewell to sober sense
and reason from that moment.

Firstly, then, we show that offspring has had every
facility for remembering ; secondly, that it shows every
appearance of having remembered; thirdly, that no
other hypothesis except memory can be brought forward,
so as to account for the phenomena of instinct and

tit I

REFUTATION.

aot

heredity generally, which is not easily reducille to an
absurdity. Beyond this we do not care to go, and
must allow those to differ from us who require furtlier
evidence.

As re,<,'ards the argument that the necessity of each
moment will account for likeness of result, without
there being any need for introducing memory, I admit
that likeness of consequents h due to likeness of ante-
cedents, and I grant this will hold as good with em-
bryos as with oxygen and hydrogen gas ; what will
cover the one will cover the other, for the writs of the
laws common to all matter run within the womb as
freely as elsewhere ; but admitting that there are
combinations into which living beings enter with a
faculty called memory which has its effects upon their
conduct, and admitting that such combinations are from
time to time repeated (as we observe in the case of a
practised performer playing a piece of music which he
has committed to memory), then I maintain that
though, indeed, the likeness of one performance to its
immediate predecessor is due to likeness of the com-
binations immediately preceding the two performances,
yet memory plays so important a part in both these
combinations as to make it a distinguishing feature in
them, and therefore proper to be insisted upon. We
do not, for example, say that Herr Joachim played
such and such a sonata without the music, because he
was such and such an arrangement of matter in such
and such circumstances, resembling those under which
he played without music on some past occasion. This
goes without saying ; we say only that he played the
music by heart or by memory, as he had often played
it before.

To the objector that a caterpillar becomes a chry-

202 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

'''

'V '

■■i!«'

;■'!

Sill is not Ijecause it remembers und takes the action
taken by its iatliors and motliers in due course before
it, but because when matter is in sucli a physical and
mental state as to be called caterpillar, it must perforce
assume presently such another physical and mental
state as to be called chrysalis, and that therefore there
is no memory in the case — to this objector I rejoin
that the offspring caterpillar would not have become so
like the parent as to make the next or chrysalis stage
a matter of necessity, unless both parent and offspring
had been influenced by something that we usually call
memory. For it is this very possession of a common
memory which has guided the offspring into the path
taken by, and hence to a virtually same condition
with, the parent, and which guided the parent in its
turn to a state virtually identical with a correspond-
ing state in the existence of its own parent. To
memory, therefore, the most prominent place in the
transaction is assigned rightly.

To deny that will guided by memory has anything
to do with the development of embryos seems like
denying that a desire to obstruct has anything to do
with the recent conduct of certain members in the
House of Commons. What should we think of one
who said that the action of these gentlemen had no-
thing to do with a desire to embarrass the Government,
but was simply the necessary outcome of the chemical
and mechanical forces at work, which being such and
such, the action which we see is inevitable, and has
therefore nothing to do with wilful obstruction ? We
should answer that there was doubtless a great deal of
chemical and mechanical action in the matter ; per-
haps, for aught we knew or cared, it was all chemical
and mechanical ; but if so, then a desire to obstruct

REFUTATION.

203

pfirliamentary business is involved in certain kinds of
chemical and mechanical action, and that the kinds in-
volving this had preceded the recent proceedings of the
members in question. If asked to prove this, we can
get no further than that such action as has been taken
has never been seen except as following after and in
consequence of a desire to obstruct ; that this is our
nomeiiclnture, an.l that we can no more be expected to
change it than to change our mother tongue at the
bidding of a foreigner.

A little reflection will convince the reader that he
will be unable to deny will and memory to the embryo
without at the same time denying their existence
everywhere, and maintaining that they have no place
in the acquisition of a habit, nor indeed in any human
action. He will feel that the actions, and the relation
of one action to another which he observes in embryos
is such as is never seen except in association with and
as a consequence of will and memory. He will there-
fore say that it is due to will and memory. To say
that these are the necessary outcome of certain ante-
cedents is not to destroy them : granted that they are
— a man does not cease to be a man when we reflect
that he has had a father and mother, neither do will
and memory cease to be will and memory on the ground
that they cannot come causeless. They are manifest
minute by minute to the perception of all people who
can keep out of lunatic asylums, and this tribunal,
though not infallible, is nevertheless our ultimate court
of appeal — the final arbitrator in all disputed cases.

We must remember that there is no action, however
original or peculiar, which is not in respoct of far the
greater number of its details founded upon memory.
If a desperate man blows his brains out — an action
which he can do once in a lifetime only, and which

^ -•-^MMMBtaHAMBMlMMIMlHM

204 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS ilEMORY.

i^i

<i^^'

lit!: «l

noii'^. of his ancestors can have done before leaving off-
spring — still nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths
of the movements necessary to achieve his end consist
of habitual movements — movements, that is to say,
whicii were once difficult, but wliich have been prac-
tised and practised by the help of memory until they
are now performed automatically. We can no more
have an action than a creative effort of the imagination
cut off from memory. Ideas and actions seem almost
to resemble matter and force in respect of the impossi-
bility of originating or destroying them ; nearly all that
are, are memories of other ideas and actions, transmitted
but not created, disappearing but not perishing.

It appears, then, that when in Chapter X. we sup-
posed the clerk who wanted his dinner to forget on a
second day the action he had taken the day before, we
still, without perjiaps perceiving it, supposed him to be
guided by niemory in all the details of his action, such
as his taking down his hat and going out into the
street. We could not, indeed, deprive him cf all
memory without absolutely paralysing his action.

Nevertheless new ideas, iiew i'aidis, and new actions
do in the course of time come about, the living
expressions of which we may see in the new forms of
life which from time to time have arisen and are still
arising, and in the increase ot our own knowledge and
mechanical inventions. But it is only a very little
new that is added at a time, and tliat little is generally
due to the desire to attain an end which cannot be
attained by aiiy of the means for which there exists a
perceived precedent in the memory. When this is the
case, either the memory is further ransacked for any
forgotten shreds of details a combination of which may
serve the desired purpose ; or action is taken in the

REFUTATION.

20$

;nd consist

dark, which sometimes succeeds and becomes a. fertile
source of further combinations ; or we are brought to a
dead stop. All action is random in respect of any of
the minute actions which compose it that are not done
in consequence of memory, real or supposed. So that
random, or action taken in the dark, or illusion, lies at
the very root of progress.

I will now consider the objection that the pheno-
mena of instinct and embryonic development ought not
to be ascribed to memory, inasmuch as certain other
phenomena of heredity, such as gout, cannot be ascribed
to it.

Those who object in this way forget that our actions
fall into two main classes: those which we hav^ oftrn
repeated before by means of a regular series of sub-
ordinate actions beginning and ending at a certain
tolerably well-defined point — as when Herr Joachim
plays a sonata in public, or when we dress or undres'i
ourselves ; and actions the details of which are indeed
guided by memory, but which in their general scope
and purpose are new — as when we are beiuc married,
or presented at court.

At each point in any action of the first of the two
kinds above referred to there is a memory (conscious
or unconscious according to the less or greater number of
times the action has been repeated), not only of the steps
in the present and previous performances which have
led up to the particular point that may be selected,
hut also of the particular 'point itself ; there is therefore,
at each point in a habitual performance, a memory at
once of like antecedents and of a like ])resent.

If the memory, whether of the antecedent or the
present, were absolutely perfect ; that is to say, if the
vibrations in the nervous system (or, if the reader likes

^^^f^^U^^^^&

mm*

it I

I I

206 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

it better, if the molecular change in the particular nerves
affected — for molecular change is only a change in the
character of the vibrations going on within the mole-
cules — it is nothing else than this) — if the vibrations
in the particular nerves affected by any occurrence con-
tinued on each fresh repetition of the occurrence in
their full original strength and without having been in-
terfered with by any other vibrations ; and if, agahi,
the new waves running into the faint old ones from
exterior objects and restoring the lapsed molecular state
of the nerve., co a pristine condition were absolutely
identical in character on each repetition of the occur-
renr^e with the waves that ran in upon the last occasion,
then there would be no change in the action, and no
modification or improvement could take place. For
though indeed the latest performance would always
havie one memory more than the latest but one to guide
it, yet the memories beiLg identical, it would not matter
how many or how few they were.

On any repetition, however, the circumstances, exter-
nal or internal, or both, never are absolutely identical :
there is some slight variation in each individual case,
and some part of this variation is remembered, with
approbation or disapprobation as the case may be.

The fact, therefore, that on each repetition of the
action there is one memory more than on the last but
one, and that this memory is slightly different from its
predecessor, is seen to be an inherent and, ex hypothesi,
necessarily disturbing factor in all habitual action —
and the life of an organism should, as has been suffi-
ciently insisted on, be regarded as the habitual action of
a single individual, namely, of the organism itself, and
of its ancestors. This is the key to accumulation
of improvement, whether in the arts which we assidu-

REFUTATION,

207

not matter

ously practise during our single life, or in the structures
and instincts of successive generations. The memory
does not complete a true circle, but is, as it were, a
spiral slightly divergent therefrom, It is no longer a
perfectly circulating decimal. Where, on the other
hand, there is no memory of a like present, where, in
fact, the memory is not, so to speak, spiral, there is no
accumulation of improvement. The effect of any vari-
ation is not trraismitted, and is not thus pregnant of
still further change.

As regards the second of the two classes of actions
above referred to — those, namely which are not recur-
rent or habitual, and at no point of ivhich is there a me-
mory of a. past present like the one which is "present now
— there will have been no accumulation of strong and
well-knit memory as regards the action as a whole, but
action, if taken at all, will be taken upon disjointed
fragments of individual actions (our own and those of
other people) pieced together with a result more or less
satisfactory according to circumstances.

But it does not follow that the action of two people
who have had tolerably similar antecedents and are
placed in tolerably similar circumstances should be
more unlike each other in this second case than in the
first. On the contrary, nothing is more common than to
observe the same kind of people making the same kind
of mistake when placed for the first time in the same
kind of new circumstances. I did not say that there
would be no sameness of action without memory of a
like present. There may be sameness of action pro-
ceeding from a memory, conscious or unconscious, of
like antecedents, and a presence only of like presents
loithout recollection of the same.

The sameness of action of like persons placed under

2o8 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

l\iiii I

ni..:.

ililO I

m I

I i

like circumstances for the first time, resembles tlie
sameness of action of inorganic matter under the same
combinations. Let us for a moment suppose what we
call non-living substances to be capable of remember-
ing their antecedents, and that the changes they undergo
are the expressions of their recollections. Then I admit,
of course, that there is not memory in any cream, we
will say, that is about to be churned of the cream of
the preceding week, but the common absence of such
memory from each week's cream is an element of same-
ness between the two. And though no cream can re-
member having been churned before, yet all cream in
all time has had nearly identical antecedents, and has
therefore nearly the same memories and nearly the
same proclivities. Thus, in fact, the cream of one
week is as truly the same as the cream of another
week from the same cow, pasture, &c., as anything is
ever the same v,'itli anything ; foT- the having been
subjected to like antecedents engenders the closest
similarity that we can conceive of, if the substances
were like to start with. Same is as same does.

The manifest absence of any connecting memory (or
memory of like presents) from certain of the pheno-
mena of heredity, such as, for example, the diseases of
old age, is nov/ seen to be no valid reason for saying
that such other and far more numerous and important
phenomena as those of embryonic development are rot
phenomena of memory. Growth and the diseases of
old age do indeed, at first sight, appear to stand on the
same footing. The question, however, whether certain
results are due to memory or no must be settled not by
showing that two combinations, neither of which can
remember the other (as between each other), may yet
generate like resrdts, and therefore, considering the

REFUTATION.

209

memory theory disposed of for all otlier cases, but by the
evidence we may be able to adduce in any particular case
that the second agent has actually remembered the con-
duct of the first. Such evidence must show firstly that
the second agent cannot be supposed able to do what it
is plain he can do, except under the guidance of me-
mory or experience, and secondly, that the second agent
has had every opi^ortunity of remembering. When the
first of these tests fails, similarity of action on the part
of two agents need not be connected with memory of
a like present as well as of like antecedents ; when
both fail, similarity of action should be referred to
memory of like antecedents only.

Eeturning to a parenthesis a few pages back, in
which I said that consciousness of memorv would be
less or greater according to the greater or fewer number
of times that the act had been repeated, it may be
observed as a corollary to this, that the less conscious-
ness of memory the greater the uniformity of action,
and vice versd. For the less consciousness involves
the memory's being more perfect, through a larger num-
ber (generally) of repetitions of the act that is remem-
bered ; there is therefore a less proportionpte difference
in respect of the number of recollections of this particular
act between the most recent actor and the most recent
but one. This is why very old civilisations, as those
of many insects, and the greater number of now living
organisms, appear to the eye not to change at all.

For example, if an action lias been performed only
ten times, we will say by A, B, C, &c., who are similar in
all respects, except that A acts without recollection, P»
with recollection of A's action, C with recollection of
both B's and A's, while J remembers the course taken
by A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and I — the possession of a

2IO SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

h:i ^;i

•ill

!i ,1

ihi!

■■'■ :j ■'

(ji ; ■

if I

memory by B will indeed so change his action, as com-
pared with A's, that it may well be hardly recognisable.
We saw this in our example of the clerk who asked
the policeman the way to tlie eating-house (jn one day,
but did not ask him the next, because he remembered ;
but C's action will not be so different from B's as B's
from A's, for though C will act with a memory of two
occasions on which the action has been performed,
while B recollects only the original performance by A,
yet B and C both act with the guidance of a memory
and experience of some kind, while A acted without
any. Thus the clerk referred to in Chapter X. will
act on the third day much as he acted on the second
— that is to say, he will see the policeman at the
corner of the street, but will not question him.

When the action is repeated by J for the tenth time,
the difference between J's repetition of it and I's will
be due solely to the difference between a recollection
of nine past performances by J against only eight by
I, and this is so much proportionately less than the
difference between a recollection of two performances
and of only one, that a less modification of action
should be expected. At the same time consciousness
concerning an action repeated for the tenth time
should be less acute than on the first repetition.
Memory, therefore, though tending to disturb similarity
of action less and less continually, must always cause
some disturbance. At the same time the possession of
a memory on the successive repetitions of an action
after the first, and, perhaps, the first two or three,
during which the recollection may be supposed still
imperfect, will tend to ensure uniformity, for it will be
one of the elements of sameness in the agents — they
both acting by the light of experience and memory.

ill

\IORY.

REFUTATION.

211

)n, as com-
icognisable.
who asked
.n one day,
menibered ;
B's as B's
lory of two
performed,
lance by A,
a memory
bed without
iter X. will
the second
nan at the
lim.

tenth time,
and I's will
recollection
ly eight by
,s than the
'rformances
of action
nsciousness
,enth time
repetition,
similarity
[ways cause
ssession of
an action
or three,
iposed still
it will be
nts — they
emory.

During the embryonic stages and in childhood we
are almost entirely under the guidance of a practised
and powerful memory of circumstances which have
been often repeated, not only in detail and piecemeal,
but as a vrhole, and under many slightly varying con-
ditions ; thus the performance has become well averaged
and matured in its arrangements, so as to meet all ordi-
nary emergencies. We therefore act with great uncon-
sciousness and vary our performances little. Babies are
much more alike than persons of middle age.

Up to the average age at which our ancestors have
had children during many generations, we are still
guided in great measure by memory ; but the varia-
tions in external circumstances begin to make them-
selves perceptible in our characters. In middle life we
live more and more continually upon the piecing to-
gether of details of memory drawn from our personal
experience, that is to say, upon the memory of our own
antecedents ; and this resembles the kind of memory
we hypothetically attached to cream a little time ago.
It is not surprising, then, that a son who has inherited
his father's tastes and constitution, and who lives much
as his father had done, should make the same mistakes
as his father did when he reaches his father's age —
we will say of seventy — though he cannot possibly
remember his father's having made the mistakes. It
were to be wished we could, for then we might know
better how to avoid gout, cancer, or what not. And it
is to be noticed that the developments of old age are
generally things we should be glad enough to avoid if
we knew how to do so.

( 212 )

CONCLUSION.

■H:

\ i I i :

;i;i(,

(chapter XIII. OF UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.)

IF we observed the resemblance between successive
uenerations tc be as close as that between distilled
water and distilled water through all time, and if we
observed that perfect unchangeableness in the action of
living beings which we see in what we call chemical
and mechanical combinations, we might indeed suspect
that memory had as little place among the causes of
their action as it can have in anything, and that each
repetition, whether of a habit or the practice of art, or
of an embryonic process in successive generations, was
as original as the " Origin of Species " itself, for all that
memory had to do with it. I submit, however, that in
the case of the reproductive forms of life we see just
so much variety, in spite of uniibrmity, as is consistent
with a repetition involving not only a nearly perfect
similarity in the agents and their circumstances, but
also the little departure therefrom that is inevitably
involved in the supposition that a memory of like
presents us well as of like antecedents (as distinguished
Irom a memory of like antecedents only) has played a
part in their development — a cyclical memory, if the
expression may be pardoned.

There is life infinitely lower and more minute than
any which our most powerful microscopes reveal to us,

I ■ li

CONCLUSION.

2»3

MOUY.)

n successive
een distilled

e, and if we
the action of
all chemical
deed suspect
he causes of
id that each
ice of art, or
srations, was

f, for all that
^ever. that in
i we see just
is consistent
early perfect
istances, but
is inevitably
lory of like
iistinguished
las played a
mory, if the

minute than
reveal to us,

but let us leave this upon one side and begin with the
amcfiba. Let us suppose that this " structureless "
morsel of protoplasm is, for all its " structurelessness,"
composed of an infinite number of living molecules,
each one of them with hopes and ft :rs of its own, and
all dwelling together like Tekke Turcomans, of whom
we read that they live for plunder only, and that each
man of them is entirely independent, acknowledging
no constituted authority, but that some among them
exercise a tacit and undefined influence over the others.
Let us suppose these molecules capable of memory,
both in their capacity as individuals and as societies,
and able to transmit their memories to their descen-
dants from the traditions of the dimniest past to the
experiences of their own lifetime. Some of these
societies will remain simple, as having had no history,
but to the greater number unfamiliar, and therefore
striking, incidents will from time to time occur, which,
when they do not disturb memory so greatly as to kill,
will leave their impression upon it. The body or
society will remember these incidents and be modified
by them in its conduct, and therefore more or less in
its internal arrangements, which will tend inevitably
to specialisation. This memory of the most striking
events of varied lifetimes I maintain, with Professor
Hering, to be the differentiating cause, which, accumu-
lated in countless generations, has led up from the
amoeba to man. If there had been no such memory,
the amoeba of one generation would have exactly re-
sembled the amoeba of the preceding, and a perfect
cycle would have been established ; the modifying
effects of an additional memory in each generation have
made the cycle into a spiral, and into a spiral whose
eccentricities, in the outset hardly perceptible, is becom-

214 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MF.MORY.

Ill

:] I

Si I'

ing greater and greater with iucroasiug longevity niul
more complex social and meclianical inventions.

We say that the chicken grows the horny tip to its
beak with which it ultimately pecks its way out of its
shell, because it remembers having grown it before,
and the use it made of it. We say that ii, made it
on the same principles as a man makes a sp;ide or a
hammer, that is to say, as the joint result both of
desire and experience. When 1 say ex])orience, I
mean, experience not only of what will l)e wanted, but
also of the details of all the means that must be taken
in order to effect this. Memory, therefore, is supposed
to guide the chicken not only in respect of the main
design, but in respect also of every atomic action, so
to speak, which goes to make up the execution of this
design. It is not only the suggestion of a plan which
is due to nipuiory, but, as Professor Hering has so well
said, it is tlie binding power of memory which alone
renders any consolidation or coherence of action possible,
inasmuch as without this no action could have parts
subordinate one to another, yet bearing upon a common
end ; no part of an action, great or small, could have
reference to any other part, much less to a combination
of all the parts ; nothing, in I'act, but ultimate atoms
of actions could ever happen — these bearing the same
relation to such an action, we will say, as a railway
journey from London to Edinburgh as a single mole-
cule of hydrogen to a gallon of water.

If asked how it is that the chicken shows no sign
of consciousness concerning this design, nor yet of the
steps it is taking to carry it out, we reply that such
unconsciousness is usual in all cases where an action,
and the design which prompts it, have been repeated
exceedingly often. If, again, we are asked how we

CONCrMSION.

at$

account for tho roprularity with wliioli oacli stop is
taken in its iluo onlcr, wo jinswor tliat tliis too is
clmractcristic of actions tluit arc dono liabitiuilly —
tlioy being very rarely niisi»laced in respect of any
]>art.

When I wroto Lil'o and llal)it, 1 liiid arrived at
the conclusion that nioniory was tlio most esscMitiul
characteristic of life, and went so far as to siiy, "Life
is that |)ro])erty t)f matter wliereby it can remembc^r
— matter wliieli ciin renuMnber is living," I shouhl
perhaps have written, " Life is the being ])ossessed of
a memory — tin; life of a thing at any moment is tho
memories which at that moment it retains ;" and I
would niodiiy tho words that immediatAdy follow,
namely, "IMattcr which cannot rcnnembcr is dead;"
for they imply that there is such a thing as matter
v/hich cannot renuindier anything at all, and this on
fuller consideration I do not believe to bo tho case ; I
can conceive of no matter which is not able to re-
member a little, and which is not living in respect of
what it can remeiMber. I do not se(i how action of
any kind (chenucal as much as vital) is conceivable
without tho su]n)osition tliat every atom retains a
memory of certain antecedents. 1 cannot, however,
at this point, enter ui)on the reasons which have com-
pelled nic to Join the many who are now ado[)ting this
conclusion. Whether these would be decMued siUlicicnt
or no, at any rate we cannot believe that a system of
self-reproducing associations slunild devcdoj) from the
simplicity of the amccba to the com])h!xity of the;
human body without the presence of that menKjry
which can alone account at once for the reseml)lances
and the difrerences between successive generations,
for the arising and the accumulation of divergences

2i6 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

f^i 'W

ft-r-

I' '.:

— for the tciuluucy to difler and tlio tendency not to
differ.

At parting,', therefore, I would recomm(uid tlie reader
to see every atom in the universe as living and able
to feel and to remember, but in a humble way. He
must have life eternal, a3 well as matter eternal ; and
the life and the matter must be joined together in-
separably as body and soul to one another. Thus he
will see God everywhere, not as those who repeat
phrases conventionally, but as people who would have
their words taken according to their most natural and
lejj^itimate meaning ; and he will feel that the main
difference between him and many of those who oppose
him lies in the fact that whereas both he and they use
the same language, his opponents only half mean what
they say, while he means it entirely.

The attempt to get a higher form of a life from a
lower one is in accordance with our observation and
experience. It is therefore proper to be believed.
The attempt to get it from that which has absolutely
no life is like trying to get something out « " nothing.
The millionth part of a farthing put out to interest at
ten per cent, will in five hundred years become over a
million pounds, and so long as we have any millionth
of a millionth of the farthing to start with, our getting
as many million pounds as we have a fancy for is only
a question of time, but without the initial millionth of
a millionth of a millionth part, we shall get no incre-
ment whatever. A little leaven will leaven the whole
lump, but there must be some leaven.

We should endeavour to see the so-called inorganic
as living, in respect of the qualities it has in common
with the organic, rather than the organic as non-living
in respect of the qualities it has in common with the

)MORY.

iicy not to

the reader
L^ and able

way. He
i3rnul ; and
ogethur iu-
Thus he
ivho repeat
would have
latural and
; the main
ivho oppose
id they use
mean what

life from a
vation and
3 believed.

absolutely
nothing.

interest at
3me over a
f milliontli
our getting

for is only

lillionth of

no incre-

the whole

1 inorganic
n common
non-living
1 with the

CONCLUSION.

217

inorganic

True, it would be hard to place one's self
on the same moral platform as a stone, but this is not
necessary ; it is enough tlia: we should feel the stone
to have a moral platform of its own, though that plat-
form embraces little more than a profound respect for
the laws of gravitation, clieiiiical atlhiity, &c. As for
the difliculty of conceiving a body as living that has
not got a rc])roductive system — we should remember
that neuter insects are living but are believed to have
no reproductive system. Again, we should bear in
mind that mere assimilation involves all the essentials
of reproduction, and that both air and water possess
this power in a very high degree. The essence of a
reproductive system, then, is found low down in the
scheme of nature.

At present our leading men of science are in this
difficulty ; on the one hand their experiments and
their theories alike teach them that spontaneous gene-
ration ought not to be accepted ; on the other, they
must have an origin for the life of the living forms,
which, by their own theory, have been evolved, and
they can at present get this origin in no other way
than by Deus ex machind method, which they reject as
unproved, or spontaneous generation of living from
non-living matter, which is no less foreign to their
experience. As a general rule, they prefer the latter
alternative. So Professor Tyndall, in his celebrated
article {Nineteenth Century, November 1878), wrote : —

" The theory of evolution in its complete form
involves the assumption that at some period or other
of the earth's history there occurred what would be now
called * spontaneous generation.' " ^ And so Professor
Huxley —

* Nineteenth Century, Nov. 1878, p. 826.

Mtta

2i8 SELI-CTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

"It is aru;u(Ml that ii bolicif in uLioi^'onoHis is a
nocossaiy corolliiry from tlio doctrino of Kvolution.
This may ho" [which I submit is ('(luivalcnt lioro to
"is"J "iruo of the ocouitgiico of abiogcMiosis at some
timo. " *

rrofossor Huxley gooa on to say tliat liowovcT this
may bo, abiogonosis (or sjiontaiieous gentu-ation) is not
rospoctabh! and will not do at all now. Tluuo may
have been one case once ; this may bo wiidced at, but
it nnist not occur attain. "It is cnouLjh," he writes,
" that a simple ])article of living proto])lasm should onco
liavo ai)])earod on the globe as the result of no matter
what agency. In the eyes of a consistent [!] evolu-
tionist any further [!] independent I'ormation of
protojdasm wouLi be sheer waste " — and the sooner
the Almighty gets to understand that He must not make
that single act of special creation into a precedent
the better for Ilim.

Professor Huxley, in fact, excuses the single case of
s]>ontaneous generation which he appears to admit,
because however illegitimate, it was still " only a very
little one," and came off a long time ago in a foreign
country. For my own part I think it will prove in
the end more convenient if we say tliat there is a low
kind of livingness in every atom of matter, and adopt
Lil'e eternal as no less inevitable a conclusion than
matter eternal.

It should not be doubted that wherever there is
vibration or motion there is life and memory, and that
tl ere is vibration and motion at all times in all things.

The reader who takes the above position will find
that he can explain the entry of what he calls death
among what he calls the living, whereas he could by

* Encyclopedia Britannica, Art. Biology, 9th ed., Vol. 3, p. 689.

\rORY

CONCLUSION.

2f()

I ('HIS IS a
Involution,
lit luiro to
i.s iit some

wcvo.r tliia
on) is not
riioro may
ed nt, but
he writes,
lould once
no matter
[!] evolu-
nation of
lie sooner
: not make
precedent

;lc case of

to admit,

ily a very

a foreign

prove in

is a low

md adopt

sioii than

there is
and that
ill thinc[s.
will find
lis death
could by

p. 689.

no moans introduce life into his system if he Rtart(!d
without it. .I)(!ath is deducihh;; life is not chiducible.
Death is a cliang(; of memories ; it is not tin; dcstruc;-
tioi. of all nuiinory. It is as tli<! li(iuidation of on(;
com])any each nuiinbcr of which will ])res(!i;tly join a
new one, and nitain a trille even of the old cancelled
memory, by way of f^riMiter aptitude; for workini^' in
concert with other molecules. This is why animals
feed on ^a-ass and on each otluir, and cannot ])roselytis(;
or convert the rude <;r()und beion; it has been tutored
in the lirst principles of the higher kinds of associa-
tion.

Again, I would recommond the reader to Ixiware of
believing anything in this book unless he either likes
it, or feels angry at being told it. If recpiired belief
in this or that makes a man angry, I suppose he should,
as a genc.^•^' rule, swallow it whole then and there upon
the spot, otherwise he may take it or leave it as he
likes.

1 have not gone far for iny facts, nor yet far from
them ; all on which I rest are as o})en to the reader as
to me. If I have sometimes used hard terms, the pro-
bability is that I have not understood them, but have
done so by a slip, as one; who has caught a bad habit
from the company he has been lately keeping. Tliey
should be skipped.

Do not let the reader be too much cast down by the
bad language with which professional scientists obscure
the issue, nor by their seeming to make it their business
to fog us under the pretext of removing our difliculties.
It is not the ratcatcher's interest to catch all the rats ;
and, as Handel observed so sensibly, " Every profes-
sional gentleman must do his best for to live." The
art of some of our philosophers, however, is sufficiently

220 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

transparent, and consists too often in sayini; " organism
which . . . nnist be classilieJ among fishes," * instead
of " iisli " and then proclaindng that they have " an
ineratlicahh) tendency to try to make things clear." t

If another exani})le is re([uired, liere is the foUowing
from an article than wldch I have seen few with which
I more completely agree, or which have given me
greater pleasure. If our men of science would take
to writing in this way, we should be glad enough to
follow them. Tlie passage I refer to runs thus : —

"Professor Iluxlcy speaks of a 'verbal fog by which the
(picstion at issue may be hidden ; ' is tliere no verbal fog in
the statement that f/ic a'tiologi/ ofciyii/Jishes resolves itself into
a gradital crolutioii in tlie course of the nies()::oie and subse-
tjnent ejiochs of the irorld's historij of these animals from a
primitive astacomorphous form ? Would it be fog or light
that would envelop the history of man if we say that tlie
(!xistence of man was explained by the hypothesis of his
gradual evolution from a primitive anthropomorphous form ?
I should coll this fog, not light." %

Especially let him mistrust those who are holding
forth about protoplasm, and maintaining that this is
the only living substance. Protoplasm may be, and
])erhaps is, the most living part of an organism, as the
most capable of retaining vibrations, of a certain char-
acter, but this is the utmost that can be claimed for it.
I have noticed, however, that protoplasm has not been
buoyant lately in the scientific market.

Having mentioned protoplasm, I may ask the reader
to note the breakdown of that school of philosophy

* Professor Huxley, Encycl. Brit., 9th ed., Art. Evolution, p. 750.
t " Huine," by Professor Huxley, p. 45.

+ " The Philosophy of Crayfishes," by the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop
of Carlisle. Nineteenth Century for October 1S80, p. 636.

GRY.

oi'ganism
* instead
lavo " au
lear."t
following
Lth which
jiven nie
)uld take
noiigh to
IS : —

which the
bal fog ill
: ifi^c/f Into
and snbse-
'Js from a
)g or light
y that the
sis of his
ous form ?

holding
,t this is

be, and
n, as the
ain char-
ed for it.
not been

le reader
lilosophy

n, p. 750.
jord Bishop

CONCLUSION.

221

which divided the r/yo from the nan ego. The proto-
plnsniists, on the one hand, are whittling away at c//o,
till they have reduced it to a little jelly in certain parts
of the body, and they will whittle away this too pre-
sently, if they go on as tlioy are doing now.

Others, again, are so unifying the cffo and tlie nvn
ego, that with them there will soon be as little of the
noil ego left as there is tf the ego with their opponents.
Both, however, are so far agreed as tliat we know not
where to draw the line between the two, and this
renders nugatory any system which is founded upon a
distinction l)etween them.

The truth is, that all classification whatever, when
we examine its raison d^ctrc closelv, is found to be
arbitrary — to depend on our sense of our own con-
venience, and not on anv inlierent distinction in the
nature of the things themselves. Strictly speaking,
there is only one thing and one action. The uni-
verse, or (Jod, and the action of the universe as a
whole.

Lastly, I may predict with some certainty that before
long we shall find the original Darwinism of Dr.
Erasmus Darwin (with an infusion of Professor Hering
into the bargain) generally accepted instead of the neo-
Darwinism of to-dav, and that the variations whose
accumulation results in species will be recognised as
due to the wants and endeavours of the living forms
in which they appear, instead of being ascribed to
chance, or, in other words, to unknown causes, as by
Mr. Charles Darwin's system. We shall have some
idyllic young naturalists bringing up Dr. Erasmus Dar-
win's note on Trafa natans* and Lamarck's kindred
passage on the descent of Ranunculus hederaceus from

* Les Amours dea Plantes, p. 360. Paris, 1800.

^!^! I i

222 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

Ranunculus aquatilis *"' as fresh discoveries, and be told
with mucli happy simplicity, that those animals and
plants which have felt the need of such a structure
have developed it, while those which have not v.'anted
it have gone without it. Thus it will be declared,
every leaf we see around us, every structure of the
minutest insect, will bear witness to the truth of the
" great guess " of the greatest of naturalists concerning
the memory of living matter. f

I dare say the public will not object to this, and am
very sure that none of the admirers of Mr. Charles
Darwin or JMr. Wallace will protest against it ; but it
may be as well to point out that this was not the view
of the matter taken by Mr. Wallace in 1858 when he
and Mr. Darwin first came forward as preachers of
natural selection. At that time Mr. Wallace saw
clearly enough the difference between the theory of
" natural eelectiou " and tiiat of Lamarck. He
wrote : —

" The hypothesis of Lamarck — that progressive changes
in species have been produced by the attempts of animals to
increase the development of their own organs and thus modify
their structure and habits — has been repeatedly and easily
refuted by all writers on the subject of varieties and species,
. . . but the view here developed renders such a hypothesis
quite unnecessary . . . The powerful retractile talons of the
falcon and the cat tribes have not been produced or in-
creased by the volition of those animals, . . . neither did the
giraife acquire its long neck by desiring to reach the foliage
of the more lofty shrubs, and constantly stretching its neck

i. p. 231, Ed. M. Martin. Paris,

* Philosophie Zoologique, torn.

1873-
t Those who read the three following chapters will see that these

words, written in 1880, have come out near the truth in 1884.

:>RY.

i be told
nals and
structure
t Vv'anted
declared,
e of the
;h of the

iiicerning

1, and am
, Charles
t ; but it
the view
when he
ichers of
lace saw
heory of
'k. He

changes
nimals to
us modify
nd easily

species,

pothesis
)ns of the
d or in-
er did the
le foliage

its neck

in. Paris,

that these

CONCLUSION.

223

for this purpose, but because any varieties which occurred
among its antitypes with a longer neck than usual at once
secured afresh range of pasture over the same qround as their
short-necked companions, and on the first scarcity of food were
thereby enabled to outlive theui" (italics in original).*

This is absolutely the neo-Dc ^win doctrine, and a
denial of the mainly fortuitous character of the varia-
tions in animal and vegetable forms cuts at its root.
That Mr. Wallace, after years of reflection, still adhered
to this view, is proved by his heading a reprint of the
paragraph just quoted from t with the words " Lamarck's
hypothesis very different from that now advanced ; "
nor do any of his more recent works show that he has
modified his opinion. It J-'uld be noted that Mr.
Wallace does not call "his work Contributions to the
Theory of Evolution, but to that of Natural Selec-
tion.

Mr. Darwin, with characteristic caution, only com-
mits himself to saying that Mr. Wallace has arrived at
almost (italics mine) the same general conclusions as he,
Mr. Darwin, has done;| but he still, as in 1859, ^^~
ciares that it would be " a serious error to suppose that
the greater number of instincts have been acquired by
habit in one generation and then transmitted by in-
heritance to succeeding generations," § and he still

* Jc -rnal of the Proceedings of the Linnean Society. Williams &
Norgate, 1858, p. 6i.

t Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selection, 2d ed., 1871,
p. 41.

+ Origin of Species, p. I, ed. 1872.

§ Origin of Species, 6th ed., p. 206. I ought in fairness to Mr
Darwin to say chat he does not hold the error to be quite as serious as
he once did. It is now " a serious error" only ; in 1859 it was "
most serious error,"— Origin of Species, 1st ed., p. 209.

eammmmi^

224 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

);M if

liii

I I

coinprelioiisively condemns the " well-known doctrine
of in^:erited habit, as advanced by Lamarck." ^

As for the statement in tlie passage quufced from
]\Ir. Wallace, to the eCfect that Lamarck's hypothesis
" has been repeatedly and easily remted by all writers
on the subject of varieties and species," it is a very
surprising otic. I have searched Evolution literature
in vain for any refutation of tlie Erasmus Darwinian
system (for this is wliat Lamarck's hypothesis really
is), which need make the defenders of that system at
all uneasy. The best attempt at an answer to Erasmus
Darwin that has yet been made is Paley's Natural
Theology, which was throughout obviously written to
meet Bulf'on and the Zoonomia. It is the manner
of theologians to say that such and such an objection
" has been refuted over and over again," without at the
same time telling us when and where ; it is to be re-
gretted that Mr. Wallace has here taken a leaf out of
the theologians' book. His statement is one which will
not pass muster with those whom public opinion is sure
in the end to follow.

Did Mr. Herbert Spencer, for example, "repeatedly
and easily refute" Lamarck's hypothesis in his brilliant
article in the Leader, March 20, 1852 ? On the con-
trary, that article is expressly directed against those
" who cavalierly reject the hypothesis of Lamarck and
his followers." This article was written six years before
the words last quoted from Mr. Wallace ; how absolutely,
however, does the word " cavalierly" apply to them !

Does Isidore Geoffrey, again, bear Mr. Wallace's
assertion out better? In 1859 — that is to say but
a short time after Mr. Wallace had written — he wrote
as follows : —

Origin of Species, ist ed., p. 242 ; 6th ed., p. 233.

DRY.

CONCLUSION.

225

. doctrine

:ted from
ypothesis
11 writers
is a very-
literature
3arwinian
?sis really
system at
3 Erasmus
s Natural
written to
e manner
. objection
lout at the

to be re-
eaf out of
which will

ion is sure

repeatedly
is brilliant
In the con-
inst those
iuarck and
ears before
|absolutely,

them !

Wallace's
|o say but

•he wrote

233-

" Such was the language which Lamarck heard during his
protracted old ago, saddened alike by the weight of years and
blindness ; this was what people did not hesitate to utter
over his grave yet barely closed, and what indeed they are
still saying — commonly too without any knowledge of what
Lamarck maintained, but merely repeating at secondhand
bad caricatures of his teaching.

*' When will the time come when we may see Lamarck's
theory discussed — and, I may as well at once say, refuted
in some important points * — with at any rate the respect due
to one of the most illustrious masters of our science ? And
when will this theory, the hardihood of which has been
greatly exaggerated, become freed from the interpretations
and commentaries by the false light of which so many natu-
ralists have followed their opinion concerning it? If its
author is to bo condemned, let it be, at any rate, not before
he has been heard." t

In 1873 M. Martin published his edition of
Lamarck's Fhilosophie Zoologique. He was still able
to say, with, I believe, perfect truth, that Lamarck's
theory has " never yet had the honour of being
discussed seriously." |

Professor Huxley in his article on Evolution is no
less cavalier than Mr. Wallace. He writes : ^ —

"Lamarck introduced the conception of the action of an
animal on itself as a factor in produ^'ng modification."

Lamarck did nothing of the kind. It was Buffon
and Dr. Darwin who introduced this, but more
especially Dr. Darwin. The accuracy of Professor

* I never could find what these particular points were.
+ Isidore Geoffrey, Hist. Nat. Gen., torn. ii. p. 407, 1S59.
X M. Martin's edition of the Philosophic Zoologique (Paris, 1873),
Introduction, p. vi.

§ Encyclopaedia Britannica, gth ed., p. 750.

! 'I

I i

226 SELECTIONS FROM UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY.

Huxley's statements about the history and literature
of evolution is like the direct interference of the
Deity — it vanishes whenever and wherever I have
occasion to test it.

"But a little coasideration shotoc.(V^ (italics mine) "that
though Lamarck had seized what, as far as it goes, is a true
cause of modiacation, it is a cause the actual effects of which
are wholly inadequate to account for any couGiderable modi-
fication in animals, and which can have no influence whatever
in the vegetable world," &c.

I should be very glad to come across some of the
" little consideration " which will show this. I have
searched for it far and wide, and have never been able
to find it.

I think Professor Huxley has been exercising some
of his ineradicable tendency to try to make things
clear in the article on Evolution, already so often
quoted from. We find him (p. 750) pooh-poohing
Lamarck, yet on the next page he says, " How far ' na-
tural selection ' suffices for the production of species
remains to be seen." And this when " natural selec-
tion " was already so nearly of age ! Why, to those
who know how to read between a philosopher's lines
the sentence comes to very nearly the same as a de-
claration that the writer has no great opinion of " na-
tural selection." Professor Huxley continues, " Few can
doubt that, if not the whole cause, it is a very impor-
tant factor in that operation." A philos'^, hers words
should be weighed carefully, and when Professor
Hux'ey says, " few can doubt," we must remember
that he may be including himself among the few
whom he considers to have the power of doubting on
this matter. He does not say "few will," but "few

[[?- I

rORY.

CONCLUSION.

227

literature
je of the
3r I have

nine) "that
es, is a true
;ts of which
arable modi-
ice whatever

)me of the
IS. I have
r been able

cisinf; some

ake things
so often
)oh-poohing
ow far ' na-
of species
,ural selec-
y, to those
pher's lines
as a de-
on of "na-
Few can
^ery impor-
her's words
Professor
remember
<y the few
.oubting on
but "few

can " doubt, as though it were only the enlightenerl
who would have the power of doing so. Certainly
" nature "—for that is what " natural selection " comes
to — is rather an important factor in the operation, but
we do not gain much by being told so. If however.
Professor Huxley neither believes in the origin of
spe' .03, through sense of need on the part of v As
themselves, nor yet in "natural selection," Wf oiiould
be glad to know what he does believe in.

The battle is one of greater importance than appears
at first sight. It is a battle between teleology and
non-teleology, between the purposiveness and the non-
purposiveness of the organs in animal and vegetable
bodies. According to Erasmus Parwin, Lamarck, and
I'aley, organs are purposive ; according to Mr. Darwin
and his followers, they are not purposive. But the main
arguments against the system of Dr. Erasmus Darwin
are arguments which, so far as they have any weight,
tell against evolution generally. Now that these have
been disposed of, and the prejudice against evolution
has been overcome, it will be seen that there is nothing
to be said against the system of Erasmus Darwin and
Lamarck which does not tell with far greater force
against that of Mr, Charles Darwin and Mr. Wallace.

11^ 'I

( 228 )

J 1

1^-

r.h

l.-i

i;.,"

1 • !(

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES' MENTAL
EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS*

T HAVE said on page 96 of this book that the
■*• word " heredity " may be a very good way of stat-
ing the difficulty which meets us when we observe the
reappearance of like characteristics, whether of body or
mind, in successive generations, but that it does nothing
whatever towards removing it.

It is here that Mr. Herbert Spencer, the late Mr.
G. H. Lewes, and Mr. Romanes fail. Mr. Herbert
Spencei" does indeed go so far in one place as to call
instinct ' organised memory,"t and Mr. G. H. Lewes
attributes many instincts to what he calls the " lapsing
of intelligence."! So does Mr. Herbert Spencer,^ whom
Mr. Eomanes should have known that Mr. Lewis
was following. Mr. Eomanes, in his recent work,
Mental Evolution in Animals (November, 1883), en-
dorses this, and frequently uses such expressions as
" the lifetime of the species," || " hereditary experience,"^!
and " hereditary memory and instinct," *""^'* but none of
these writers (and indeed no writer that I know of
except Professor Hering of Prague, for a translation of
whose address on this subject I must refer the reader

* Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.

t Principles of Psychology, Vol. I. p. 445. f Ibid. I. 456.

.§ Problems of Life and Mind, first series, Vol. I., 3rded. 1874, p. 14 '»
and Problem I. 21.

II P- 33- ^ P- 77. ** P. "S- •

MTAL

that the
ly of stat-
bserve the
of body Di-
es iiothin<>'

3 late Mr.
r. Herbert
as to call
H. Lewes
B " lapsmg
er,| whom
Ir. Lewis
lit work,
883), en-
essions as
erience,"1i^
it none of
know of
islation of
he reader

id. I. 456-
1874. p- 141.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

229

to my book Unconscious Memory) lias .shown a com-
prehension of the fact that these expressions are unex-
plained so long as "heredity," wlierel)y they explain
them, is unexplained ; and none of them sees the
importance of emphasizing Memory, and making it
as it were the keystone of the system.

Mr. Spencer may very well call instinct " organised
memory" if he means that offspring canreniember — with-
in the limitations to which all memory is subject — what
happened to it while it was yet iji the person or per-
sons of its parent or parents ; but if he does not mean
this, his use of the word " memory," his talk about
" the experience of the race," and other expressions of
kindred nature, are delusive. If he does mean this, it
is a pity he has nowhere said so.

Professor Hering does mean this, and makes it clear
that he does so. He does not catch the ball and let
it slip through his fingers again, but holds it firmly.
" It is to memory," he says, " that we owe almost all
that we have or are ; our ideas and conceptions are its
work ; our every thought and movement are derived
from this source. Memory connects the countless
phenomena of our existence into a single whole, and
as our bodies would be scattered into the dust of their
component atoms if they were not held together by the
cohesion of matter, so our consciousness would be
broken up into as many moments as we had lived
seconds, but for the binding and unifying force of
Memory." * And he proceeds to show that Memory
persists between generations exactly as it does between
the various stages in the life of the individual. If I
could find any such passage as the one I have just

* Translation of Professor Hering's address on "Memory as an
Organised Function of Matter," Unconscious Memory, p. 116.

k .

)■ I '■
t
t I

lii

'"'i

, ii

Hll!

I '\

> >

III

pi j

230

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

quoted, in Mr. Herbert Spencer's, Mr. Lewes's, or Mr.
llornanes' works, I sliould be only too glad to quote it,
but 1 know of nothing comparable to it for definiteness
of idea, thorou<;hness and consistency.

No reader indeed can rise I'ronj a perusal of Mr.
Herbert Spencer's, or Mr. G. H. Lewes', work with
an adequate — if indeed with any — impression that
the phenomena of heredity are in fact plienomena of
memory ; that heredity, whether as regards body or
mind, is only possible because each generation is linked
on to and made one with its predecessor by the pos-
session of a common and abiding memory, in as far as
bodily existence was common — that is to say, until the
substance of the one left the substance of the other ;
and that this memory is exactly of the same general
character as that which enables us to remember what
we did half an hou- ago — strong under the same cir-
cumstances as those under which this familiar kind of
memory is strong, and weak under those under which
it is weak. Mr. Spencer and Mr. Lewes have even less
conception of the connection between heredity and
memory than Dr. Erasmus Darwin had at the close ':^f
the last century.*

Mr. Lewes' position was briefly this. He denied
that there could be any knowledge independent of
experience, but he could not help seeing that young
animals come into the world futnished with many
organs which they use with great dexterity at a very
early age. This looks as if they are acting on know-
ledge acquired independently of experience. " No,"
says Mr. Lewes, " not so. They are born with the
organs — I cannot tell how or why, but heredity explains
all that, ani having once got the organs, the objects

* See Zoouomia, Vol. I. p. 484.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

831

s's, or Mr.
) quote it,
efiiiiteness

ml of Mr.
vork with
3sion that
iiomena of
3 body or
I is linked
y the pos-
1 as far as
, until the
:he other ;
le general
nber what

same cir-
ar kind of
der which

even less
sdity and
le close nf

le denied
3ndent of
lat young
itli many
at a very
on know-
" No,"
with the
r explains
e objects

that come into contact with them in daily life naturally
produce tlio same effect as on the parents, just as oxygen
coming into contact with the right quantity of hydrogen
will make water ; hence even the first time tlie offspring
come into contact with any given object they act as
their parents did." The idea of the young having got
their experience in a past generation does not seem to
have even crossed his mind.

" Wliat marvel is there," he asks, " that constant
conditions acting upon structures which are similar
should produce similar results ? It is in this sense
that the paradox of Leibnitz is true, and we can be said
' to acquire an innate idea ; ' only the idea is not ac-
quired independently of experience, but through the
process of experience similar to that which originally
produced it."*

The impression left upon me is that he is all at sea
for want of the clue with which Professor Hering would
have furnished him, and that had that clue been pre-
sented to him a dozen years or so earlier than it was
he would have adopted it.

As regards Mr. Romanes the case is different. His
recent work, Mental Evolution in Animals, t shows
that he is well aware of the direction which modern
opinion is taking, and in several places he so writes as
to warrant me in claiming his authority in support of
the views which I have been insisting on for several
years past.

Thus Mr. Romanes says that the analogies between
the memory with which we are familiar in daily life
and hereditary memory " are so numerous and pre-

* Problems of Life and Mind, I. pp. 239, 240 : 1 874.
t Kegan Paul. November, 1883.

■I

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

,1 , I

■ ^i

■''iM

cise " as to justify us in considering them to be of
essentially the same kind.'"'

Again he says that although the memory of milk
shown by newborn infants is " at all events in large
part hereditary, it is none the less memory " of a cer-
tain kind.t

Two lines lower down he writes of " hereditary
memory or instinct," thereby implying that instinct is
" hereditary memory." " It makes no essential differ-
ence," he says, " whs.Lher the past sensation was
actually experienced by the individual itself, or be-
queathed it, so to speak, by its ancestors, t For it makes
no essential difference whether the nervous changes
. . . were occasioned durin<T the lifetime of the indi-
vidual or during that of the species, and afterwards
impressed by heredity on the individual."

Lower down on the same page he writes : —

"As showing how close is tiie coiiiiection between
hereditary memory and instinct," &c.

And on the following page : —

" And this shows how closely the phenomena of
hereditary memory are related to those of individual
memory : at this stage . . . it is practically impossible
to disentangle the effects of hereditary memory from
those of the individual."

Again : —

" Another point which we have here to consider is
the part which heredity has played in forming the
perceptive faculty of the individual prior to its own
experience. We have already seen that heredity plays
an important part in forming memory of ancestral
experiences, and thus it is that many animals come

irfif:^

m '

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 113.
t Ibid. p. 116. Kegan Paul. Nov. 1883.

t Ibid. p. 115.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

233

to be of

of milk

5 in large

of a cer-

lereditary
instinct is
ial differ-
tion was
If, or be-
r it makes
; changes
the indi-
ifter wards

L between

Dmena of
ndividual
npossible
ory from

)nsider is
ning the
its own
ity plays
ancestral
^Is come

d. p. 115.

into the world with their power of perception already
largely developed. . . . The wealth of ready-formed
information, and therefore of ready-made powers of
perception, with which many newly-born or newly-
hatched animals are provided, is so great and so pre-
cise that it scarcely requires to be supplemented by
the subsequent experience of the individual.'""

Again : —

" Instincts probably owe their origin and development
to one or other of two principles.

" I. The first mode of origin consists in natural
selection or survival of the fittest, continuously pre-
serving actions, &c. &c. . . .

" II. The second mode of origin is as follows : — By
the effects of habit in successive generations, actions
which were originally intelligent become as it were
stereotyped into permanent instincts. Just as in the
lifetime of the individual adjustive actions which were
originally intelligent may by frequent repetition become
automatic, so in the lifetime of species actions origin-
ally intelligent may by frequent repetition and heredity
so write their effects on the nervous system that the
latter is prepared, even before individual experience, to
perform adjustive actions mechanically which in pre-
vious generations were performed intelligently. This
mode of origin of instincts has been appropriately
called (by Lewes — see Problems of Life and Mind t)
the ' lapsing of intelligence.' " |

Later on : —

" That ' practice makes perfect ' is a matter, as I
have previously said, of daily observation. Whether

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 131. Kegan Paul. Nov. 1883.

f Vol. I., 3rd ed. 1874, p. 141, and Problem I. 21.

$ Mental Evolution in Animals, pp. 177, 178. Nov. 1 883.

3 'i : '

w'<

:\i-

234

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES*

we regard a juggler, a pianist, or a billiard-player, a
child learning his lesson or an actor his part by fre-
quently repeating it, or a thousand other illustrations of
the same process, we see at once that there is truth in
the cynical definition of a man as a ' bundle of habits.'
And the same of course is true of animals." ^''

From this Mr. Eomanes goes on to show " that
automatic actions and conscious habits may be in-
herited," t and in the course of doing this contends that
"instincts may be lost by disuse, and corversely that they
may be acquired as instincts by the hereditary trans-
mission of ancestral experience." |

On another page Mr. Eomanes says : —

" Let us now turn to the second of these two assump-
tions, viz., that some at least among migratory birds
must possess, by inheritance alone, a very precise know-
ledge of the particular direction to be pursued. It is
without question an astonishing fact that a young
cuckoo should be prompted to leave its foster parents
at a particular season of the year, and without any
guide to show the course previously taken by its own
parents, but this is a fact which must be met by any
theory of instinct which aims at being complete. Now
upon our own theory it can only be met by taking it
to be due to inherited memory." §

Mr. Romanes says in a note that this theory was
first advanced by Canon Kingsiey in Mature, January
18, 1 867, a piece of information which I learn for the
first time ; otherwise, as I need hardly say, I should
have called attention to it in my own books on evolu-
tion. Nature did not begin to appear till the end
of 1869, and I can find no communication from Canon

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 193. t Ibid. p. 195.

+ Ibid. p. 296. Nov. 1883. § Ibid. p. 192. Nov. 1883,

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

235

l-player, a
rt by fre-
trations of
IS truth in
of habits.'

low " that
y be in-
tends that
r that they
ary trans-

assump-
:ory birds
jise know-
ad. It is

a young
;r parents
hout any
y its own
et by any
te. Now

taking it

leory was
January
n for the
I should
on evolu-
the end
)m Canon

P- 195-
1883.

Kingsley bearing upon hereditary memory in any
number of Nature prior to the date of Canon Kingsley's
death ; but no doubt Mr. Eomanes has only made a slip
in his reference. Mr. Eomanes also says that the
theory connecting instinct with inherited memory
" has since been independently ' suggested ' by many
writers."

A little lower Mr. Eomanes says : " Of what kind,
then, is the inherited memory on which the young
cuckoo (if not also other migratory birds) depends ?
We can only answer, of the same kind, whatever this
may be, as that upon which the old bird depends." *

I have given above most of the more marked pas-
sages which I have been able to find in M?. Eomanes'
book which attribute instinct to memory, and which
admit that there is no fundamental difference between
the kind of memory with which we are all familiar
and hereditary memory as transmitted from one gene-
ration to another. But throughout his work there are
passages which suggest, though less obviously, the same
inference.

The passages I have quoted show that Mr. Eomanes
is upholding the same opinions as Professor Hering's
and my own, but their effect and tendency is more
plain here than in Mr. Eomanes' own book, where
they are overlaid by nearly 400 long pages of matter
which is not always easy of comprehension.

The late Mr. Darwin himself, indeed — whose mantle
seems to have fallen more especially and particularly on
Mr. Eomanes— could not contradict himself more hope-
lessly than Mr. Eomanes often does. Indeed in one of
the very passages I have quoted in order to show that
Mr. Eomanes accepts the phenomena of heredity as

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 296. Nov. 1883.

236

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

phenomena of memory, he speaks of " heredity as
playing an important part in forming memory of ances-
tral experiences ; " so tl.at whereas I want him to say
that the phenomena of heredity are due to memory, he
will have it that the memory is due to the heredity,*
which seems to me ab:urd.

Over and over again Mr. Eomanes insists that it is
heredity which does this or that. Thus it is " heredity
with natural selection which ada^it the anatomical plan
of the ganglia. "t It is heredity which impresses nervous
changes on the individual.^ " In the lifetime of species
actions originally intelligent may by frequent repeti-
tion and heredity" &c. ^ ; but iie nowhere tells us what
lieredity is any more than Messrs. Herbert Spencer,
Darwin, and Lewes have done. This, however, is
exactly what Professor Hering, whom I have unwit-
tingly followed, does. He resolves all phenomena of
heredity, whether in respect of body or mind, into
phenomena of memory. He says in effect, " A man
grows his body as he does, and a bird makes her nest
as she does, because both man and bird remember having
grown body and made nest as they now do, or very
nearly so, on innumerable past occasions." He thus
reduces life from an equation of say 100 unknown
quantities to one of 99 only by showing that heredity
and memory, two of the original 100 unknown quan-
tities, are in reality part of one and the f ^me thing.

That he is right Mr. Romanes seems to me to
admit, though in a very unsatisfactory way.

■ ■■'fa

il; «!

* See page 228.
t Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 33. Nov. 1883.

§ Ibid. p. 178.

+ Ibid. p. 116.

( 237 )

3redity as
/ of ances-
im to say
lemoiy, he
heredity,*

that it is
" heredity
nical plan
iS nervous
of species
tit repeti-
s us what
Spencer,
wever, is
JQ unwit-
omena of
ind, into
"A man
her nest
r havinsr
or very
He thus
inknown
heredity
n quan-
thing.
me to

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES' MENTAL
EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS— {continued).

I WILL give examples of my meaning.
Mr. Eomanes says on an early page, " The most
fundamental principle of mental operation is that of
memory, for this is the 'conditio sine qua non of all
mental life" (page 35).

I do not understand Mr. Eomanes to hold that there
is any living being which has no mind at all, and I do
understand him to admit that development of body
and mind are closely interdependent.

If then, " the most fundamental principle " of mind
is memory, it follows that memory enters also as a
fundamental principle into development of body. For
mind and body are so closely connected that nothing
can enter largely into the one without correspondingly
affecting the other.

On a later page, indeed, Mr. Eomanes speaks point-
blank of the new-born child as " evibodying the results
of a great mass of hereditary experience" (p. 77), so
that what he is driving at can be collected by those
who take trouble, but is not seen until we call up from
our own knowledge matter whose relevancy does not
appear on the face of it, and until we connect passages
many pages asunder, the first of which may easily be
forgotten before we reach the second. There can be
no doubt, however, that Mr. Eomanes does in reality,

) i

■i-:! ,

''it!

1 1!

ill

• i

#11

|fH

i I

238

REMARKS ON MR ROMANES'

like Professor Hering and myself, regard develop-
ment, whether of mind or body, as due to memory,
for it is nonsense indeed to talk about " hereditary
experience " or " hereditary memory " if anything else
is intended.

I liave said above that on page 113 of his recent
work Mr. Romanes declares the analogies between the
memory with which we are familiar in daily life, and
hereditary memory, to be " so numerous and precise "
as to justify us in considering them as of one and the
same kind.

This is certainly his meaning, but, with the excep-
tion of the words within inverted commas, it is not
his language. His own words are these : —

" Profound, however, as our ignorance unquestionably
is concerning the physical substratum of memory, I
think we are at least justified in regarding this sub-
stratum as the same both in ganglionic or organic, and
in conscious or psychological memory, seeing that the
analogies between them are so numerous and precise.
Consciousness is but an adjunct which arises when
the physical processes, owing to infrequency of repeti-
tion, complexity of operation, or other causes, involve
what I have before called ganglionic friction."

I submit that I have correctly translated Mr.
Eomanes' meaning, and also that we have a right to
complain of his not saying what he has to say in words
which will involve less " ganglionic friction " on the
part of the reader.

Another example may be found on p. 43 of Mr.
Romanes' book. "Lastly," he writes, "just as innu-
merable special mechanisms of muscular co-ordinations
are found to be inherited, innumerable special associa-
tions of ideas are found to be the same, and in one

U ' "

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

239

I develop-
) memory,

hereditary
'thing else

his recent
itween the
y life, and
I precise "
le and the

he excep-
it is not

estionably
lemory, I
this sub-
^anic, and
J that the
d precise,
ses when
of repeti-
3, involve

ited Mr.

right to

in words

on the

of Mr.
as innu-
iinations
associa-
d in one

case as in the other the strength of the organically im-
posed connection is found to bear a direct proportion
to the frequency with which in the history of the
species it has occurred."

Mr, Eomanes is here intending wliat the reader will
find insisted on on p. 98 of the present volume; but
how difficult he has made what could have been said
intelligibly enough, if there had be^ "« nothing but the
reader's comfort to be considered. Unfortunately that
seems to have been by no means the only thing of
which Mr. Ilomanes was thinking, or why, after im-
plying and even saying over and over again that in-
stinct is inherited habit due to inherited memory,
should he turn sharply round on p. 297 and praise
Mr. Darwin for trying to snuff out " the well-known
doctrine of inherited habit as advanced by Lamarck " ?
The answer is not far to seek. It is because Mr. Ro-
manes did not merely want to tell us all about instinct,
but wanted also, if I may use a homely metaphor, to
hunt with the hounds and run with the hare at one
and the same time.

I remember saying that if the late Mr. Darwin " had
told us what the earlier evolutionists said, why they
said it, wherein he differed from them, and in what
way he proposed to set them straight, he would have
taken a course at once more aureeable with usual
practice, and more likely to remove misconception from
his own mind and from those of his readers."* This I
have no doubt was one of the passages which made
Mr. Romanes so angry with me. I can find no better
words to apply to Mr. Romanes himself. He knows
perfectly well what others have written about the con-
nection between heredity and memory, and he knows

* Evolution, Old and New, pp. 357, 358.

240

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

■■ ' H

no less well that so far as he is iutulliufiblo at all he is
takin^f the same view tliat they have taken. If he had
begun by saying what they had said and had then im-
proved on it, 1 lur one should have been only too glad to
be improved uimn.

Mr. liomanes has spoiled his book just because this
plain old-fashioned method of procedure was not good
enough for him. One-half the obscurity which makes
his meaning so hard to apprehend is due to exactly the
sanie cause as that which has ruined so niucli of the
late ]\Ir. Darwin's work — I mean to a de=?ire to appear
to be differini; altogether from others v/ith whom he
knew himself after all to be in substantial agreement.
He adopts, but (probably quite unconsciously) in his
anxiety to avoid appearing to adopt, he obscures what
he is adopting.

Here, for example, is Mr, Eomanes definition of
instinct : —

" Instinct is reflex action into which there is imported
the element of conaciousness. The term is therefore
a generic one, comprising all those faculties of mind
which are concerned in conscious and adaptive action,
rntecedent to individual experience, without necessary
knowledge of the rtilation between means employed and
ends attained, but similarly i^erformed under similar and
frequently recurring circumstances by all the individuals
of the same species."'"

If Mr. Eomanes would have been content to build
frankly upon Professor Hering's foundation, the sound-
ness of which he has elsewhere abundantly admitted,
he might have said —

" Instinct is knowledge or habit acquired in past
generations — the new generation remembering what

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 159. Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

241

all he is
f he had
then ini-
)o glad to

ause this
not good
ih makes
:actly the
3h of the
to appear
whom he
Li;reement.
y) in his
ires what

iuition of

imported
therefore
of mind
'e action,
necessary
loyed and
Imilar and
tdividuals

to build

lie sound-

idmitted,

in past
|ng what

Co., 1883.

happened to it before it parted company with the old."
Then he miglit have added as a ridtjr —

" If a habit is acquired as a new one, during any
given lifetime, it is not an instinct. If liaving been
acquired in one lifetime it is transmitted to ollspriug,
it is an instinct in tiie offspring tliougli it was not an
instinct in tlie parent. If the liabit is transmitted
partially, it nnist be considered as partly instinctive
and partly accpiired."

This is easy ; it tells people how they may test any
action so as to know what tlicy ought to call it; it leaves
well alone by avoiding all such del)atable matters as
reflex action, consciousness, intelligence, purpose, know-
ledge of purpose, &c. ; it both introduces the feature
of inheritance which is the one mainly distinguishing
instinctive from so-called intelligent actions, and shows
tlie manner in which these last pass into the first, that
is to say, by way of memory and habitual repetition ;
finally it points the fact that the new generation is
not to be looked upon as a new thing, but (as Dr.
Erasmus Darwin long since said *) as " a branch or
elongation " of the one immediately preceding it.

But then to have said this would have made it too
plain that Mr. Eomanes was following some one else.
Mr, Eomanes should remember that no one would
mind how much he took if he would only take it well.
I3ut this is what those who take without due acknow-
ledgment never do.

In Mr. Darwin's case it is hardly possible to ex-
aggerate the waste of time, money, and trouble that has
been caused by his not liaving been content to appear
as descending with modification like other people from
those who went before him. It will take years to get

* Zoonomia, Vol. I. p. 484.

242

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

■ 1 t

the evolution theory out of the mess in which Mr.
Darwin lias left it. He was heir to a discredited truth ;
he left behind him an accredited fallacy. Mr. liomanes,
if he is not stopped in time, will get the theory con-
necting heredity and memory into just such another
muddle as Mr. Darwin has got Evolution, tor surely the
writer who can talk about " Iteredity heing ahlc to ivork
up the faculty of homing into the instinct of migration,*''^''"
or of " the principle of (natural) selection combining
with that of lapsing intelligence to the formation of a
joint result," t is little likely to depart from the usual
methods of scientific procedure with advantage either
to himself or any one else. Fortunately Mr. Eomanes
is not Mr. Darwin, and though he lias certainly got
Mr Darwin's mantle, and got it very much too, it will
not on Mr. Eomanes' shoulders hide a good deal that
people were not going to observe too closely while
Mr. Darwin wore it.

a»n.

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 297. Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.
t Ibid. p. 201.

■*»'

MALS.

in which Mr.
seredited truth ;
Mr. Iioraanes,
the theory con-
t such another
in, tor surely the
i7iff able to ivork

of migration,'"'^
ition combining
! formation of a

from tlie usual
i vantage either
ly Mr. Romanes
LS certainly got
luch too, it will

good deal that
closely while

Paul & Co., 1883.

( 243 )

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES' MENTAL
EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS— {concluded).

I GATHER that in the end the late Mr. Darwm
himself admitted cue soundness of the view which
the reader will have found insisted upon in the extracts
from my earlier books given in this volume. Mr.
Romanes quotes a letter written by Mr. Darwin in
the last year of his life, in which he speaks of an
intelligent action gradually becoming " instinctive, i.e.,
memory transmitted from one generation to another." ^^

Briefly, the stages of Mr. Darwin's opinion upon the
subject of hereditary memory are as follows : —

1859. "It would be the most serious error to suppose
that the greater number of instincts have been acquired
by habit in one generation and transmitted by inhe-
ritance to succeeding generations." t And this more
especially applies to the instincts of many ants.

1876. "It would be a serious error to suppose " &c.,
as before. |

1 8 8 1 . "We should remember what a mass of inherited
knowledge is crowded into the minute brain of a worker
ant." §

1881 or 1882. Speaking of a given habitual action

* Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 301. November, 1883.

t Origin of Species, Ed. I, p, 209.

t Ibid., Ed. VI. 1876, p. 206.

§ Formation of Vegetable Mould, &c,, p. 98.

a44

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

I /

!i'''

Mr. Daiwiu writes : — " It does not seem to mo at all
incredible that this action [and why this more than
any otlier liabitual action ?] siionld then becume in-
slinctive : " ij'., mcmonj transmitted from one ycmration
to another.^

And yet in 1839 or thereabouts, Mr. Darwin had
pretty nearly ^'ras})e(l the conception from which until
the last year or two of his life he so fatally strayed;
for in his contribution to the volumes givini^ an account
of the voyages of the Adventure and Beagle, he wrote :
"Nature by making habit omnipotent and its effects
hereditary, has fitted the Fuegian for the climate and
productions of his country" (j). 237).

What is the secret of the long departure from the
simple connnon-sense view of the matter which he
took when he was a young man ? I imagine simply
what I have referred to in the preceding chapter, —
over-anxiety to appear to be differing from his grand-
father, Dr. Erasmus Darwin, and Lamarck.

I believe I may say that Mr. Darwin before he died
not only admitted the connection between memory and
heredity, but came also to see that he must readmit
that design in organism which he had so many years
opposed. For in the preface to Hermann Midler's
Fertilisation of Flowers, t which bear? a date only a
very few weeks prior to Mr. Darwin's tleath, I find him
saying : — " Design in nature has for a long time deeply
interested many men, and though the subject must now
be looked at from a somewhat different poi.nt of view
from what was formerly the case, it is not on that

account rendered less

mteresting.

This is mused

if!

* Quoted by Mr. Romanes as written in the last year of Mr. Dar-
win's life.

t Macmillan, 18S3.

5 at all
c than
iiiio in-
eratioii

in had
h until
trayed ;
;iccouiit
wrote :
etl'ects
ate and

:oin tlie
liich he

simply
,pter, —

grand-
he died
oiy and
readmit
ly years
Vliiller's

only a

nd him
deeply
ist now
of view

on that
mused

Mr. Dar-

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

245

forth as a general gnome, and may mean anything
or nothing : the writer of the letterpress under the
liieroglyph in Old Moore's Almanac could not be more
guarded ; but I think I know what it does mean.

I cannot of course be sure; Mr. I)arwin did not
probiibly intend that I should ; but I assume with
confidence that whether there is design in organism or
no, there is at any rate design in this passage of Mr.
Darwin's. This, we may be sure, is not a fortuitous
variation ; and moreover it is introduced lor some reason
which made Mr. Darwin think it worth while to go
out of his way to introduce it. Tt has no fitness in its
connection with Hermann IMuUer's book, for what little
Hermann Miiller says about teleology at all is to con-
demn it ; why then should Mr. Darwin muse here of
all places in the world abouu the interest attaching
to design in organism ? Neither has the passage any
connection with the rest of the preface. There is not
another word about design, and even here Mr. Darwin
seems nuvinly anxious to face both ways, and pat design
as it were on the head while not committing himself
to any proposition which could be disputed.

The explanation is sufficiently obvious. Mr. Darwin
wanted to hedge. He saw that the design which his
works had been mainly instrumental in pitchforking
out of organisms no less manifestly designed than a
burglar's jemmy is designed, had nevertheless found its
way back again, and that though, as I insisted in
Evolution, Old and New, and Unconscious Memory, it
must now be placed within the organism instead of out-
side it, as " was formerly the case," it was not on that
account any the less design, as well as interesting.

I should like to have seen Mr. Darwm say this more
explicitly. Indeed I should have liked to have seen

1^ V.

246

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

^'i

m I

1 ■'')

Mr. Darwin say anything at all about the meaning of
which there could be no mistake, and without contra-
dictirg himself elsewhere; but this was not Mr, Darwin's
manuer.

In passing I will give another example of Mr.
Darwin's mannc^r when he did not quite dare even to
hedge. It is to be found in the preface wliich he
wrote to Professor Weismann's Studies in the Theory
of Descent, published in 1882.

" Several distinguished naturalists," says Mr. Darwin,
"maintain with n\uch confidence that organic beirifjs
tend to vary and to rise in the scale, independently of
the conditions to which they and their progenitors have
been exposed ; whilst others maintain that all variation
is due to such exposure, though the manner in which
the environment acts is as yet quite unknown. At the
present time there is hardly any question in biology of
more importance than this of the nature and causes of
variability, and the reader will find in the present work
an able discussion on the whole subject which will
probably lead him to pause before he admits the ex-
istence of an innate tendency to perfectibility " — or
towards being ahle to he 'perfected.

I could find no able discussion upon the whole subject
in Professor Weismann s book. There was a little some-
thing here and there, but not much.

Mr Herbert Sj)encer has not in his more recent
works said anything which enables me to appeal to
his authority.

I imagine that if he had got hold of the idea that
heredity was only a mode of memory before 1 870,
when he published the second edition of his Principles
of Psychology, he would have gladly adopted it, for he
seems continually groping after it, and aware of it as

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

247

ning of
contra-
arwin's

of Mr.

iven to
licli he
Theory-
Darwin,
; beings
ently of
ors have
'^ariation
n which
At the
iology of
lauses of
nt work
ich will
the ex-
ty "—or

subject
;le some-

e recent
ipeal to

dea that
1870,
rinciples
t, for he
of it as

near him, though he is never able to grasp it. He
probably failed to grasp it because Lamarck had failed.
He could not adopt it in his edition of 1880, for this
is evidently printed from stereos taken from the 1870
edition, and no considerable alteration was therefore
possible.

The late Mr. G. H. Lewes did not get hold of the
memory theory, probably because neither Mr.' Spencer
nor any of the well-known German philosophers had
done so. ^Mr. liomanes, as I think I have shown,
actually has adopted it, but he does not say where he
got it from. I suppose from reading Canon Kings-
ley in Nature some years before Nature began to exist,
or (for has not the mantle of Mr. Darwin 1 alien upon
him ?) he has thought it all out independently ; but
however Mr. liomanes may have reached his conclu-
sion, he must have done so comparatively recently, for
when he reviewed my book, Unconscious Memory, '"'
he scoffed at the very theory which he is now
adopting.

Of the view that " there is thus a race memory, as
there is an individual memory, and that the expression
of the former constitutes the phenomena of heredity " —
for it is thus Mr. Eomanes with fair accuracy describes
the theory I was supporting — he wrote :

" N"ow this view, in which Mr. Butler was anticipated
by Prof. Hering, is interesting if advanced merely as an
illustration ; but to imagine that it maintains any truth
of profound significance, or that it can possibly be
fraught with any benefit to science, is simply absurd.
The most cursory tliought is enough to show," &c. &c.

" We can understand," he continued, " in some mea-
sure how an alteration in brain structure when once

* Nature, Jan. 27, 1881.

•S'l..

•»:!:; :r

I'M ^

Hi m

li^

24S

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

made should be permanent, . . . but we cannot under-
stand hov/ this alteration is transmitted to progeny
through E.tructures so unlike the brain as are the pro-
ducts of the generative glands. And we merely stultify
ourselves if we suppose that the problem is brought
any nearer to a solution by asserting that a future indi-
vidual while still in the germ has already participated,
say in the cerebral alterations of its parents," &c. Mr.
llomanes could find no measure of abuse stron;:'- enoutih
for me, — as any reader may see who feds curious
enough to turn to Mr. Eomanes' article in Nature
already referred to.

As for Evolution, Old and New, he said I had
written it "in the hope of gaining some notoriety by
deserving and perhaps receiving a contemptuous refu-
tation from " Mr. Darwin.'" In my reply to Mr. Eo-
manes I said, " I will not characterise this accusation
in the terms which it merits."t Mr. lionianes, in the
following number of Nature, withdrew his accusation
and immediately added, " I was induced to advance it
because it seemed the only rational motive that could
have led to the publication of such a book." Again I
will not characterise such a withdrawal in the terms
it merits, but I may say in passing that if Mr. llomanes
thinks the motive he assigned to me " a rational one,"
his view of what is rational and mine differ. It does
not commend itself as " rational " to me, that a man
should spend a good deal of money and two or three
years of work in the hope of deserving a contemp-
tuous refutation from any one — not even from Mr.
Darwin. But then Mr. Eomanes has written such a
lot about reason and intelligence.

The reply to Evolution, Old and New, which I actu-

* Nature, Jan. 27, 1 881. t Ibid., Feb. 3, 1881.

t under-
progeiiy
;he pro-
stultify
Lroudit
ire indi-
icipated,
;c. Mr.
f enough
curious
Nature

[ I had

)riety by
)us refu-
Mr. Eo-
;cusation
s, ill the
cusation
vance it
at could
Again I
le terms
iomanes
lal one,"
It does
a man
or three
ontemp-
rom Mr.
1 such a

1 I actu-

88i.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

249

ally did get from Mr. Darwin, was one which I do not
see advertised among Mr. Darwin's other works now,
and which I venture to say never will be advertised
among them again — not at least until it has been altered.
I have seen no reason to leave off advertising Evolu-
tion, Old and New, and Unconscious Memory.

I have never that I know of seen Mr. Eomanes, but
am told that he is still young. I can find no publica-
tion of his indexed in the British Museum Catalogue
earlier than 1874, and then it was only about Chris-
tian Prayer. Mr, Eomanes was good enough to advise
me to turn painter or homoeopathist ; ''' as he has intro-
duced the subject, and considering how many years I
am his senior, I might be justified (if it could be any
pleasure to me to do so) in suggesting to him too what
I should imagine most likely to tend to his advance-
ment in life ; but there are examples so bad that even
those who have no wish to be any better than their
neighbours may yet decline to follow them, and I think
Mr. Eomanes' is one of these. I will not therefore
find him a profession.

But leaving this matter on one side, the point I wish
to insist on is that Mr. Eomanes is saying almost in my
own words what less than three years ago he was very
angry with me for saying. I do not think that under
these circumstances much explanation is necessary as to
the reasons which have led Mr. Eomanes to fight so shy
of any reference to Life and Habit, Evolution, Old and
New, and Unconscious Memory — works in which, if I
may venture to say so, the theory connecting the pheno-
mena of heredity with memory has been not only
" suggested," but so far established that even Mr. Eo-
manes has been led to think the matter over inde-

* Nature, Jan. 27, 1 88 1.

250

REMARKS ON MR. ROMANES'

pendently and to arrive at the same general conclusion
as myself.

Curiously enough, Mr. Grant Allen too has come to
much the same conclusions as myself, after having
attacked me, though not so fiercely, as Mr. liomanes
has done. In 1879 he said in the Uxamincr (May 17)
that the teleological view put forward in Evolution,
Old and New, was "just the sort of mystical nonsense
from wliich " he " had hoped Mr. Darwin had for ever
saved, us." And so in the Academy on the same day he
said that no "one-sided argument" (referring to Evolu-
tion, Old and New) could ever deprive Mr, ])arwin of
the " place which he had eternally won in the history
of human thought by his magnificent achievement."

A few years, and Mr. Allen entertains a very
different opinion of Mr. Darwin's magnificent achieve-
ment.

" There are only two conceivable ways," he writes,
" in which any increment of brain power can ever have
arisen in any individual. The one is the Darwinian
way, by ' spontaneous variation,' that is to say bv
variation due tr> minute physical circumstances affectin*
the individual in the germ. The other is the Spencerian
M'ay, by functional increment, that is to say by the effect
of increased use and constant exposure to varying
circumstauces during conscious life." ^

Mr. Allen must know very well, or if he does not
he has no excuse at any rate for not knowing, that the
theory according to which increase of brain power or
any other bodily or mental power is due to use, hi no
more Mr. Spencer's than the theory of gravitation is,
except in so far as that Mr. Spencer has adojited it.
It is the theory which every one except Mr. Allen

* Mind, October, 1883.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

2Si

mclusion

come to
: having
llomanes
May 17)
voiution,
nonsense

for ever
,e day he
,0 Evolu-
'arwin of
history
nent."

a very
achieve-

e writes,
ver have
arvvinian
say bv
affectin-
|)encerian
he effect
varying

ioes not
that the
)owor or
se, m no
;ation is,
D}^ted it.
r. Allen

associates with Erasmus Darwin and Lamarck, but
more especially (and on the wliole I suppose justly)
with Lanuuck.

" I venture to think," continuos Mr. Allen, " that
the first way [Mr. Dai win's], if we look it clearly in the
face, will be soen to be jytriHicdllt/ unthinkable ; and
tliat we liave therefore no alternative but to accept
the second."

These writers go round so quickly and o completely
that there is no keeping pace with them. " As to
Materialism," he writes presently, " surely it is more
profoundly materialistic to suppose that mere i)iiysical
causes operating on the germ can deLcrmine minute
physical and material changes in the brain, which will
in turn make the individuality what it is to be, than
to suppose that all brains arc what they are in virtue oj
antecedent function. The one creed makes the man
depend mainly upon the accidents of molecular physics
in a colliding germ cell and sperm cell ; the other
makes hint deperid mainly upon the doings and ijains of
his ancestors as modified and altered by himself"

Here is a sentence taken almost at random from the
body of the article : —

" We are always seeing something wliich adds to
our total stock of memories ; we are always learning
and doing something new. The vast majority ol; these
experiences are similar in kind to those already passed
through by our ancestors : they add nothing to the
inheritance of the race. . . . Though they leave physical
traces on the individual, they do not so far all'ect the
underlying organisation of the brain as to make the
development of after-brains somewhat different from
previous ones. But there are certain functional acti-
vities which do tend so to alter the development of

252

REMARKS ON MR, ROMANES'

M ■■ ■?

J^i:

after-brains ; certain novel or t:nstained activities which
apparently result in the production of new correlated
bmin elements or brain connections hereditarily trans-
missible as increased potentialities of similar activity
in the offspring."

Of Natural Selection Mr. Allen writes much, as Pro-
fessor Mivart and others have been writing for many
years past.

" It seems to me," he says, " easy to understand how
survival of the fittest may result in progress starting
from such functionally produced gains, but impossible to
understand how it could result in progress if it had to
start in mere accidental structural increments due to
spontaneous variation alone." '"*

My. Allen may say this now, but until lately he has
been among the first to scold any one else who said so.

And this is how the article concludes : —

"The first hypothesis (Mr Darwin's) is one that throws
no light upon any of the facts. The second hypothesis
(which Mr. Allen is pleased to call Mr. Herbert
Spencer's) is one that explains them all with trans-
parent lucidity." t

So that Mr. Darwin, according to Mr. Allen, is clean
out of it. Truly when Mr. Allen makes stepping-
stones of his dead selves, he jumps upon them to some
tune. But then Mr. Darwin is dead now. I have
not heard of his having given Mr. Allen any manu-
scripts as he gave Mr. Eomanes. I hope Mr. Herbert
Spencer will not give him any. If I was Mr. Spencer
and found my admirers crowning me with Lamarck's
laurels, I think I should have something to say to
them.

* Mind for October 1883, p. 498.
t Ibid., p. 505, October 1883.

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

253

js which
)iTelated
y trans-
activity

, as Pro-
or many

[ind how
starting
)ssible to
^t had to
3 due to

y he has
3 said so.

%t throws
^pothesis
Herbert
h trans-
is clean
tepping-
to some
I have
y manu-
Herbert
Spencer
imarck's
say to

"What are we to think of a writer who declares that
the theory that specific and generic changes are due to
use and disuse " expLans all the facts with transparent
lucidity"?

Lamarck's hypothesis is no doubt a great help and
a great step toward Professor Heriiig's ; it makes a
known cause underlie variations, and thus is free from
those fatal objections which Professor Mivart and
others have brought against the theory of Messrs. Dar-
win and Wallace ; but how does the theory that use
develops an organism explain why offspring repeat
the organism at all ? How does the Lamarckian hypo-
thesis explain tlie sterility of hybnds, for example ?
The sterility of hybrids has been always considered one
of the great cniccs in connection with any theory of
Evolution. How again does it explain reversion to
long-lost characters and the resumption of feral charac-
teristics ? the phenomena of old age ? the principle that
underlies longevity ? the reason why the reproductive
system is generally the last to arrive at maturity, and
why few further developments take place in any
organism after this has been fully developed ? the
sterility of many animals under captivity ? the develop-
ment in both males and i'emales, under certain circum-
stances, of the characteristics of the opposite sex ? the
latency of memory ? the unconsciousness with whicli
we develop, and with which instinctive actions are
performed ? How does any theory advanced either
by Lamarck, Mr. Herbert Spencer, or Mr. Darwin ex-
plain, or indeed throw light upon these facts until sup-
plemented with the explanation given of them in Life
and Habit — for which I must refer the reader to that
work itself?

People may say what they like about "the experi-

254

MENTAL EVOLUTION IN ANIMALS.

I I

of experiences
generations," f " infinity of

registration

ence of the race," "" " the

continued for numberless

experiences," J " lapsed intelligence," &c., but until

they make Memory, in the most uncompromising

sense of the word, 1.3
Heredity, they will ■t
standing of the diffioi 1
this to the theory of

to all the phenomena of

lit i'^ help to the better under-

rs <.b'>ve adverted to. Add

])uffoi., r.rasmus Darwin, and

Lanmrck, and the points which I have above alluded
to receive a good deal of " lucidity."

But to return to Mr. Eomanes : however much he
and Mr. Allen may differ about the merits of Mr.
Darwin, they were at any rate not long since cordially
agreed in vilipending my unhappy self, and are now
saying very much what I have been saying for some
years past. I do not deny that they are capable wit-
nesses. They will generally see a thing when a certain
number of other people have come to do so. I submit
that, no matter how grudgingly they give their evidence,
the tendency of that evidence is sufficiently clear to
show that the opinions put forward in Life and Habit,
Evolution, Old and New, and Unconscious Memory,
deserve the attention of the reader.

I may perhaps deal with Mr. Eomanes' recent work
more fully in the sequel to Life and Habit on which I
am now engaged. For the present it is enough to say
that if he does not mean what Professor Hering and,
longo intervalloy myself do, he should not talk about
habit or experience as between successive generations,
and that if he does mean what we do — which I suppose
he does — he should have said so much more clearly
and consistently than he has.

* Principles of Psychology, I. 422.
t Ibid. I. 424. t Ibid. I. 424.

^i- ■

( 254a

iiiences
nity of
t until
amising
lena of

uiider-
,. Add
'in, and

alluded

nuch he
of Mr.
cordially
are now
'or some
ible wit-
a certain
I submit
ividence,
clear to
|d Habit,
emory,

[nt work
which I
t\i to say
ling and,
)k about
[orations,
suppose
clearly

POSTSCRIPT.

THIS afternoon (March 7, 1884), the copies of this
book being ready for issue, I see Mr. Eomanes*
letter to the Athenceum of this day, and get this post-
scri})t pasted into the book after binding.

Mr. liomanes corrects his reference to the passage
in which he says that Canon Kingsley first advanced
the theory that instinct is inherited memory (" M. E,
in Animals," p. 296). Canon Kingsley's words are
to be found in Fraser, June, 1867, and are as fol-
lows : —

" Yon wood-wren has had enough to make him sad, if only he
recollects it; and if he can recollect his road from Morocco
hither he maybe recollects likewise what happened on the road :
the lon^ weary journey up the Portuguese coast, and through
the gap between the Pyrenees and the Jaysquivel, and up the
Landes of Bordeaux, and through Brittany, flitting by night
and hiding and feeding as he could by day ; and how his mates
flew against the lighthouses and were killed by hundreds, and
how he essayed the British Channel and was blown back,
shrivelled up by bitter blasts ; and how he felt, nevertheless,
that ' that was water he must cross,' he knew not why ;
■but something told him that his mother had done it before
him, and he was flesh of her flesh, life of her life, and had
inherited her instinct (as we call hereditary memory in order
to avoid the trouble of finding out what it is and how it comes).
A duty was laid on him to go back to the place where he was
bred, and now it is done, and he is weary and sad and lonely,
&c. &c.

This is a very interesting passage, and I am glad to
quote it ; but it hardly amounts to advancing the theory

i^> — -

■4

III ,1

!' 'I

254*

POSTSCRIPT.

that instinct is inherited memory. Observing Mr.
Eomanes' words closely, I see he only says tliat ('anon
Kingsley was the first to advance tlie theory " that
many hundred miles of landscape scenery" can " con-
stitute an object of inherited memory ;" but as he pro-
ceeds to say that " tlivi' has since " been independently
suggested by several writers," it is plain he intends to
convey the idea that Canon Kingsley advanced the
theory that instinct generally is inherited memory,
which indeed his words do ; but it is hardly credible
that he should have left them where he did if he had
realized their importance.

Mr. Komanes proceeds to inform me personally that
the reference to " Nature" in his proof " originally indi-
cated another writer who had independently advanced
the same theory as that of Canon Kingsley." After
this I have a right to ask him to tell me who the writer
is, and where I shall find what he said. I ask this,
and at my earliest opportunity will do my best to give
this writer, too, the credit he doubtless deserves.

I have never professed to be the originator of the
theory connecting heredity with memory. I knew I
knew so little that I was in great trepidation when
I wrote all the earlier chapters of " Life and Habit."
I put them paradoxically, because I did not dare to
put them otherwise. As the book went on, I saw
I was on firm ground, and the paradox was dropped.
When I found what Professor Hering had done, I put
him forward as best I could at once. I then learned
German, and translated him, giving his words in full
in " Unconscious Memory ;" since then I have always
spoken of the theory as Professor Hering's.

Mr, Romanes says that " the theory in question
forms the backbone of all the previous literature

POSTSCRIPT,

ng Mr.
, Canon
" that
I " con-
he pro-
lulently
tends to
iced the
[iiemory,
credible
■ he had

ally that
[illy indi-
^dvanced
" After
he writer
ask this,
5t to give
^es.

)r of the
knew I
ion when
Habit."
dare to
|ii, I saw
dropped,
me, I put
In learned
Is in full
^e always

question
I literature

on instinct by the above-named writers (not to mention
tlieir numerous followers) and is by all of tliem
elaborately stated as clearly as any theory can be
stated in words." Few except Mr. Eonianes will say
this. I grant it ought to have formed the backbone
" of all previous literature on instinct by the above-
named writers," but when 1 wrote " Life and Habit"
it was not understood to form it. If it had been, I
should not have found it necessary to come before the
pul)lic this fourth time during the last seven years to
insist upon it. Of course the theory is not m^w —
it was in the air and bound to come ; but wlien it
came, it came through Professor Hering of Prague,
and not through those who, great as are the services
they have rendered, still did not render this particular
one of making memory the keystone of their system.
Mr. liomanes now says : " Why, of course, that's
what they were meaning all the time." Perhaps they
were, but they did not say so, and others — conspicu-
ously Mr. Romanes himself — did not understand them
to be meaning what he now discovers that they meant.
Wlien Mr. liomanes attacked me in Nature, Janu-
ary 27, 1 88 1, he said I had "been anticipated by
Professor Hering/' but he evidently did not understand
that any one else had anticipated me ; and far from
holding, as he now does, that " the theory in question
forms the backbone of all the previous" writers on
instinct, and " is by all of them elaborately stated as
clearly as any theory can be stated in words," he said
(in a passage already quoted) that it was " interesting,
if advanced merely as an illustration, but to imagine
that it maintains any truth of profound significance, or
that it can possibly be fraught with any benefit to
science, is absurd." Considering how recently Mr.

254^

POSTSCRIPT.

\i ;

Romanes wrote the words just quoted, he has soon
forgotten them.

I do not, as I have said aheady, and never did, claim
to liave originated the theory I put forward in " Life
and Habit." I thouglit it oui independently, but I
knew it must have occurred to many, and had jirobably
been worked out by many, before myself. My claim is
to have brought it perhaps into fuller liglit, and to
have dwelt on its importance, bearings, and develop-
ments with some persistence, and to have done so
without much recognition or encouragement, till lately.
Of men of science, Mr. A. R. Wallace and Professor
Mivart gave me encouragement, but no one else has
done so. I sometimes saw, as in the Duke of Argyll's
case, and in Mr. Romanes' own, that men were writing
at me, or borrowing from me, but with the two excep-
tions already made, and that also of the Bishop of
Carlisle, not one of the literary and scientific notables
of the day so much as mentioned my name while
milking use of my work.

A few words more, and I will bring these remarks
to a close Mr. Romanes says I represent " the
phenomena of memory as occurring throughout the
inorganic world." This implies that I attribute all
the phenomena of memory as we see them in animals
to such things as stones and gases. Mr. Romanes
knows very well that I have never said anything
which could warrant his attempting to put the
absurdity into my mouth which he here tries to do.
The reader who wishes to see what I do maintain
upon this subject will find it on pp. 2 1 6-2 i 8 of the
present volume.

las soon

( 255 )

id, claim
n "Life
|r, but I
probably
' claim is
, and to
duvelop-

done so
ill lately.
Professor

else has
if Argyll's
re writing
wo excep-
Bishop of
; notables
me while

remarlvs
,ent "the
hout the
ribute all
u animals
Romanes
anything
put the
ies to do.
maintain
1 8 of the

EXTRACTS FliOM "ALPS AND SANCTUARIKS OF
PIEDMONT AND THE CANTON TICINO."

DALrE, PRATO, ROSSURA.
(from chapter iir. of alps and sanctuariks.*)

*• • • ••••

TALKING of legs, as I went through the main street
of Dalpe an old lady of about sixty-five stopped
me, and told me that while gathering her winter store
of firewood she had had the misfortune to hurt her leg.
I was very sorry, but I failed to satisfy her ; the more
I sympathised in general terms, the more I felt that
something further was expected of me. I went on
trying to do the civil thing, when the old lady cut me
short by saying it would be much better if I were to
see the leg at once ; so she showed it me in the street,
and there, sure enough, close to the groin there was a
swelling. Again I ^aid how sorry I was, and added
that perhaps she ougiit to show it to a medical man.
"But aren't yoit a nodical man?" said she in an
alarmed manner. " Certainly not, ma'am," replied I.
"Then why did you let me show you my leg?" said
she indignantly, and pulling her clothes down, the poor
old woman began to hobble off; presently two others
joined her, and I heard hearty peals of laughter as she

* The first edition of Alps and Sanctuaries was published Dec. 18S2.

256 EXTRACTS FP?M ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

recounted lier sto./. A stranger visiting these out-of-
the-way villages is almost certain to l)e mistaken for a
doctor. What business, they say to themselves, can
any one else have there, and who in his senses would
dream of visiting them for pleasure ? This old lady
had rushed to the usual conclusion, and had been try-
ing to get a little advice gratis.

'■ ',1

II?

fir'

The little objects looking like sentry-boxes that go
all round Prato Church contain rough modern frescoes
representing, if I remember rightly, the events atten-
dant upon the crucifixion. These are on a small scale
what the chapels on the sacred mountain of Varallo
are on a large one. Small single oratories are scat-
tered about all over the Canton Ticino, and indeed
everywhere in North Italy, by the road-side, at all
halting-places, and especially at the crest of any more
marked ascent, where the tired wayfarer, probably
heavy laden, might be inclined to say a naughty word
or two if not checked. The people like them, and
miss them when they come to England. They some-
times do what the lower animals do in confinement
when precluded from habits they are accustomed to,
and put up with strange makeshifts by way of sub-
stitute. I once saw a poor Ticinese woman kneeling in
prayer before a dentist's show-case in the Hampstead
Eoad ; she doubtless mistook the teeth for the relics
of some saint. I am afraid she was a little like a hen
sitting upon a chalk egg, but she seemed quite con-
tented.

Which of us, indeed, does not sit contentedly enough
upon chalk eggs at times ? And what would life be
but for the power to do so ? We do not sufficiently
realise the part which illusion has played in our

DALPE, PRATO, ROSSURA.

257

DUt-of-

1 for a
IS, can
would
d lady-
en try-

that go

frescoes

s atten-

all scale
Varallo

ire scat-

i indeed

e, at all

my more

probably

Uty word

lem, and
ly some-
itinement
jomed to,
f of sub-
Lieeling in
:ampstead
;he relics
ike a ben
uite con-

ly enough
Lild life be
iufficiently
id in our

development. One of the prime requisites for evolu-
tion is a certain power for adaptation to varying
circumstances, that is to say, of plasticity, bodily and
mental. But the power of adaptation is mainly de-
pendent on the power of thinking certain new things
sufficiently like certain others to which we have been
accustomed for us not to be too much incommoded by
the change — upon the power, in fact, of mistaking the
new for the old. The power of fusing ideas (and
through ideas, structures) depends upon the power of
co?ifusing them ; the power to confuse ideas that are not
very unlike, and that are presented to us in immediate
sequence, is mainly due to the fact of the impetus, so
to speak, which the mind has upon it. It is this
which bars association from sticking to the letter of its
bond ; for we are in a hurry to jump to a conclusion
on the first show of plausible pretext, and cut associa-
tion's statement of claim short by taking it as read
before we have got through half of it. We " get it
into our notes, in fact," as Mr. Justice Stareleigh did
in Pickwick, and having got it once in, we are not
going to get it out again. This breeds fusion and
confusion, and from this there come new developments.
So powerful is the impetus which the mind has
continually upon it that we always, I believe, make
an effort to see every new object as a repetition of
the object last before us. Objects are so varied and
present themselves so rapidly, that as a general rule
we renounce this effort too promptly to notice it, but
it is always there, and as I have just said, it is because
of it that we are able to mistake, and hence to evolve
new mental and bodily developments. Where the
effort is successful, there is illusion ; where nearly
successful but not quite, there is a shock and a sense

If^^lft

258

EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

of being puzzled — more or less, as the case may be ;
where it so obviously impossible as not to be pursued,
there is no perception of the effort at all.

]\Ir. Locke has been greatly praised for his essay
upon human understanding. An essay on human mis-
understanding should be no less interesting and impor-
tant. Illusion to a small extent is one of the main
causes, if indeed it is not the main cause, of progress,
but it nuist lie upon a small scale. All abortive
speculation, whether commercial or philosophical, is
based upon it, and much as we may abuse such specu-
lation, we are, all of us, its debtors.

■Ik

I know few things more touching in their way than
the porch of Rossura Church : it is dated early in the
last century, and is absolutely without ornament ; the
flight of steps inside it lead up to the level of the floor
of the church. One lovely summer Sunday morning
passing the church betimes, I saw the people kneeling
upon these steps, the church within being crammed.
In the darker light of the porch, they told out against
the sky that showed through the open arcli beyond
them ; far aw. y the eye rested on the mountains — deep
blue, save where the snow still lingered. I never saw
anything more beautiful — and these forsooth are the
people whom so many of us think to better by distribut-
ing tracts about Protestantism among them !

I liked the porch almost best under an aspect which
it no longer presents. One summer an opening was
made in the west wall, which was afterwr.rds cosed
because the wind blew through it too much and made
the church too cold. AVhile it was open, one could
sit on the churcli steps and look down through it on
to the bottom of the Ticino valley ; and through the

DALPE, PRATO, ROSSURA.

259

ay be ;
Lirsued,

5 essay
m mis-
impor-
e main
rogress,
ibortive
deal, is
I specii-

•ay than
y in the
mt ; the
the floor
morning
:neeling
ammed.
against
beyond
s — deep
ever saw
are the
istribut-

>ct which
ning was
is cosed
nd made
lie could
I'di it on
ough the

windows one could see the slopes about Dalpe and
Cornone. Between the two windows there is a picture
of austere old S. Carlo Borromeo with his hands joined
in prayer.

It was at liossura that I made the acquaintance of
a word which I have since found very largely used
throughout North Italy. It is pronounced " chow "
pure and simple, .but is written, if written at all, " ciau "
or " ciao," the " a " being kept very broad. I believe
the word is derived from " schiavo," a slave, which
became corrupted into " schiao," and " ciao." It is
used with two meanings, both of which, however, are
deducible from the word slave. In its first and more
common use it is simply a salute, either on greeting or
taking leave, and means, " I am your very obedient
servant." Thus, if one has been talking to a small
child, its mother will tell it to say " chow " before it
goes away, and will then nod her head and say " chow "
herself. The other use is a kind of pious expletive,
intending " I must endure it," " I am the slave of a
higher power." It was in this sense I first heard it
at Kossura. A woman was washing at a fountain
while I was eating my lunch. She said she had lost
her daughter in Paris a few weeks earlier. " She was
a beautiful woman," said the bereaved mother, " but —
chow. She hatl great talents — chow. I had her edu-
cated by the nuns of Bellinzona — chow. Her knowledge
of geography was consummate — chow, chow," &c. Here
"chow" means "pazienza," "I have done and said all that
I can, and must now bear it as best I may."

I tried to comfort her, but could do nothing, till at
last it occurred to me to say " chow " too. I did so,
and was astonished at the soothing effect it had upon
her. How subtle are the laws that govern consolation !

M ■

Mr ' '
•If

260 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

I suppose tliey must ultimately be connected with re-
production — the consoling idea being a kind of small
cross which re-generates or re-creates the sufferer. It
is important, therefore, that the new ideas with which
the old are to be crossed should differ from these last
sufficiently to divert the attention, and yet not so much
as to cause a painful shock.

There should be a little shock, or there will be no
variation in the new ideas that are generated, but they
will resemble those that preceded them, and grief will
be continued ; there must not be too great a shock or
there will be no illusion — no confusion and fusion be-
tween the new set of ideas and the old, and in conse-
quence there will be no result at ail, or, if any, I'n
increase in mental discord. We know very little,
however, upon this subject, and are continually shown
to be at fault by finding an unexpectedly small cr^ss
produce a wide diversion of the mental images, while
in other cases a wide one will produce hardly any re-
sult. Sometimes again, a cross whiih we should Lave
said was much too wide will have d^v. excyUent eiTect.
I did not anticipate, for e : imple that ly saying
" chow " would have done much for tne poor woman
who had lost her daughter : the cross did not seem
wide enough : she was already, as I thought, saturated
with " chow." I can only account for the effect my
application of it produced by supposing the word to
have derived some element of strangeness and novelty
as coming from a foreigner — ^just as land which will
n/e a poor crop, if planted with sets from potatoes that
hi ve ^e^>u grown for three or four years on this same
soil, V Jl yet ^leld excellently if similar sets be brought
frt n L"'/ei:'y miles off. For the potato, so far as I
hRve stu.iievi if, is a good-tempered, frivolous plant.

h re-
small
. It
ivhich
e last
much

be no
t they
d will
ock or
on be-
conse-
,ny, vn
little,
shown

1 CXoSS

L while
my re-
Lave
euect.
saying
oman
seem
tiirated
ect my
rord to
novelty
ch will
)es that
same
jrought
as I

DALPE, PRATO, ROSSURA.

261

easily amused and easily bored, and one, moreover,
which if bored, yawns horribly.

I may say in passing that the tempers of plants
have not been sufficiently studied ; and what little
opinion we have formed about their dispositions is for
the most part ill formed. The sulkiest tree that I
know is the silver beech. It never forgives a scratch.
— There is a tree in Kensington gardens a little off the
wesi side of the Serpentine with names cut upon it as
long ago as 1 7 1 7 and 1736, which the tree is as little
able to forgive and forget as though the injury had been
done not ten years since. And the tree is not an
aged tree either.

plant.

f^'

r^rsrr.-irr— no

•I ^ I
i 'I ■ ' ■ '

( 262 )

11? ^

if;;'

'■i 1-

,^'if ■ '

CALONICO.

(from chapter v. of alps and sanctuaries.)

/~\UR inventions increase in geometrical ratio. Tliey
^ are like living beings, each one of which may
become parent of a dozen otliers — some good and some
ne'er-do-weels ; but they differ from animals and vege-
tables inasmuch as they not only increase in a geo-
metrical ratio, but the period of their gestation decreases
in geometrici^l ratio also. Take this n: tter of Alpine
roads for examj)ie. For how many millions of years
was there no approach to a road over the St. Gothard,
save the untutored watercourses of the Ticino and
the Reuss, and the track of the bouquetin or the
chamois ? For how many more ages after this was
there not a meie shepherd's or huntsman's path by the
river-side — without so much as a log thrown over so
as to form a rude bridge ? No one would probably
have ever thought of making a bridge out of his own
unaided imagination, more than any monkey that we
know of has done so. But an avalanclie or a flood
once swept a pine into position and left it there ; on
this a genius, who was doubtless thought to be doing
something very infamous, ventured to make use of
it. Another time a pine was found nearly across the
stream, but not quite ; and not quite, again, in the
place where it was wanted. A second genius, to the
horror of his fellow-tribesmen — who declared that this

CALONICO.

263

They
li may
d some
d vege-
a geo-
jcveases
Alpine
f years
lOthard,
110 and
or the
lis was
L by the
over so
irobably
lis own
that we
a flood
ere ; on
)e doins
use of
ross the
in the
5, to the
,hat this

time the world really would come to an end — shifted
the pine a few feet so as to bring it across the stream
and into the place where it was wanted. This man
was the inventor of bridges — his family repudiated
him, and he came to a bad end. From this to cutting
down the pine and bringing it from some distance is
an easy step. To avoid detail, let us come to the old
Eoman horse-road over the Alps. The time between
the shepherd's path and the Roman road is probably
short in comparison with that between the mere chamois
track and the first thing that can be called a path of
men. From the Eoman we go on to the mediteval
road with more frequent stone bridges, and from the
mediaeval to the Napoleonic carriage-road.

The close of the last century and the first quarter
of this present one was the great era for the making
of carriage-roads. Fifty years have hardly passed, and
here we are already in the age of tunnelling and rail-
roads. The first period, from the chamois track to the
foot road, was one of millions of years ; the second,
from the first foot road to the Eoman military way,
was one of many thousands ; the third, from the
Eoman to the mediaeval, was perhaps a thousand ;
from the niedia3val to the Napoleonic, five hundred ;
from the Napoleonic to the railroad, fifty. Wliat will
come next we know not, but it should come within
twenty years, and will probably have something to do
with electricity.

It follows by an easy process of reasoning that after
another couple of hundred years or so, great sweeping
changes should be made several times in an hour, or
indeed in a second, or fraction of a second, till they
pass unnoticed as the revolutions we undergo in the
embryonic stages, or are felt simply as vibrations.

iii, ; i

^idfi

264 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

This would undouLtedly be the case hut for the exist-
ence of a friction which interferes between tlieory and
practice. This friction is caused partly by the distur-
bance of vested intere&ts which every invention in-
volves, and which will be found intoleraljle wlien men
become millionaires and paupers alternately once a fort-
1/ ht — living one week in a palace anrl the next in a
workhouse, and having perpetually to be sold up, and
then to buy a new house and refurnisli, &c. — so that
artificial means for stopping inventions will be adopted ;
and partly by the fact that though all inventions breed
in geometrical ratio, yet some multiply more rapidly
than others, and the backwardness of one art will impede
the forwardness of another. At any rate, so far as I
can see, the present is about the only comfortable time
for a man to live in, that either ever has been or ever
will be. The past was too slow, and the future will
be much too fast.

The fact is (but it is so obvious that I am ashamed
to say anything about it) that science is rapidly re-
ducing time and space to a very undifferentiated con-
dition. Take lamb : we can get lamb all the year
round. This is perpetual spring ; but perpetual spring
is no spring at all ; it is not a season ; there are no
more seasons, and being no seasons, there is no time.
Take ihubarb, again. Rhubarb to the philosopher is
the beginning of autumn, if indeed the philosopher
can see anything as the beginning of anything. If
any one asks why, I suppose the philosopher would
say that rJiubarb is the beginning of the fruit season,
which is clearly autumnal, according to our present
classification. From rhubarb to the green gooseberry
the step is so small as to require no bridging — with
one's eyes shut, and plenty of cream and sugar, they

exist-
irv and
distur-
ion in-
211 men
J a fort-
ixt in a
up, and
so that
[lopted ;
IS breed
rapidly
impede
ar as I
ble time
or ever
ire will

ishamed
idly re-
ed con-
le year
spring
are no
110 time,
iplier is
osoplier

10-. If

would

season,
present
:)seberry
t — with
ar, they

CALONICO.

26;

are almost indistini^uishable — but the gooseberry is
quite an autumnal fruit, and only a little earlier than
apples and plums, which last are almost winter ; clearly,
therefore, for scientific purposes rhubarb is autumnal.

As soon as we can find gradations, or a sufficient
number of uniting links between two things, they
become united or made one thing, and any classifica-
tion of them must be illusory. Classification is only
possible where there is a shock given to the senses by
reason of a perceived difference, which, if it is con-
siderable, can be expressed in words. When the world
was younger and less experienced, people were shocked
at what appeared great differences between living forms ;
but species, whether of animals or plants, are now seen
to be so united, either inferentially or by actual find-
ing of the links, that all classification is felt to be
arbitrary. The seasons are like species — they were at
one time thought to be clearly marked, and capable of
being classified with some approach to satisfaction.
It is now seen that they blend either in the present
or the past insensibly into one another, much as
Mr. Herbert Spencer shows us that geology and
astronom]'- blend into one another,'"" and cannot be
classified except by cutting Gordian knots in a way
which none but plain sensible people can tolerate.
Strictly speaking, there is only one place, one time,
one action, and one individual or thing; of this thing
or individual each one of us is a part. It is perplexing,
but it is philosophy ; and modern philosophy, like
modern music, is nothing if it is not perplexing.

A simple verification of the autumnal character of
rhubarb may, at first sight, appear to be found in
Covent Garden Market, where we can actuallv see

* Princ. of Psych., ed. 3, Vol. I., p. 136, 1880.

h ' .'.

1. i

266 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS Ah'D SANCTUARIES.

tlie rhubarb towunls tlic. oinl of Octobor. Uiit tliis
wiiy of looking' at tlio nialLcr arnucs a fatal incjjtitiulo
for tlio ])iu'siiit of ti'iiu ])liilo.so|)liy. It would hu " thci
most serious error" to rei;ar(l the rlnibarb that will
n]ipear in C'oveiit (ianleii Market next October as
b(>loiii;iiiL!; to the autuiim then su])))ose(l to be ('Ui'rciiit.
I'ractically, no doubt, it does so, but tlieoretically it
must be considered as the lirst-fruits of the auiuniu
(if any) of the following year, wbicli bei;ins before tlie
precedinif summer (or, perba])s, more strictly, the ])re-
ceding sunnner but one — anil beiici', but any number),
has well ended. Whether this, however, is so or no,
the rhubarb can be seen in ('ovent (Jarden, and I am
afraid it nuvst be adnuLteil tliat to the ])hiI()Sophically
lainded there lurks within it a tluMuy of evolution, and
even rantheism, as snrelv as Theism was lurkinn' in
Bishop IJerkeley's tar- water.

To return, however, to Calonico. The curato was
very kind to me. We had long talks together. I
could see it pained him that 1 was not a Catholic.
He could never quite gt-t over this, but he was very
good and tolerant, He was anxious to be assured that
I was not one of those English who went about dis-
tributing tracts, and trying' to convert people. This of
course was the last thing I should have wished to do ;
and when I told him so, he viewed me with sorrow but
henceforth without alarm.

All tlie time I was with him I felt how much I
wislied I could be a Catholic in Catholic countries,
and a Protestant in Protestant ones. Surely there
are some things which like politics are too serious to
be taken (|uite seriously. Surtout point de zele is not
the saying of a cynic, but the conclusion of a sensible
man ; and the more deep our feeling is about any

;s.

lit this

;|»liHl(lo
.0 " till!

iit will
)bor MS
iMinciit.
ciilly it
luituinii
fore tlu;

LllO \)VG-

lUinbor),
) or no,

111 I illU

phically
;ioii, fiiul
•kill'.; ill

ato was
Lher. I
'iitholic.
vtis vGiy
ired that
out dis-
This of
I to do ;
rrow but

much I
ouiiti'ies,
ily there
eiious to
He is not

sensible
out any

CALONJCO.

267

niatt(;r, the more occasion liavc; we to bo on our f,'uard
against zcle in this })arti(;ular r(j.s])(;ct. Th(!re is but
one sto}) from the "earnest" to the; "intense;." When
St. I'aul told us to be all things to all nuni he let in
the thin end of tin; wedge, nor did he mark it to say
how far it was to be driven.

1 have Italian frimids whom I greatly value, and
who tell me they think I llirt just a trille too nnieh
with " '// }Hii'tUu 'hero" when 1 am in Italy, f(;r they
know that in tlu; main I tliink as they do. " These
people," they say, " make themselves very agreeable
to you, and show you their smooth side ; we, who see
more of them, know their rough one. Knuckle under
to them, and they will ])erhaps condescend to patron-
ise you ; have any individuality of your own, and they
know neither scruple nor remorse in their attempts
to get you out of their way. ' // 'prcte' they say, with
a signilJcant look, ' c sempre prctc! For the future
let us have professors and men of science instead of
priests."

I smile to myself at this last, and reply, that I am
a foreigner come among them for recreation, and anxious
to keep clear of their internal discords. I do not wish
to cut myself off from one side of their national cha-
racter — a side which, in some respects, is no less in-
teresting than the one with which I suppose I am on
the whole more sympathetic. If I were an Italian, I
should feel bound to take a side ; as it is, I wish to
leave all quarrelling behind me, having as much of
that in England as suffices to keep me in good health
and temper.

In old times people gave their spiritual and intel-
lectual sop to Nemesis. Even when most positive,
they admitted a percentage of doubt. Mr. Tennyson

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268 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

has said well, "There lives more doubt" — I quote
from memory — " in honest faith, believe me, than in
half the " systems of philosophy, or words to that effect.
The victor had a slave at his ear during his triumph ;
the slaves during the Eoman Saturnalia, dressed in
their masters' clothes, sat at meat with them, told them
of their faults, and blacked their faces for them. They
made their masters wait upon them. In the ages of
faith, an ass dressed in sacerdotal robes was gravely
conducted to the cathedral choir at a certain season,
and maso was said before him, and hymns chanted
discordantly. The elder D'Israeli, from whom I am
quoting, writes : " On other occasions, they put burnt
old shoes to fume in the censors : ran about the church
leaping, singing, dancing, and playing at dice upon the
altar, while a hoy bishop or pope of fools burlesqued
the divine service ; " and later on he says : " So late
as 1645, a pupil of Gassendi, writing to his master
what he himself witnessed at Aix on the Feast of Inno-
cents, says — ' I have seen in some monasteries in this
province extravagances solemnised which pagans would
not have practised. Neither the clergy nor the guar-
dians indeed go to the choir on this day, but all is given
up to the lay brethren, the cabbage-cutters, errand-boys,
cooks, scullions, and gardeners ; in a word, all the
menials fill their places in the church, and insist that
they perform the offices proper for the day. They
dress themselves with all the sacerdotal ornaments,
but torn to rags, or wear them inside out : they hold
in their hands the books reversed or sideways, which
they pretend to read with large spectacles without
glasses, and to which they fix the rinds of scooped
oranges . . . ! particularly while dangling the censers
they keep shaking them in derision, and letting the

CALONICO.

269

e ages

'ES.

-I quote
than in
lat effect,
triumph ;
ressed in
iold them
They
of

s gravely
n season,
3 chanted
om I am
put burnt
he church
J upon the
Durlesqued
I "So late
lis master
3t of Inno-
ies in this
;ans would
' the guar-
11 is given
rand-boys,
d, all the
insist that
ly. They
)rnaments,
they hold
lys, which
iS without
)f scooped
he censers
etting the

ashes fly about their heads and faces, one against the
other. In this equipage they neither sing hymns nor
psalms nor masses, but mumble a certain gibberish as
shrill and squeaking as a herd of pigs whipped on to
market. The nonsense verses they chant are singularly
barbarous : —

" ' Hsec est clara dies, clararum clara dierum,
Hsec est festa dies festarum festa dierum.' '' *

Faith was far more assured in the times when the
spiritual saturnalia were allowed than now. The
irreverence which was not dangerous then, is now
intolerable. It is a bad sign for a man's peace in his
own convictions when he cannot stand turning the
canvas of his life occasionally upside down, or reversing
it in a mirror, as painters do with their pictures that
they may judge the better concerning them. I would
persuade all Jews, Mohammedans, Comtists, and free-
thinkers to turn high Anglicans, or better still, down-
right Catholics for a week in every year, and I would
send people like Mr. Gladstone to attend Mr. Brad-
laugh's lectures in the forenoon, and the Grecian
pantomime in the evening, two or three times every
winter. I should perhaps tell them that the Grecian
pantomime has nothing to do with Greek plays. They
little know how much more keenly they would relish
their normal opinions during the rest of the year for
the little spiritual outing which I would prescribe for
them, which, after all, is but another phase of the wise
saying — " Surtout j^oint de zele." St. Paul attempted
an obviously hopeless task (as the Church of Eome
very well understands) when he tried to put down
seasonarianism. People must and will go to church to

* Curiosities of Literature, Lond. 1866, Routledge & Co., p. 272.

\ ?!

'! I

M i

270 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

be a little better, to the theatre to be a little naughtier,
to the Iioyal Institution to be a little more scientific,
than they are in actual life. It is only by pulsations
of goodness, naughtiness, and whatever else we affect
that we can get on at all. I grant that when in his
office, a man should be exact and precise, but our
holidays are our garden, and too much precision here
is a mistake. ,

Surely truces, without even an arriere pensee of
difference of opinion, between those who are compelled
to take widely different sides during the greater part
of their lives, must be of infinite service to those who
can enter on them. There are few merely spiritual
pleasures comparable to that derived from the tem-
porary laying down of a quarrel, even though we may
know that it must be renewed shortly. It is a great
grief to me that there is no place where I can go
among Mr. Darwin, Professors Huxley, Tyndal, and
Eay Lankester, Miss Buckley, Mr. Eomanes, Mr. Grant
Allen and others whom I cannot call to mind at this
moment, as I can go among the Italian priests. I
remember in one monastery (but this was not in the
Canton Ticino) the novice taught me how to make
sacramental wafers, and I played him Handel on the
organ us well as I could. I told him that Handel
was a Catholic; he said he could tell that by his
music at once. There is no chance of getting among
our scientists in this way.

Some friends say I was telling a lie when I told the
novice Handel was a Catholic, and ought not to have
done so. I make it a rule to swallow a few gnats
a day, lest I should come to strain at them, and so bolt
camels ; but the whole question of lying is difficult.
What is " lying " ? Turning for moral guidance to

iRIES.

3 naughtier,
e scientific,
f pulsations
\e we affect
when in his
se, but our
•ecision here

re pensee of
fe compelled
greater part
;o those who
:ely spiritual
)m the tem-
)ugh we may-
It is a great
re I can go
Tyndal, and
es, ^Ir. Grant
mind at this
n priests. I
IS not in the
low to make
andel on the
that Handel
that by his
etting among

len I told the
not to have
a few gnats
m, and so bolt
rr is difficult,
guidance to

CALONICO.

271

my cousins the lower animals, whose unsophisticated
nature proclaims what God has taught them with
a directness we may sometimes study, I find the
plover lying when slie lures us from her young ones
under the fiction of a broken wing. Is God angry,
think you, with this pretty deviation from the letter
of strict accuracy ? or was it not He who whispered to
her to tell the falsehood — to tell it with a circumstance,
without conscientious scruple, not once only, but to
make a practice of it so as to be a plausible, habitual,
and professional liar for some six weeks or so in the
year ? I imagine so. When I was young I used to
read in good books that it was God who taught tlie
bird to make her nest, and if so He probably taught
each species the otlier domestic arrangements best
suited to it. Or did the nest-building information
come from God, and was there an evil one among the
birds also who taught them at any rate to steer clear
of priggishness ?

Think of the spider again — an ugly creature, but I
suppose God likes it. What a mean and odious lie
is that web which naturalists extol as such a marvel
of ingenuity !

Once on a summer afternoon in a far country I met
one of those orchids who make it their business to
imitate a fly with their petals. This lie they dispose
so cunningly that real flies, thinking the honey is
being already plundered, pass them without molesting
them. Watching intently and keeping very still, me-
tlioiight I heard this orchid speaking to the offspring
which she felt within her, though I saw them not.
" My children," she exclaimed, " I must soon leave
you ; think upon the fly, my loved ones, for this is
truth ; cling to this great thought in your passage

272 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

:\ !

through life, for it is the one thing needful ; once lose
sight of it and you are lost ! " Over and over again
she sang this burden in a small still voice, and so I
left her. Then straightway I came upon some butter-
flies whose profession it was to pretend to believe in
all manner of vital truths which in their inner practice
they rejected ; thus, asserting themselves to be certain
other and \ateful butterflies which no bird will eat by
reason of their abominable smell, these cunning ones
conceal their own sweetness, and live long in the land
and see good days. I'^o : lying is so deeply rooted in
nature that we may expel it with a fork, and yet it
will always come back again : it is like the poor, we
must have it always with us. We must all eat a peck
of moral dirt before we die.

All depends upon who it is that is lying. One
man may steal a horse when another may not look
over a hedge. The good man who tells no lies wit-
tingly to himself and is never unkindly, may lie and
lie and lie whenever he chooses to other people, and
he will not be false to any man : his lies become truths
as they pass into the hearers' ear. If a man deceives
himself and is unkind, the truth is not in him ; it turns
to falsehood while yet in his mouth, like the quails in
the Wilderness of Sinai. How this is so or why, I
know not, but that the Lord hath mercy on whom He
will have mercy and whom He willeth He hardeneth.

My Italian friends are doubtless in the main right
about the priests, but there are many exceptions, as
they themselves gladly admit. For my own part I
have found the curato in the small subalpine villages
of North Italy to be more often than not a kindly
excellent man to whom I am attracted by sympathies
deeper than any mere superficial differences of opinion

once lose
)ver again
, and so I
lie butter-
believe in
er practice
be certain
will eat by
nning ones
Lu the lanci
y rooted in
and yet it
le poor, we
L eat a peck

ying. One
ly not look
no lies wit-
nay lie and
people, and
come truths
an deceives
m; it turns
le quails in
or why, I
n whom He
hardeneth.
main right
;ceptions, as
own part I
)ine villages
3t a kindly
sympathies
s of opinion

CALONICO.

273

can counteract. With monks, however, as a general
rule, I am less able to get on : nevertheless I have
received much courtesy at the hands of some.

My young friend the novice was delightful — only it
was so sad to think of the future that is before him.
He wanted to know all about England, and when I
told him it was an island, clasped his hands and said,
" Oh che Providenza ! " He told me how the other
young men of his own age plagued him as he trudged
his rounds high up among the most distant hamlets
begging alms for the poor. " Be a good fellow," they
would say to him, " drop all this nonsense and come
back to us, and we will never plague you again." Then
he would turn upon them and put their words from
him. Of course my sympathies were with the other
young men rather than with him, but it was impossible
not to be sorry for the manner in which he had been
humbugged from the day of his birth, till he was now
incapable of seeing things from any other standpoint
than that of authority.

What he said to me about knowing that Handel
was a Catholic by his music, put me in mind of what
another good Catholic once said to me about a picture.
He was a Frenchman and very nice, but a d^vot, and
anxious to convert me. He paid a few days' visit to
London, so I showed him the National Gallery. While
there I pointed out to him Sebastian del Piombo's
picture of the raising of Lazarus as one of the supposed
masterpieces of our collection. He had the proper
orthodox fit of admiration over it, and then we went
through the other rooms. After a while we found
ourselves before West's picture of " Christ healing the
Sick." My French friend did not, I suppose, examine
it very carefully, at any rate he believed he was again

•«««»

f"S I

274 EXTRACTii FR )M ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

before tlie raising Ot Lazarus by Sebastian del Piombo ;
he paused before it, and had his fit of admiration over
again : then turning to me he said, " Ah ! you would
understand tliis picture better if you were a Catholic."
I did not tell him of his mistake.

?7£S.

I Piombo ;

ation over

you would

Catholic."

( 275 )

PIORA*

(from chapter VI. OF ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.)

A N excursion which may be very well made from
■^ Faido is to the Val Piora, which I have already
more than once mentioned. There is a large hotel
here which has been opened some years, but has not
hitherto proved the success which it was hoped it would
be. I have stayed there two or three times and found
it very comfortable ; doubtless, now that Signer Lom-
bardi of the Hotel Prosa has taken it, it will become
a more popular place of resort.

I tool: a trap from Faido to Ambri, and thence
walked over to Quinto ; here the path begins to ascend,
and after an hour Eonco is reached. There is a house
at Ronco where refreshments and excellent Faido beer
can be had. The old lady who keeps the house would
make a perfect Fate ; I saw her sitting at her window
spinning, and looking down over the Ticino valley as
though it were the world and she were spinning its
destiny. She had a somewhat stern expression, thin
lips, iron-grey eyes, and an aquiline nose ; her scanty
locks strag'^led from under the handkerchief which
she wore round her head. Her employment and the
wistful far-away look she cast upon the expanse below
made a very fine ensemble. " She would have afforded,"

, * See p. 87 of this vol.

276 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

as Sir Walter Scott says, "a study for a Rembrandt,
had that celebrated painter existed at the period," ''*
but she must have been a smart-looking, handsome
girl once.

She brightened up in conversation. 1 talked about
Piora, which I already knew, and the Laf/o Tom, the
highest of the three lakes. She said she knew the
Laf/o Tom. I said laughingly, "Oh, I have no doubt
you do. We've had many a good day at the Lago
Tom, I know," She looked down at once.

In spite of her nearly eighty years she was active
as a woman of forty, and altogether she was a very
grand old lady. Her house is scrupulously clean.
While I watched her spinning, I thought of what
must so often occur to summer visitors. I mean what
sort of a look-out the old woman mu3t have in winter,
when the wind roars and whistles, and the snow drives
down the valley with a fury of which we in England
can have little conception. What a place to see a
snowstorm from ! and what a place from which to
survey the landscape next morning after the storm is
over and the air is calm and brilliant. There are such
mornings : I saw one once, but I was at the bottom
of the valley and not high up, as at Eonco, Eonco
would take a little sun even in midwinter, but at the
bottom of the valley there is no sun for weeks and
weeks together; all is in deep shadow below, though
the upper hill-sides may be seen to have the sun upon
them. I walked once on a frosty winter's morning
from Airolo to Giornico, and can call to mind nothing
in its way more beautiful: everything was locked in
frost — there was not a waterwheel but was sheeted
and coated with ice : the road was hard as granite —

* Ivanhoe, chap, xxiii., near the beginning.

ES.

ibrandt,
jriod," '"
mdsome

}d about
^om, the
new the
10 doubt
he Lago

IS active
I a very
y clean,
of what
3an what
1 winter,
»w drives
England
to see a
i^hich to
storm is
are such
bottom
Eonco
at the
eks and
though
un upon
morning
nothing
)cked in
sheeted
ranite —

PIORA.

277

all was quiet, and seen as through a dark but incredibly
transparent medium. Near I'iotta I met the whole
village dragging a large tree; there were many men
and women dragging at it, but they had to pull hard,
and they were silent ; as I passed them I thought
what comely, well-begotten people they were. Then,
looking up, there was a sky, cloudless and of the deep-
est blue, against which the snow-clad mountains stood
out splendidly. No one will regret a walk in these
valleys during t^ e depth of winter. But I should have
liked to have looked down from the sun into the sun-
lessness, as the old Fate woman at Eonco can do when
she sits in winter at her window ; or again, I should
like to see how things would look from this same
window on a leaden morning in midwinter after snow
has fallen heavily and the sky is murky and much
darker than the earth. When the storm is at its
height, the snow must search and search and search
even through the double windows with which the houses
are protected. It must rest upon the frames of the
pictures of saints, and of the sisters " grab," and of the
last hours of Count Ugolino, which adorn the walls of
the parlour. No wonder there is a S. Maria della
Ifeve — a " St. Mary of the Snow ; " but I do wonder
that she his not been painted.

I said this to an Italian once, and he said the reason
was probably this — that St. Mary of the Snow was not
developed till long after Italian art had begun to decline.
I suppose in another hundred years or so we shall have
a St. Maria delle Ferrovie — a St. Mary of the Eailways.

From Eonco the path keeps level and then descends
a little so as to cross the stream that comes down from
Piora. This is near the village of Altanca, the church
of which looks remarkably well from here. Then there

mmm

:l'f

^lil

r,!! t I

278 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

is an hour and a half's rapid ascent, and at last all on
a sudden one finds oneself on tlie Larjo Ritom, close to
the hotel.

The lake is ahout a mile, or a mile and a half, long,
and lialf a mile broad. It is 6000 feet above the sea,
very deep at the lower end, and does not freeze where
the stream issues from it, so that tlie magnificent trout
with which it abounds can get air and live through the
winter. In many other laivcs, as, for example, the Lwjo
di Tremorgio, they cannot do this, and hence perish,
though the lakes liave been repeatedly stocked. The
trout in the Lago Ritom are said to be the finest in
the world, and certaiidy I know none so fine myself.
They grow to be as large as moderate-sized salmon,
and have a deep-red flesh, very firm and full of flavour.
I had two cutlets off one for breakfast, and should have
said they were salmon unless I had known otherwise.
In winter, when the lake is frozen over, the people bring
their hay from the farther Lake of Cadagna in sledges
across the Lake Ilitom. Here, again, winter must be
worth seeing, but on a rough snowy day Piora must be
an awful place. Tliere are a few stunted pines near
the hotel, but the hillsides are for the most part bare
and green. Piora in fact is a fine breezy open upland
valley of singular beauty, and with a sweet atmosphere
of cow about it ; it is rich in rhododendrons and all
manner of Alpine flowers, just a trifle bleak, but as
bracing as the Engadine itself.

The first night I was ever in Piora there was a brilliant
moon, and the unruffled surface of the lake took the
reflection of the mountains. I could see the cattle a
mile off, and hear the tinkling of their bells which danced
multitudinously before the ear as fire-flies come and go
before the eyes ; for all through a fine summer's night

ES.

PIORA.

279

it nil on
close to

xlf, Ion J,',
the sea,
5e where
ont trout
ough the
the Latjo
3 perish,
;d. The
finest in
> myself.
. salmon,
»f flavour.
)uld have
)therwise.
»{)le bring
n sledges
must be
I must be
nes near
part bare
in upland
tnosphere
and all
c, but as

I brilliant
took the
cattle a
;h danced
ne and go
er's nisht

the cattle will feed as though it were day. A little
above the lake I came upon a man in a cave before a
furnace, burning lime, and he sat looking into the tire
with his back to the moonlight. He was a quiet moody
man, and I am afraid I bored him, for I could get liarJly
anything out of him but "Oh altro" — polite but not
communicative. So after a while I left him with his
face burnislied as with gold from the fire, and his back
silver with the moonbeams ; behind him were the pas-
tures and the reflections in the lake and the mountains
and tlie distant ringing of the cowbells.

Then I wandered on till I came to tlie chapel of S.
Carlo ; and in a few minutes found myself on the Lugo
di Cadagna. Here I heard that there were people,
and the people were not so nmch asleep as the simple
peasantry of these upland valleys are expected to be by
nine o'clock in the evening. For now was the time
when they had moved up from Konco, Altanca, and
other villages in some numbers to cut the hay, and were
living for a fortnight or three weeks in the chalets upon
the Lago di Cadagna. As I have said, there is a chapel,
but I doubt whether it is attended during this season
with the regularity with which the parish churches of
Eonco, Altanca, &c., are attended during the rest of the
year. The young people, I am sure, like these annual
visits to the high places, and will be hardly weaned
from them. Happily the hay will be always Jiere, and
will have to be cut by some one, and the old people will
send the young ones.

As I was thinking of these things, I found myself
going off into a doze, and thought the burnished man
from the furnace came up and sat beside me, and laid
his hand upon my shoulder. Then I saw the green
slopes that rise all round the lake were much higher

ri'

28c EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

than I had thought ; they went up thousands of feet,
and there were pine forests upon them, while two large
glaciers came down in streams that ended in a precipice
of ice. falling sheer into the lake. The edges of the
mountains against the sky were rugged and full of
clefts, through which I saw thick clouds of dust being
blown by the wind as though from the other side of
the mountains.

And as I looked^ I saw that this was not dust, but
people coming in crowds from the other side, but so
small as to be visible at first only as dust. And the
people became musicians, and the mountainous amphi-
theatre a huge orchestra, and the glaciers were two
noble armies of women-singers in white robcb, ranged
tier above tier behind each other, and the pines became
orchestral players, while the thick dust-like cloud of
chorus-singers kept pouring in through the clefts in
the precipices in inconceivable numbers. When I
turned my telescope upon them I saw they were
crowded up to the extreme edge of the mountains, so
that I could see underneath the soles of their boots
as their legs dangled in the air. In the midst of all,
a precipice that rose from out of the glaciers shaped
itself suddenly into an organ, and there was one whose
face I well knew sitting at the keyboard, smiling and
pluming himself like a bird as he thundered foi;h a
giant fugue by way of overture. I heard the great
pedal notes in the bass stalk majestically up and down,
as the rays of the Aurora that go about upon the
face of the heavens off the coast of Labrador. Then
presently the people rose and sang the chorus " Venus
Laughing from the Sicies ;" but ere the sound had well
died away, I awoke, and all was changed ; a light fleecy
cloud had filled the whole basin, but I still thought I

lES.

PI OR A.

281

is of feet,
two large
precipice
;es of the
d full of
ust being
sr side of

dust, but
.e, but so
And the
IS amphi-
ivere two
ifci, ranged
IS became
cloud of
clefts in
When I
ley were
iitains, 30
leir boots
[st of all,
rs shaped
ne whose
iling and
1 foih a
:he great
ad down,
ipon the
•. Then
\ "Venus
had well
jht fleecy
bought I

heard a sound of music, and a scampering-off of great
crowds from the part where the precipices should be.
After that I heard no more but a little singing from
the chalets, and turned homewards. When I got to
the chapel of S. Carlo, I was in the moonlight again,
and when near the hotel, I passed the man at the
mouth of the furnace with the moon still ffleamiii<T
upon his back, and the fire upon his face, and he was
very grave and quiet.

u ■

( 282 )

5. MICHELE AND MONTE PIRCHIRIANO.

(extracts from CIIArTERS VII. AND X. OF ALPS AND

SANCTUARIES.)

THE history of the sanctuary of S. Michele is briefly
as follows : —
At the close of the tenth century, when Otho III.
was Emperor of Germany, a certain Hugh de Mont-
boissier, a noble of Auvergne, commonly called " Hugh
the Unsewn " {lo sdriiscito), was commanded by the
Pope to found a monastery in expiation of some grave
offence. He chose for his site the summit of the
Monte Pirchiriano in the valley of Susa, being attracted
partly by the fame of a church already built th^re by
a recluse of Ilavenna, Giovanni Vincenzo by name,
and partly by tne striking nature of the situation.
Hugh de INIoutboissier, when returning from liome to
France with Isengarde his wife, would, as a ntatter of
course, pass through the valley of Susa. The two —
perhaps when stopping to dine at S. Ambrogio — would
look up and observe the church founded by Giovinnia
Yincenzo: they had got to build a monastery some-
where ; it would very likely, therefore, occur to them
that iliey could not perpetuate their names better than
by choosing this site, which was on a much-travelled
road, and on which a fine building would show to
advantage. If my view is correct, we have here an

S. MICHELE AND MONTE PIRCHIRIANO.

283

RIANO.
aPS AND

e is briefly

L Otho III.
I de Mont-
led " Hugh
ed by the
!ome grave
ait of the
g attracted
t tli^^re l'/
by name,
situation,
liorue to
. matter of
.'he two —
io — would
Giovannia
ery some-
r to them
letter than
i-travelled
1 show to
here an

illustration of a fact which is continually observable —
namely, that all things which come to much, wliether
they be books, buildings, pictures, music, or living
beings, are begotten of others of their own kind. It
is always the most successful, like Handel and Sliake-
speare, who owe most to their i'orerunners, in spite of
the modifications with which their works descend.

Giovanni Yincenzo had built his church about the
year 987. It is maintained by some that he had been
bishop of Eavenna, but Clareta gives sufficient reason
for tldnking otherwise. In the " Cronaca Clu^na" it
is said that lie had for some years previously lived as
a recluse on the Monte Caprasio, to the north of the
present Monte Piichiriano ; but that one night he
had a vision, in which he saw the summit of Monte
Pirchiriano enveloped in heaven-descended flames,
and on this founded a church there, and dedicated it
to S. Michael. This L the origin of the name Pir-
chiriano, which means irvp Kvplavo^, or the Lord's fire.

Avogadro is among those who make Giovanni
Bishop, or rather Archbishoj), of Ravenna, and gives
the following account of the circumstances which led
to his resigning his diocese and going i(^ live at the
top of the inhospitable Monte Caprasio. It sterns
there had been a confirmation at Eavenna, during
which he had accidentally forgotten to confirm the
child of a certain widow. The child, being in weakly
health, died before Giovanni could repair his oversight,
and this preyed upon his mind. In answer, however,
to his earnest prayers, it pleased the Almighty ; v. oive
him power to raise the d( ad child to life again ; this
he did, and having immediately performed the rite of
confirmation, restored the boy to his overjoyed mother.
He now became so much revered that he besan to be

284 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

alarmed lest pride should obtain dominion over him ;
he felt, therefore, that his only course was to resign
his diocese, and go and live the life of a recluse on the
top of some high mountain. It is said that he suffered
agonies of doubt as to whether it was not selfish of him
to take such care of his own eternal welfare, at the ex-
pense of that of his flock, whom no successor could so
well guide and guard from evil ; but in the end he
took a reasonable view of the matter, and concluded
that his first duty was to secure his own spiritual posi-
tion. Nothing short of the top of a very uncomfort-
able mountain could do this, so he at once resigned his
bishopric and chose Monte Caprasio as on the whole
the most comfortable uncomfortable mountain he could
find.

The latter part of the story will seem strange to
Englishmen. We can hardly fancy the Archbishop of
Canterbury or York resigning his diocese and settling
down quietly on the top of Scafell or Cader Idris to
secure his eternal welfare. They would hardly do so
even on the top of Primrose Hill. But nine hundred
years ago human nature was not the same as now-a-
days.

I '!M

Comparing our own clergy with the best North
Italian and Ticinese priests, I should say there was
little to choose between them. The latter are in a
logically stronger position, and this gives them greater
courage in their opinions ; the former have the ad-
vantage in respect of money, and the more varied
knowledge of the world which money will command.
When I say Catholics have logically the advantage
over Protestants, I mean that starting fiom premises
which both sides admit, a merely logical Protestant

RIES.

over him ;

to resign
use on the
le suffered
fish of him
, at the ex-
)r could so
the end he

concluded
[•itual posi-
uncomfort-
esigned his

the whole
n he could

strange to
jhbishop of
Lnd settling
Idris to
irdly do so
le hundred

as now-a-

)est North
there was
are in a
em greater
re the ad-
ore varied

command.

advantage
a premises

Protestant

S, MICHELE AND MONTE PIRCHIRIANO.

285

will find himself driven to the Church of Eome. Most
men as they grow older will, I think, feel this, and they
will see in it the explanation of the comparatively
narrow area over which the Reformation extended, and
of the gain which Catholicism has made of late years
here in England. On the other hand, reasonable
people will look with distrust upon too much reason.
The foundations of action lie deeper than reason can
reach. They rest on faith — for there is no absolutely
certain incontrovertible premise which can be laid by
man, any more than there is any investment for money
or security in the daily affairs of life which is absolutely
unimpeachable. The Funds are not absolutely safe ;
a volcano might break out under the Bank of England.
A railway journey is not absolutely safe ; one person
at least in several millions gets killed. We invest
our money upon faith, mainly. We choose our doctor
upon faith, for how little independent judgment can we
form concerning his capacity ? We choose schools for
our children chiefly upon faith. The most important
things a man has are his body, his soul, and his money.
It is generally better for him to commit these interests
to the care of others of whom he can know little, rather
than be his own medical man, or invest his money on
his own judgment; and this is nothing else than
making a faith which lies deeper than reason can reach,
the basis of our action in those respects w^hich touch
us most nearly.

On the other hand, as good a case could be made out
for placing reason as the foundation, inasmuch as it
would be easy to show that a faith, to be worth any-
thing, must be a reasonable one — one, that is to say,
which is based upon reason. The fact is that faith and
reason are like function and organ, desire and power, or

' "I'i

ill

■ (
I

•"ii

. ^l;

1 if

'^ii'U

'•I'M 'il

' ! ;;

1' !

I. I

2S6 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

demand and supply ; it is impossible to say which comes
first : they come up hand in hand, and are so small when
we can first descry them, that it is impossible to say which
we first caught sight of. All we can now see is that each
has a tendency continually tooutstrip the other bya little,
but by a very little only. Strictly they are not two
things, but two aspects of one thing ; for convenience'
sake, however, we classify them separately.

It follows, therefore — but whether it follows or no,
it is certainly true — that neither faith alone nor reason
alone is a sufficient guide : a man's safety lies neither
in faith nor reason, but in temper — in the power of
fusing faith and reason, even when they appear most
mutually destructive.

Tiiat we al' feel temner to be the first thing is plain
from the fact that when we see two men quarrelling we
seldom even try to weigh their arguments — we look
instinctively at the tone or spirit or temper which the
two display and give our verdict accordingly.'

A man of temper will be certain in spite of uncer-
tainty, and at the same time uncertain in spite of cer-
tainty ; reasonable in spite of his resting mainly upon
faith rather than reason, and full of faith even when
appealing most strongly to reason. If it is asked. In
what should a man have faith ? To what faith should
he turn when reason has led him to a conclusion which
he distrusts ? the answer is, To the current feeling
among those whom he most looks up to — looking upon
himself With suspicion if he is either among the fore-
most or the laggers. In the rough, homely common
sense of the community to which we belong we have as
firm ground as can be got. This, though not absolutely
infallible, is secure enough for practical purposes.

As I have said. Catholic priests have rather a fascina-

RIES.

S. MICHELE AND MONTE PIRCHIRIANO.

287

hich comes
jmall when
3 say which
is that each
r by a little,
:e not two
Dnveuience'

lows or no,
nor reason
lies neither
le power of
ippear most

ing is plain
arrelling we
;s — we look
r which the

of uncer-
jite of cer-
laiuly upon
even when
is asked, In
ith should
ision which
■etit feeling
ok ing upon
g the fore-
ly common
we have as

absolutely
■poses.

v a fascina-

tion for me — when they are not Englishmen. I should
say that the best "N"orth Italian priests are more openly
tolerant than our English clergy generally are. I re-
member picking up one who was walking along a road,
and giving him a Uft in my trap. Of course we fell
to talking, and it came out that I was a member of
the Church of England. " Ebbene, Caro Signore," said
he when we shook hands at parting ; " mi rincresce
che lei non crede come io, ma in questi tempi non
possiamo avere tutti i medesimi principii."*

The one thing, he said, which shocked him with
the English, was the manner in which they went
about distributing tracts upon the Continent. I said
no one could deplore the practice more profoundly
than myself, but that there were stupid and conceited
people in every country, who would insist upon thrust-
ing their opinions upon people who did not want them.
He replied that the Italians travelled not a little in
England, but that he was sure not one of them would
dream of offering Catholic tracts to people, for example,
in the streets of London. Certainly I have never seen
an Italian to be guilty of such rudeness. It seems to
me that it is not only toleration that is a duty ; we
ought to go beyond this now ; we should conform,
when we are among a sufficient number of those who
would not understand our refusal to do so ; any other
course is to attach too much importance at once to our
own opinions and to those of our opponents. By all
means let a man stand by his convictions when the
occasion requires, but let him reserve his strength,
unless it is imperatively called for. Do not let him

* " Well, my dear sir, I am sorry you do not think as I do, but in
these days we cannot all of us start with the same principles."

i;' 1 i

i> 1

• Hi

III

I I

Pi tl

"■'»

■!!!i !

f t

288 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

exaggerate trifles, and let him remember that everything
is a trifle in comparison with the not giving offence to
a large number of kindly, simple-minded people. Evolu-
tion, as we all know, is the great doctrine of modern
times ; the very essence of evolution consists in the not
shocking anything too violently, but enabling it to mis-
take a new action for an old one, without "making
believe " too much.

One day when I was eating my lunch near a fountain,
there came up a moody, meditative hen, crooning plain-
tively after her wont. I threw her a crumb of bread
while she was still a good way off, and then threw
more, getting her to come a little closer and a little
closer each time ; at last she actually took a piece from
my hand. She did not quite like it, but she did it.
" A very little at a time," this is the evolution principle ;
and if we wish those who differ from us to understand
us, it is the only method to proceed upon. I have
sometimes thought that some of my friends among the
priests have been treating me as I treated the medita-
tive hen. But what of that ? They will not kill and
eat me, nor take my eggs. Whatever, therefore, pro-
motes a more friendly feeling between us must be pure
gain.

• ••••••

Sometimes priests say things, as a matter of course,
which would make any English clergyman's hair stand
on end. At one town there is a remarkable fourteenth-
century bridge, commonly known as "The Devil's
Bridge." I was sketching near this when a jolly old
priest with a red nose came up and began a conversa-
tion with me. He was evidently a popular character,
for every one who passed greeted him. He told me
that the devil did not really build the bridge. I said

it
ARIES.

S. MICHELE AND MONTE PIRCHIRIANO.

289

, everythinf;
g offence to
pie. Evolu-
of modern
:3 in the not
12 it to mis-
lit "making

ir a fountain,
loning plain-
mb of bread
then threw
and a little
a piece from
■j she did it.
on principle ;
understand
Dn. I have
s among the
the medita-
not kill and
erefore, pro-
nust be pure

,er of course,
s hair stand

fourteenth-
The Devil's
a a jolly old

a conversa-
ar character,

He told me
ige. I said

I presumed not, for he was not in the habit of spending
his time so well.

" I wish he had built it," said my friend ; " for then
perhaps he would build us some more."

•■' Or we might even get a church out of him," said
I, a little slyly.

" Ha, ha, ha ! we will convert hira, and make a
good Christian of him in the end."

When will our Protestantism, or Eationalism, or
whatever it may be, sit as lightly upon ourselves ?

Another time I had the following dialogue with an
old Piedmontese priest who lived in a castle which I
asked permission to go over : —

" Vous etes Anglais, monsieur ? " said he in French.

"Oui, monsieur."

" Vous etes Catholique ? "

" Monsieur, je suis de la religion de mes ancetres."

" Pardon, monsieur, vos ancetres etaient Catholiques
jusqu'au temps de Henri Huit."

" Mais il y a trois cents ans depuis le temps de
Henri Huit."

" Eh bien ; chacun a ses convictions ; vous ne parlez
pas centre la religion ? "

" Jamais, jamais, monsieur, j'ai un respect enorme
pour I'dglise Catholique."

"Monsieur, faites comme chez vous; allez ou vous
voulez ; vous trouverez toutes les portes ouvertes.
Amuse?- vous bien."

( 290 )

' 'li

h '

! I

"ill

■jii

CONSIDERATIONS ON THE DECLINE OF
ITALIAN ART.

(from chapter XIII. OF ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.)

THOSE who know the Italians will see no sign of
decay about them. They are the quickest- witted
people in the world, and at the same time have much
more of the old Eoman steadiness than they are gene-
rally credited with. Not only is there no sign of
degeneration, but, as regards practical matters, there is
every sign of health and vigorous development. The
North Italians are more like Englishmen, both in body
and mind, than any other people whom I know ; I am
continually meeting Italians whom I should take for
Englishmen if I did not know their nationality. They
have all our strong points, but they have more grace
and elasticity of mind than we have.

Priggishness is the sin which doth most easily beset
middle-class, and so-called educated Englishmen; we
call it purity and culture, but it does not much matter
what we call it. It is the almost inevitable outcome
of a university education, and will last as long as Oxford
and Cambridge do, but not much longer.

Lord Beaconsfield sent Lothair to Oxford ; it is with
great pleasure that I see he did not send Endymion.
My friend Jones called my attention to this, and we
noted that the growth observable throughout Lord
Beaconsfi eld's life was continued to the end. He was

' ' liiii

JNE OF

rUARlES.)

3 no sign of
Lckest-witted
3 have much
ey are gene-

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

291

no sign of
iters, there is
Dment. The
both in body
know ; I am
luld take for

ality. They
more grace

easily beset
ishmen; we
much matter
ible outcome

2 as Oxford

d ; it is with
i Endymion.
this, and we
ighout Lord
id. He was

one of those who, no matter how long he lived, would
have been always growing : this is what makes his later
novels so much better than those of Thackeray or
Dickens. There was something of the child about him
to the last. Earnestness was his greatest danger, but
if he did not quite overcome it (as who indeed can ?
It is the last enemy that shall be subdued), he man-
aged to veil it with a fair amount of success. As for
Endymion, of course if Lord Boaconsfield had thought
Oxford would be good for him, he could, as Jones
pointed out to me, just as well have killed Mr. Ferrars
a year or two later. We feel satisfied, therefore, that
Endymion's exclusion from, a university was carefully
considered, and are glad.

I will not say that priggishness is absolutely un-
known among the North Italians ; sometimes one comes
upon a young Italian who wants to learn German, but
not often. Priggism, or whatever the substantive is,
is as essentially a Teutonic vice as holiness is a Semitic
cliaracteristic ; and if an Italian happens to be a
prig, he will, like Tacitus, invariably show a hanker-
ing after German institutions. The idea, however,
that the Italians were ever a finer people than they
"are now, will not pass muster with those who knew
them.

At the same time, there can be no doubt that modern
Italian art is in many respects as bad as it was once
good. I will confine myself to painting only. The
modern Italian painters, with very few exceptions, paint
as badly as we do, or even worse, and their motives are
as poor as is their painting. At an exhibition of modern
Italian pictures, I generally feel that there is hardly a
picture on the walls but is a sham — that is to say,
painted not from love of this particular subject and an

lii

292 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

irrcsistiblo desire to paint it, but from a wish to paint
an academy picture, and win money or applause.

The last rays of the sunset of genuine art are to be
found in the votive pictures at Locarno or Oropa, and
in many a wayside chapel. In these, religious art still
lingers as a living language, however rudely spoken.
In these alone is the story told, not as in the Latin and
Greek verses of the schoLir, who thinks he has suc-
ceeded best when he has most concealed his natural
manner of expressing himself, but by one who knows
what he wants to say, and says it in his mother-tongue,
shortly, and without caring whether or not his words
are in accordance with academic rules. I regret to see
photography being introduced for votive purposes, and
also to detect in some places a disposition on the part
of the authorities to be a little ashamed of these pictures
and to place them rather out of sight.

The question is, how has the falling-off in Italian
painting been caused ? And by doing what may we
again get Bellinis and Andrea Mantegnas as in old
time ? The fault does not lie in any want of raw
material : nor yet does it lie in want of taking pains.
The modern Italian painter frets himself to the full as
much as his predecessor did — if the truth were known,'
probably a great deal more. I am sure Titian did not
take much pains after he was more than about twenty
years old. It does not lie in want of schooling or art
education. For the last three hundred years, ever since
the Caraccis opened their academy at Bologna, there
has been no lack of art education in Italy. Curiously
enough, the date of the opening of the Bolognese
Academy coincides as nearly as may be with the com-
plete decadence of Italian painting. The academic
system trains boys to study other people's works rather

RIES.

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

293

ill to paint
ause.

b are to be
Oropa, and
us art still
2ly spoken.
3 Latin and
e has suc-
liis natural
who knows
her-tongue,
b his words
•egret to see
irposes, and
on the part
lese pictures

f in Italian
lat may we
3 as in old
^ant of raw
iking pains.
) the full as
vere known,'
tian did not
bout twenty
Doling or art
■s, ever since
•logna, there
Curiously
3 Bolognese
ith the com-
le academic
yorks rather

than nature, and, as Leonardo da Vinci so well says, it
makes them nature's grandchildren and not her children.
This I believe is at any rate half the secret of the whole
matter.

If half-a-dozen young Italians could be got together
with a taste for drawing ; if tliey had power to add to
their number ; if they were allowed to see paintings
and drawings done up to the year a.d. 1 5 10, and
votive pictures and the comic papers ; if they were
left with no other assistance than this, absolutely free
to please themselves, and could be persuaded not to
try and please any one else, I believe that in fifty
years we should have all that was ever done repeated
with fresh naivet(5, and as much more delightfully
than even by the best old masters, as these are more
delightful than anything we know of in classic painting.
The young plants keep growing up abundantly every
day — look at Bastianini, dead not ten years since —
but they are browsed down by the academies. I
remember there came out a book many years ago with
the title, " What becomes of all the clever little
children ? " I never saw the book, but the title is
pertinent.

Any man who can write, can draw to a not incon-
siderable extent. Look at the Bayeux tapestry ; yet
Matilda probably never had a drawing lesson in her
life. See how well prisoner after prisoner in the
Tower of London has cut out this or that in the stone
of his prison wall, without, in all probability, having
ever tried his hand at drawing before. Look at my
friend Jones, who has several illustrations in this book."''
The first year he went abroad with me he could hardly
draw at all. He was no year away from England more

* For these I must refer the reader to Alps and Sanctuaries itself.

hi!

294 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

than three weeks. How did he lean ? On the old
principle, if I am not mistaken. The old principle
Wf 3 for a man to be doing something which he was
pretty strongly bent on doing, and to get a much
younger one to help him. The younger paid nothing
for instruction, but the elder took the work, as long as
the relation of master and pupil existed between them.
I, then, was making illustrations for this book, and got
Jones to help me. I let him see what I was doing,
and derive an idea of the sort of thing I wanted, and
then left him alone — beyond giving him the same kind
of small criticism that I expected from himself — but I
appropriated his work. That is the way to teach, and
the result was that in an incredibly short time Jones
could draw. The taking the work is a sine qud non.
If I had not been going to have his work, Jones, in
spite of all his quickness, would probably have been
rather slower in learning to draw^. Being paid in
money is nothing like so good.

This is the system of apprenticeship versus the aca-
demic system. The academic system consists in giving
people the rules for doing things. The apprenticeship
system consists in letting them d*.- it, with just a trifle
of supervision. " For all a rhetorician's rules," says
my great namesake, "teach nothing but, to name his
tools ; " and academic rules generally are much the
same as the ihetorician's. Some men can pass through
academies unscathed, but they are very few, and in the
main the academic influence is a baleful one, whether
exerted in a university or a school. While young men
at universities are being prepared for their entry into
life, their rivals have already entered it. The most
university and examination ridden people in the world
are the Chinese, and they are the least progressive.

IRIES.

3n the old
1 principle
ich he was
it a much
id nothing

as long as
tveen them,
ok, and got
was doing,
anted, and

same kind
self — but I

teach, and
:ime Jones
X qiid non.
:, Jones, in
have been
ig paid in

IS the aca-
3 in giving
renticeship
ubt a trifle
lies," says
name his
much the
ss through
md in the
3, whether
'■Qung men
entry into
The most
the world
essive.

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

295

Men should learn to draw as they learn convey-
ancing : they should go into a painter's studio and
painl; on his pictures. I am told that half the con-
veyances in the country are drawn by pupils ; there
is no more mystery about painting than about convey-
ancing — not half in fact, I should think, so much.
One may ask. How can the beginner paint, or draw
conveyances, till he has learnt how to do so ? The
answer is, How can he learn, without at any rate
trying to do ? It is the old story, organ and function,
power and desire, demand and supply, faith and reason,
etc., the most virtuous action and interaction in the
most vicious circle conceivable. If the beginner likes
his subject, he will try : if he tries, he will soon succeed
in doing something which shall open a door. It does
not matter what a man does ; so long as he does it
with the attention which affection engenders, he will
come to see his way to something else. After long
waiting he will certainly find one door open, and go
through it. He will say to himself that he can never
find another. He has found this, more by luck than
cunning, but now he is done. Yet by and by he will
see that there is one more small unimportant door
which he had overlooked, and he proceeds through this
too. If he remains now for a long while and sees no
other, do not let him fret ; doors are like the kingdom
of heaven, they come not by observation, least of all
do they come by forcing: let him just go on doing
what comes nearest, but doing it attentively, and a
great wide door will one day spring into existence
where there had been no sign of one but a little time
previously. Only let him be always doing something,
and let him cross himself now and again, for belief in
the wondrous efficacy of crosses and crossing is the

296 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

/til ,

M .

I ti

(joriier-stone of the creed of the evolutionists. Then
after years — but not probably till after a great many
— doors will open up all around, so many and so wide
that the difliculty will not be to find a door, but rather
to obtain the means of even hurriedly surveying a
portion of thope that stand invitin;4ly open.

I know that just as good a case can be made out
for the other side. It may be said as truly that unless
a student is incessantly on the watch for doors he will
never see them, and that unless he is incessantly press-
ing forwm-J to the kingdom of heaven he will never
find it — so that the kingdom does come by observation.
It is with this as with everything else — there must be
a harmonious fusing of two principles which are in flat
contradiction to one another.

The question of whether it is better to abide quiet
and take advantage of opportunities that come, or to
go farther afield in search of them, is one of the oldest
which living beings have had to deal with. It was on
this that the first great schism or heresy arose in what
was heretofore the catholic faith of protoplasm. The
schism still lasts, and has resulted in two great sects
— animals and plants. The opinion that it is better
to go in "earch of prey is formulated in animals ; the
other — that it is better on the whole to stay at home
and profit by what comes — in plants. Some inter-
mediate forms still record to us the long struggle dur-
ing which the schism was not yet complete.

If I may be pardoned for pursuing this digression
further, I woul i say that it is the plants and not we
who are the heretics. There can be no question about
this ; we are perfectly justified, therefore, in devouring
them. Ours is the original and orthodox belief, for
protoplasm is much more animal than vegetable ; it is

'ARIES.

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

297

lists. Then
great many
and so wide
:•, but rather
surveying a

je made out
tliat unless
oors he will
lantly press-
! will never
observation,
ere must be
Li are in flat

abide quiet
come, or to
f the oldest
It was on
ose in what
lasm. The
great sects
it is better
limals ; the
ay at home
iome inter-
ruggle dur-

digression
nid not we
stion about
L devouring

belief, for
;able ; it is

much more true to say that plants have descended from
animals than animals from plants. Nevertlieless, like
many other heretics, plants have thriven very fairly
well. There are a great many of ihc.m, and as regards
beauty, if not wit — of a limited kind indeed, but still
wit — it is hard to say that the animal kingdom has
the advantage. Tiie views of plants are sadly narrow ;
all dissenters are narrow-minded ; but within their own
bounds they Vnow the details of their business suffi-
ciently well — as well as though they kept the most
nicely-balanced system of accounts to show them their
position. They are eaten, it is true ; to eat them is
our intolerant and bigoted way of trying to convert
them : eating is only a violent mode of proselytising
or converting ; and we do convert them — to good
animal substance, of our own way of thinking. If we
have had no trouble with them, we say they have
" agreed " with us ; if we have been unable to make
them see things from our points of view, we say they
" disagree " with us, and avoid being on more than
distant terms with them for the future. If we have
helped ourselves to too much, we say we have got more
than we can " manage." But then, animals are eaten
too. They convert one another, almost as much as
they convert plants. And an animal is no sooner dead
than a plant will convert it back again It is obvious,
however, that no schism could have been so long success-
ful, without having a good deal to say for itself.

Neither party has been quite consistent. Who ever
is or can be ? Every extreme — every opinion carried
to its logical end — will prove to be an absurdity.
Plants throw out roots and boughs and leaves : this is
a kind of locomotion ; and as Dr. Erasmus Darwin
long since pointed out, they do sometimes approach

I li

! 1^

M I

■I '1

298 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

nearly to what may be called travelling ; a man of con-
sistent character will never look at a bough, a root,
or a tendril witl.out regarding it as a melancholy and
unprincipled compromise. On the other hand, many
animals are sessile, and some singularly successful
ganera, as spiders, are in tlie main liers-in-wait. It
may appear, however, on the wliole, like reopening a
settled question to uphold the principle of being busy
and attentive over a small area, rather than going to
and fro over a larger one, for a mammal like man,
but I think most readers will be with me in thinking
tliat, at any rate as regards art and literature, it is he
who does his small immediate work most carefully who
will find doors open most certainly to him, that will
conduct him into the richest chambers.

Many years ago, in New Zealand, I used sometimes
to accompany a dray and team of bullocks who would
have to be turned loose at night that they might feed.
There vrcrc no hedges or fenof « then, so sometimes I
could not find my team in the morning, and had no
clue to the direction in which they had gone. At first
I used to try and throw my soul into the buUock-j'
souls, so as to divine if possible what they would be
likely to have done, and would then ride off ten miles
in the wrong direction. People used in those days to
lose their bullocks sometimes lor a week or fortnight
— when they perhaps were all the time hiding in a
gully hard by the place where they were turned out.
After some time I changed my tactics. On losing my
bullocks I would go to the nearest accommodation
house, and stand drinks. Some one would ere long, as
a general rule, turn up who had aeen the bullocks. This
case does not go quite on all fours with what I have
been saying above, inasmuch as I ' 'as not very iudus-

RIES.

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

299

an of con-
;li, a root,
icholy and
ind, many
successful
-wait. It
opeiiing a
)eing busy
11 going to
like man,
1 thinking
'e, it is he
sfully who
, that will

sometimes
^ho would
light feed,
netimes I
d had no
At first

bullock'-j'

would be

ten miles

3e days to

fortnight
iing in a
rned out.
losing my
imodation
:e long, as
:!ks. This
at I have
jry indus-

trious in my limited area ; but the standing drinks and
inquiring was being as industrious as the circumstances
would allow.

To return, universities and academies are an obstacle
to the finding of doors in later life ; partly because they
push their young men too fast through doorways that
the universities have provided, and so discourage the
habit of being on the look-out for others ; and partly
because they do not take j)ains enough to make sure
that their doors are bond fide ones. If, to change the
metaplior, an academy has taken a bad shilling, it is
seldom very scrupulous about trying to pass it on. It
will stick to it that the shilling is a good one as long
as the police will let it. I was very happy at Cam-
bridge ; when I left it I thought I never again could
be so happy anywhere else ; I shall ever retain a most
kindly recollection both of Cambridge and of the
school where I passed my boyhood ; but I feel, as I
think most others must in middle life, that I have
spent as much of my maturer years in unlearning as
in learning.

The proper course is for a boy to begin the prac-
tical business of life many years earlier than he now
commonly does. He should begin at the very bottom
of a profession ; if possible of one which his family
has pursued before him — for the professions will as-
suredly one day become hereditary. The i'leal railway
director will have begun at fourteen as a railway porter.
He need not be a porter for more than a week or ten
days, any more than he need have been a tadpole more
than a short time ; but he should take a turn in prac-
tice, though briefly, at each of the lower branches in
the profession. The painter should do just the same.
He should begin by setting his employer's palette and

300 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

cleanincj his brushes. As for the good side of univer-
sities, the proper preservative of this is to be found in
the club.

If, then, we are to have a renaissance of art, there
must be a complete standing aloof from Ihe academic
system. That system has had time enough. Where
and who are its men ? Can it point to one painter
who can hold his own witli the men of, say, from
1450 to 1550? Academies will bring out men who
can paint hair very like hair, and eyes very like eyes,
but this is not enough. This is grammar and deport-
ment; we want wit and a kindly nature, and these
cannot be got from academies. As far as mere technique
is concerned, almost every one now can paint as well
as is in the least desirable. The same mutatis mutandis
holds good with writing as with painting. "We want
less word-painting and fine phrases, and more observa-
tion at first-hand. Let us have a periodical illustrated
by people who cannot draw, and written by people
who cannot write (perhaps, however, after all, we have
some), but who look and think for themselves, and ex-
press themselves just as they please, — and this we
certainly have not. Every contributor should be at
once turned out if he or she is generally believed to
have tried to do something which he or she did not
care about trying to do, and anything should be
admitted which is the outcome of a genuine liking.
People are always good company when they are doing
what they really enjoy. A cat is good company when
it is purring, or a dog when it is wagging its tail.

The sketching-clubs up and down the country might
form the nucleus of such a society, provided all pro-
fessional men were rigorously excluded. As for the
old masters, the better plan would be never even to

IRIES.

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

;oi

of univer-
)e found in

'. art, there
3 academic
ii. Where
•ne painter

say, from
b men who

like eyes,
nd deport-

and these
[•e technique
int as well
s mutandis

We want
'e observa-
illustrated
by people
.1, we have
3s, and ex-
d this we
luld be at
elieved to
e did not
should be
ine liking.

are doino:
)any when
3 tail,
itry might
i all pro-
lS for the
r even to

look at one of them, and to consign Eaffaelle, along
with Plato, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Dante, Goethe,
and two others, neither of them Englishmen, to limbo,
as the Seven Humbugs of Christendom.

While we are about it, let us leave off talking about
" art for art's sake." Who is art, that it should have
a sake ? A work of art should be produced for the
pleasure it gives the producer, and the pleasure he
thinks it will give to a few of whom he is fond ; but
neither money nor people whom he does not know
personally should be thouglit of. Of course such a
society as I have proposed would not remain incorrupt
long. " Everything that grows, holds in perfection
but a little moment." The members would try to
imitate professional men in spite of their rules, or, if
they escaped this and after a while got to paint well,
they would become dogmatic, and a rebellion against
their authority would be as necessary ere long as it
was against that of their predecessors : but the balance
on the whole would be to the good.

Professional men should be excluded, if for no other
reason yet for this, that they know too much for the
beginner to be en rapport with them. It is the beginner
who can help the beginner, as it is the child who is
the most instructive companion for another child. The
beginner can understand the beginner, but the cross
between him and the proficient performer is too wide
for fertility. It savours of impatience, and is in flat
contradiction to the first principles of biology. It
does a beginner positive harm to look at the master-
pieces of the great executionists, such as Eembrandt
or Turner.

If one is climbing a very high mountain which will

■

BMthoTeD.

;il|i

ill

I .1*

302 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

tax all one's strength, nothing fatigues so much as
casting upward glances to the top ; nothing encourages
so much as casting downward glances. The top seems
never to draw nearer ; the parts that we have passed
retreat rapidly. Let a water-colour student go and see
the drawing by Turner in the basement of our National
Gallery, dated 1787. This is the sort of thing for him,
not to copy, but to look at for a minute or two now
and again. It will shov/ him nothing about painting,
but it may serve to teach him not to overtax his
strength, and will prove to him that the greatest
masters in painting, as in everything else, begin by
doing work which is no way superior to that of their
neighbours. A collection of the earliest known works
of the greatest men would be much more useful to the
student than any number of their raaturer works, for
it would show him that he need not worry himself
because his work does not look clever, or as silly people
say, " show power."

The secrets of success are affection for the pursuit
chosen, a flat refusal to be hurried or to pass anything
as understood which is not understood, and an obstinacy
of character which shall make the student's friends find
it less trouble to let him have his own way than to
bend him into theirs. Our schools and academies or
universities are covertly but essentially radical insti-
tutions, and abhorrent to the genius of Conservatism.
Their sin is the true radical sin of being in too great a
hurry, and the natural result has followed, they waste
far more time than they save. But it must be
remembered that this proposition like every other
wants tempering with a slight infusion of its direct
opposite.

I said in an early part of this book that the best

ARIES.

much as
encourages
3 top seems
lave passed
: go and see
ur National
ng for him,
or two now
it painting,
overtax his
tie greatest
J, begin by
lat of their
own works
ieful to the
' works, for
Ty himself
silly people

he pursuit
IS anything
a obstinacy
Tiends find
ly than to
ademies or
iical insti-
iservatism.
too great a
they waste

must be
/ery other

its direct

ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART.

303

test to know whether or no one likes a picture is to
ask oneself whether one would like to look at it if one
was quite sure one was alone. The best test for a
painter as to whether he likes painting his picture is
to ask himself whether he should like to paint it if he
was quite sure that no one except himself, and the few
of whom he was very fond, would ever see it. If he
can answer this question in the afRrmative, he is all
right ; if he cannot, he is all wrong.

I must reserve other remarks upon this subject for
another occasion.

t the best

( 304 )

iifh

If'

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

(from chapters XV. AND XVI. OF ALPS AND
SANCTUARIES.)

THP] morning after our arrival at Biella, we took the
daily diligence for Oropa, leaving Biella at eight
o'clock. Before we were clear of the town we could
see the long line of the hospice, and the chapels dotted
about near it, high up in a valley at some distance off ;
presently we were shown another fine building some
eight or n .le miles away, which we were told was the
spnctuary of Graglia. About this time the pictures
and statuettes of the Madonna began to change their
liue and to become black — for the sacred image of
Oropa being black, all the Madonnas in her immediate
neighbourhood are of the same complexion. Under-
neath some of them is written, " Nigra sum sed sum
formosa," which, as a rule, was more true as regards
the first epithet than the second.

It was not market-day, but streams of people were
coming to the town. Many of them were pilgrims
returning from the sanctuary, but more were bringing
the produce of t^eir farms or the work of their hands
for sale. We had to face a steady stream of chairs,
which were coming to town in baskets upon women's
heads. Each basket contained twelve chairs, though
whether it is correct to say that the basket contained

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

305

the chairs — when the chairs were all, so to say, froth
running over the top of the basket — is a point I can-
not settle. Certainly we had never seen anything like
so many chairs before, and felt almost as though we
had surprised nature in the laboratory wherefrom she
turns out the chair-supply of the world. The road
continued through a snccession of villages almost run-
ning into one another for a long way alter Liella was
passed, but everywhere we noticed the same air of
busy thriving industry which we had seen in Biella
itself. We noted also that a preponderance of the
people had light hair, while that of the children was
frequently nearly white, as though the infusion of
German blood was here stronger even than usual.
Though so thickly peopled, the country was of great
beauty. Near at hand were the most exquisite pastures
close shaven after their second mowing, gay with
autumnal crocuses, and shaded with stately chestnuts ;
beyond were rugged mountains, in a combe on one of
which we saw Oropa itself now gradually nearing;
behind, and below, many villages, with vineyards and
terraces cultivated to the highest perfection ; farther
on, Biella already distant, and beyond this a "big
stare," as an American might say, over the plains of
Lombardy from Turin to Milan, with the Apennines
from Genoa to Bologna hemming the horizon. On the
road immediately before us, we still faced the same
steady stream of chairs flowing ever Biella-ward.

After a couple of hours the houses became more
rare ; we got above the sources of the chair-stream ;
bits of rough rock began to jut out from the pasture ;
here and there the rhododendron began to shew itself
by the roadside ; the chestnuts left off along a line as
level as though cut with a knife ; stone-roofed cascine

i«

3o6 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

■ 'k

iii

Hi:

1 'i

i, ( I

Legan to nbound, with geats and cattle feeding near
tliem ; the bootlis of the religious trinket-mongers in-
creased ; tlie blind, halt, and maimed bociune more im-
portunate, and tlie foot-passengers were more entirely
composed of those whose object was, or had been, a
visit to t!ie sanctuary itself. The numbers of these
pilgrims — generally in their Sunday's best, and often
comprising the greater part of a family — were so great,
though there was no special festa, as to testify to the
popularity of tlie institution. They generally walked
barefoot, and carried their shoes and stockings ; their
baggage consisted of a few spare clotlies, a little food,
and a pot or pan or two to cook with. Many of them
looked very tired, and had evidently tramped from long
distances — indeed, we saw costumes belonging to valleys
which could not be less than two or three days distant.
They were almost invariably quiet, respectable, and
decently clad, sometimes a little merry, but never noisy,
and none of them tipsy. As we travelled along the
road, we must have fallen in with several hundreds of
these pilgrims coming and going ; nor i - this likely to
be an extravagant estimate, seeing that tne hospice can
make up more than five thousand beds. By eleven we
were at the sanctuary itself.

Fancy a quiet upland valley, the floor of which is
about the same height as the top of Snowdon, shut in
by lofty mountains upon three sides, while on the
fourth the eye wanders at will over the plains below.
Fancy finding a level space in such a valley watered
by a beautiful mountain stream, and nearly filled by a
pile of collegiate buildings, not less important than
those, we will say, of Trinity College, Cambridge. True,
Oropa is not in the least like Trinity, except that one
of its courts is large, grassy, has a chapel and a foun-

iRIES.

SAS'CTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

307

3e(ling near
luoiif^ers in-
le more im-
ore entirely
had been, a
3rs of these
t, and often
ere so great,
Dstify to the
ally walked
kings ; their
a little food,
any of them
id from long
ng to valleys
days distant,
lectable, and

never noisy,
2d along the

hundreds of
;his likely to
3 hospice can

jy eleven we

of which is
^don, shut in
diile on the
)lains below.
lUey watered
y filled by a
portant than
ridge. True,
:ept that one
. and a foun-

tain in it, and rooms all round it; but I do not know
how better to give a rough description of Oropa than
by comparing it with one of our largest English colleges.

Tiie buildings consist of two main courts. The liist
comprises a couple of modern wings, connected by the
magnificent fa(,^ade of what is now the second or inner
court. This fac.-ade dates Irom about the middle of the
seventeentli century ; its lowest storey is formed by an
open colonnade, and the whole stands upon a raised
terrace from which a noble flight of steps descends
into the outer court.

Ascending the steps and passing under the colon-
nade, we find ourselves in the second or inner court,
which is a complete quadrangle, and is, so at least we
were told, of rather older date than the facade. This is
the quadrangle which gives its collegiate character to
Oropa. It is surrounded by cloisters on three sides,
on to which the rooms in which the pilgrims are
lodged open — those at least that are on the ground-
floor, but there are three storeys. The chapel, which
was dedicated in the year 1600, juts out into the court
upon the north-east side. On the north-west antl
south-west sides are entrances through which one may
pass to the open country. The grass at the time of
our visit was for the most part covered with sheets
spread out to dry. They looked very nice, and, dried
on such grass, and in such an air, they must be de-
licious to sleep on. There is, indeed, rather an appear-
ance as though it were a perpetual washing-day at
Oropa, but this is not to be wondered at considering
the numbers of comers and goers ; besides, people in
Italy do not make so much fuss about trifles as we do.
If they want to wash their sheets and dry them, they
do not send them to Ealing, but lay them out in the

W'i]

■yi' i:
pi'-, . !?
hi,;

''Mi

^10

m I

^If'

j'' '

: 1

vii

; II

308 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

first place that comes handy, and nobody's bones are
broken.

On the east side of tlie main block of buildings there
is a grassy slope adorned with chapels that contain
figures illustrating scenes in the history of the Virgin.
These figures are of terra-cotts, for the most part life-
size, and painted up to nature. In some cases, if I
remember rigiitly, they have hemp or flax for hair, as
at Varallo, and throughout realism is aimed at as far
as possible, not only in the figures, but in the acces-
sories. We have very little of the same kind in Eng-
land. In the Tower of London there is an effigy of
Queen Elizabeth going to the city to give thanks for
the defeat of the Spanish Armada. This looks as if it
might have been the work of some one of the Valsesian
sculptors. There are also the figures that strike the
quarters of Sir John Bennett's city clock in Cheapside.
The automatic movements of these last-named figures
would have struck the originators of the Varallo chapels
with envy. They aimed at realism so closely that they
would assuredly have had recourse to clockwork in
some one or two of their chapels ; I cannot doubt,
for example, that they would have eagerly welcomed
the idea of making the cock crow to Peter by a cuckoo-
clock arrangement, if it had been presented to them.
This opens up the whole question of realism versus con-
ventionalism in art — a subject much too large to be
treated here.

As I have said, the founders of these Italian chapels
aimed at realism. Each chapel was intended as an
illustration, and the desire was to bring the whole
scene more vividly before the faithful by combining
the picture, the statue, and the effect of a scene upon
the stage in a single work of art. The attempt would

IIES.
bones are

ings there
it contain
tie Virgin,
part life-
3ases, if I
or hair, as
at as far
the acces-
id in Eng-
n effigy of
:hanks for
)ks as if it
! Valsesian
strike the
Cheapside.
led figures
llo chapels
' that they
ckwork in
aot doubt,
welcomed
'■ a cuckoo-
d to them.
versus con-
arge to be

an chapels
ded as an
ihe whole
combining
icene upon
mpt would

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

309

be an ambitious one though made once only in a
neighbourhood, but in most of the places in North
Italy where anything of the kind has been done, the
people have not been content with a single illustration ;
it has been their scheme to take a mountain as though
it had been a book or wall and cover it with illustra-
tions. In some cases — as at Orta, whose Sacro Monte
is perhaps the most beautiful of all as regards the site
itself — the failure is complete, but in some of the
chapels at Varese and in many of those at Varallo,
great works have been pror'.uced which have not yet
attracted as much attenticii as they deserve. It may
be doubted, indeed, whether there is a more remarkable
work of art in North Italy than the crucifixion chapel
at Varallo, where the twenty-five statues, as well as
the frescoes behind them, are (with the exception of
the figuio of Christ, which has been removed) by
Gaudenzio Ferrari. It is to be wished that some one
of these chapels — both chapel and sculptures — were
reproduced at South Kensington.

Varallo, which is undoubtedly the most interesting
sanctuary in North Italy, has forty-four of these illus-
trative chapels ; Varese, fifteen ; Orta, eighteen ; and
Oropa, seventeen. No on is allowed to enter them,
except when repairs are needed ; but when these are
going on, as is constantly the case, it is curious to
look through the grating into the somewhat darkened
interior, and to see a living figure or two among the
statues ; a little motion on the part of a single figure
seems to communicate itself to the rest and make them
all more animated. If the living fii^ure does not move
much, it is easy at first to mistake it for a terra-cotta
one. At Orta, some years since, looking one evening
into a chapel when the light was fading, I was suprised

! I

is; 1*1
•I

lil? 1

[! >

310 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

to see a saint whom I had not seen before ; he had
no glory except what shone from a very red nose ; he
was smoking a short pipe, and was painting the Virgin
Mary's face. The touch was a finishing one, put on
with deliberation, slowly, so that it was two or three
seconds before I discovered that the interloper was no
saint.

The figures in the chapels at Oropa are not as good
as the best of those at Varallo, but some of them are
very nice notwithstanding. We liked the seventh
cliapel the best — the one which illustrates the sojourn
of the Virgin Mary in the Temple. It contains forty-
four figures, and represents the Virgin on the point of
completing her education as head girl at a high-toned
academy for young gentlewomen. All the young
ladies are at work making mitres for the bisliop, or
working slippers in Berlin wool for the new curate,
but the Virgin sits on a dais above the others on the
same platform with the venerable lady-principal, who
is having passages read out to her from some standard
Hebrew writer. The statues are the work of a local
sculptor, named Aureggio, who lived at the end of the
seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth century.

The highest chapel must be a couple of hundred
feet above the main buildings, and from near it there
is an excellent bird's-eye view of the sanctuary and
the small plain behind ; descending on to this last, we
entered the quadrangle from the north-west side, and
visited the chapel in which the sacred image of the
Madonna is contained. We did not see the image itself,
which is only exposed to public view on great occasions.
It is believed to have been carved by St. Luke the
Evangelist. It is said that at one time there was
actually an inscription on the image in Greek characters.

RIES.

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

;ii

re ; he had
d nose ; he
the Virgin
)ne, put on
70 or three
per was no

lot as good
f them are
le seventh
:he sojourn
tains forty-
he point of
high-toned
the young

bishop, or
lew curate,
lers on the
icipal, who
le standard

of a local
end of the

century.
)f hundred
ar it there
3tuary and
lis last, we
) side, and
age of the
:nage itself,
; occasions.

Luke the

there was
characters.

of which the translation is, "Eusebius. A token of
respect and affection I'rom his sincere friend, Luke ; "
but this being written in chalk or pencil only, has
been worn off, and is known by tradition only. I must
ask the reader to content himself with the following
account of it which I take from Marocco's work upon
Oropa : —

" That this statue of the Virgin is indeed by St.
Luke is attested by St. Eusebius, a man of eminent
pisty, and no less enlightened than truthful, and the
stae which he set by it is proved by his shrinking
from no discomforts in his carriage of it from a distant
country, and by his anxiety to put it in a place of
great security. His desire, indeed, was to keep it in
the spot which was most near and dear to him, so
that he might extract from it the higher incitement
to devotion, and more sensible comfort in the midst
of his austerities and apostolic labours.

" This truth is further confirmed by the quality of
the wood from which the statue is carved, which is
commonly believed to be cedar; by the Eastern
character of the work ; by the resemblance both of
the lineament and the colour to those of other statues
by St. Luke ; by the tradition of the neighbourhood,
which extends in an unbroken and well-assured line to
the time of St. Eusebius himself ; by the miracles that
have been worked here by its presence, and elsewhere
by its invocation, or even by indirect contact with it ;
by the miracles, lastly, which are inherent in the image
itself,'"' and which endure to this day, such as is its im-
munity from all worm and from the decay which would

* " Dalle meraviglie finalmente che sono inerenti al simulacro stesso."
— Cenni storico artistici intorno al santuario di Oropa. (Prof. Maurizio,
Marocco. Turin, Milan, 1866, p. 329,)

iffit

lii

IP'S
HI ■

!; :1

» '•

h' M

11'

312 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

naturally have occurred in it through time and damp
— more especially in the feet, through the rubbing of
religious objects against them.

" The authenticity of this image is so certainly and
clearly established, that all supposition to the contrary
becomes inexplicable and absurd. Sucli, for example,
is a hypothesis that it should not be attributed to the
Evangelist, but to another Luke, also called ' Sain^,'
and a Florentine by birth. This painter lived in the
eleventh century — that is to say, about seven centuries
after the image of Oropa had been known and vene-
rated ! This is indeed an anachronism.

" Other difficulties drawn either from the ancient
discipline of the Church or from St. Luke the Evan-
gelist's profession, which was that of a physician, vanish
at once when it is borne in mind — firstly, that the cult
of holy images, and especially of that of the most
blessed Virgin, is of extreme antiquity in the Church,
and of apostolic origin, as is proved by ecclesiastical
writers and monuments found in the catacombs which
date as far back as the first century (see among other
authorities, Nicolas, La Vergine vivente nella Chiesa,
lib. iii. cap. iii. § 2) ; secondly, that as the medical pro-
fession does not exclude that of artists, St. Luke may
have been both artist and physician ; that he did
actually handle both the brush and the scalpel is
established by respectable and very old traditions, to
say nothing of other arguments which can be found in
impartial and learned writers upon such matters."

I will only give one more extract. It runs : —

"In 1855 a celebrated Eoman portrait-painter, after
having carefully inspected the image of the Virgin

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

313

Mary at Oropa, declared it to be certainly a work of
the first century of our era." "^

I once saw a common cheap china copy of this
Madonna announced as to be given away with two
pounds of tea, in a shop near Hatton Garden.

The church in which the sacred image is kept is
interesting from the pilgrims who at all times frequent
it, and from the collection of vot-ve pictures which
adorn its walls. Except the votive pictures and the
pilgrims the church contains little of interest, and I
will pass on to the constitution and objects of the
establishment.

The objects are — i. Gratuitous lodging to all comers
for a space of from three to nine days as tlie rector may
think fit. 2. A school. 3. Help to the sick and poor.
It is governed by a presidea' and six members, who
form a committee. Four members are chosen by the
communal council, and two by the cathedral chapter
of Biella. At the hospice itself there reside a director,
with his assistant, a surveyor to keep the fabric in re-
pair, a rector or dean with six priests, called cappellani,
and a medical man. " The government of the laundry,"
so runs the statute on this head, "and analogous do-
mestic services are entrusted to a competent number
of ladies of sound constitution and good conduct, who
live together in the hospice under the direction of an
inspectress, and are called daughters of Oropa."

The bye-laws of the establishment are conceived in
a kindly, genial spirit, which in great measure accounts
for its unmistakable popularity. We understood that
the poorer visitors, as a general rule, avail themselves
of the gratuitous lodging, without making any present
when they leave, but in spite of this it is quite clear

* Marocco, p. 331,

3i4 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

M.,

i ''

that tliey are wanted to come, and come they accord-
indy do. It is sometimes difficult to lay one's hands
upon the exact passages which conv^ey an impression,
but as we read the bye-laws which a/e posied up in
the cloisters, we found ourselves continually smiling
at the jnanner in which almost anything that looked
like a prohibition could be removed with the consent
of the director. There is no rule whatever about
visitors attending the church ; all that is required of
them is that they do not interfere with those who do.
They must not play games of chance, or noisy games ;
they must not make much noise of any sort after ten
o'clock at night (which corresponds about with mid-
night in England). They should not draw upon the
walls of their rooms, nor cut the furniture. They
should also keep their rooms clean, and not cook in
those that are more expensively furnished. This is
about all that they must not do, except fee the servants,
which is most especially and particularly forbidden.
If any one infringes these rules, he is to be admonished,
and in case of grave infraction or continued misde-
meanor he may be expelled and not readmitted.

Visitors who are lodged in the better-furnished
apartments can be waited upon if they apply at the
office; the charge is twopence for cleaning a room,
making the bed, bringing water, &c. If there is more
than one bed in a room, a penny must be paid for
every bed over the first. Boots can be cleaned for a
penny, shoes for a halfpenny. For carrying wood, &c.,
either a halfpenny or a penny Fill be exacted accord-
ing to the time taken. Payment for these services
mus*-. not be made to the servant, but at the office.

me gates close at ten o'clock at night, and open at
sunrise, " but if any visitor wishes to make Alpine

■ i.i:

IBS.

y accord-
e's hands
ipressioii,
ed up in
smiling
at looked
consent
er about
quired of
! wlio do.
y games ;
after ten
ith mid-
iipon the
They
cook in
This is
servants,
Drbidden.
iionished,
i misde-
d.

urnished
y at the
a. room,
J is more
paid for
led for a
ood, &c.,
accord-
services
fice.
open at
Alpine

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

31S

excursions, or lias any other sufficient reason, he should
let the director know." Families occupying many
rooms must — when the hospice is very crowded, and
when they have had due notice — manage to pack
themselves into a smaller compass. No one can have
rooms kept for him. It is to be strictly " first come,
first served." No one must sublet his room. Visitors
must not go away without giving up the key of their
room. Candles and wood may be bought at a fixed
price.

Any one wishing to give anything to the support of
the hospice must do so only to the director, the official
who appoints the apartments, the dean or the cappel-
lani, or to the inspectress of the daughters of Oropa,
but they must have a receipt for even the smallest
sum ; alms-boxes, however, are placed here and there
into which the smaller offerings may be dropped (we
imagine this means anything under a franc).

The poor will be fed as well as housed for three
days gratuitously — provided their health does not re-
quire a longer stay ; but they must not beg on the
premises of the hospice ; professional beggars will be
at once handed over to the mendicity society in Biella,
or even perhaps to prison. The poor for whom a
hydropathic course is recommended, can have it under
the regulations made by the committee — that is to say,
if there is a vacant place.

There are traUorie and cafes at the hospice, where
refreshments may be obtained both good and cheap.
Meat is to be sold there at the prices current in Biella ;
bread at two centimes the chilogramma more, to pay
for the cost of carriage.

Such are the bye-laws of this remarkable institution.

Few except the very rich are so under-worked that

III

316 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

two or three days of cliaiige and rest are not at times
a boon to them, wliile the mere knowhxlge that there
is a place where repose can be had cheaply and plea-
santly is itself a source of strength. Here, so long as
the visitor wishes to be merely housed, no questions
are asked ; no one is refused admittance, except for
some obviously sufficient reason ; it is like getting a
reading ticket for the British Museum, there is prac-
tically but one test — that is to say, desire on the part
of the visitor — the coming proves the desire, and this
suffices. A family, we will say, has just gathered its
first harvest; the heat on the plains is intense, and
the malaria from the rice-grounds little less than pes-
tilential ; what, then, can be nicer than to lock up the
house and go for three days to the bracing mountain
air of Oropa ? So at dnybreak off they all start trudg-
ing, it may be, their thirty or forty miles, and reach-
ing Oropa by nightfall. If there is a weakly one among
them, some arrangement is sure to be practicable
whereby he or she can be helped to follow more
leisurely, and can remain longer at the hospice. Once
arrived, they generally, it is true, go the round of the
chapels, and make some slight show of pilgrimage, but
the main part of their time is spent in doing absolutely
nothing. It is sufficient amusement to theiu to sit on
the steps, or lie about under the shadow of the trees,
and neither say anything nor do anything, but simply
breathe, and look at the sky and at each other. We
saw scores of such people just resting instinctively in
a kind of blissful waking dream. Others t..^ uiter along
the walks which have been cut in the woods that sur-
round the hospice, or if they have been pent up in a
town and have a fancy for climbing, there are moun-
tain excursions, for the making of which the hospice

a
u

RIES.

3t at times
tliat there

'■ and plea-

so long as

questions

except for

getting

e IS prac-
n the part
e, and this
ithered its
tense, and

than pes-
>c]v up the

mountain
art trudg-
md reach-
)ne among
)racticable
low more
ce. Once
md of the
mage, but
ibsolutely
t to sit on
the trees,
ut simply
ler. We
ctively in
iter along
that sur-

up in a
re moun-
} hospice

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

317

affords excellent headquarters, and which are looked
upon with every favour by the authorities.

It must be remembered also tliat the accommodation
provided at Oropa is much better than what the people
are, for the most part, accustomed to in their own
homes, and the beds are softer, more often beaten up,
and cleaner than those they have left behind them.
Besides, ley have sheets — and beautifully clean sheets.
Those ho know the sort of place in which an Ital'
peasant is commonly content to sleep, will underotand
how mrch he must enjoy a really clean and comfortable
bed, especially when he has not got to pay for it. Sleep,
in the circumstances of comfort which most readers
will be accustomed to, is a more expensive thing than
is commonly supposed. If we sleep eight hours in a
London hotel we shall have to pay from 4d. to 6d. an
hour, or from id. to i^d. for every fifteen minutes we
lie in bed ; nor is it reasonable to believe that the
charge is excessive when we consider the vast amount
of competition which exists. There is many a man
the expenses of whose daily meat, drink, and clothing
are less than what an accountant would show us we,
many of us, lay out nightly upon our sleep. The cost
of really comfortable sleep-necessaries cannot, of course,
be nearly so great at Oropa as in a London hotel, but
they are enough to put them beyond the reach of the
peasant under ordinary circum^^tances, and he relishes
them all the more when he can get them.

But why, it may be asked, should the peasant have
these things if he cannot afford to pay for them ; and
why should he not pay for them if he can afford to do
so ? If such places as Oropa were common, would not
lazy vagabonds spend their lives in going the rounds of
them, &c., &c. ? Doubtless if there were many Oropas,

;|ii

31S EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

they would do more harm than good, hut there are
some thin«rs which answer perfectly well as rarities or
on a small scale, out of which all the virtue would
depart if they were common or on a larger one ; and
certainly the impression left upon our minds by Oropa
was that its effects were excellent.

Granted the sound rule to he that a man should
pay for what he has, or go without it; in practice,
however, it is found impossible to carry this rule out
strictly. Why does the nation give A. li., for instance,
and all comers a large, comfortable, well-ventilated,
warm room to sit in, with chair, table, reading-desk,
&c., all more commodious than what he may have at
home, without making him pay a sixpence for it
directly from year's end to year's end ? The three or
nine days' visit to Oropa is a trifle in comparison with
what we can all of us obtain in London if we care
about it enough to take a very small amount of trouble.
True, one cannot sleep in the reading-room of the
British Museum — not all night, at least — but by day
one can make a home of it for years together except
during cleaning times, and then it is hard if one can-
not get into the National Gallery or South Kensington,
and be warm, quiet, and entertained without paying
for it.

It will be said that it is for the national interest
that people should have access to treasuries of art or
knowledge, and therefore it is worth the nation's while
to pay for placing the means of doing so at their dis-
posal ; granted, but is not a good bed one of the great
ends of knowledge, whereto it must work, if it is to be
accounted knowledge at all? audit is not worth a nation's
while that her children should now and again have prac-
tical experience of a higher statt'- of things than the one

HIES.

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

319

there are

rarities or

rtue would

' one ; and

by Oropa

lan should
1 practice,
s rule out
r instance,
ventilated,
uling-desk,
ly have at
ice for it
e three or
risen with
if we care
of trouble,
im of the
lit by day
ler except
■ one can-
ensington,
lit paying

il interest
of art or
on's while
their dis-
the great
:t is to be
a nation's
lave prac-
Q the one

they are accustomed to, and a few days' rest and change
of scene and air, even though slie may from time to
time have to pay something in order to enable them to
do so ? There can be few l)ooks which do an averagely-
educated Englishman so much good, as the glimpse of
comfort which he gets by sleeping in a good bed in a
well-a])puinted room does to an Italian peasant ; such
a glimpse gives him an idea of higher potentialities in
connection with himself, and nerves him to exertions
which he wouhl not otherwise make. On the whole,
therefore, we concluded that if the British Museum
reading-room was in good economy, Oropa was so also ;
at any rate, it seemed to be making a large number of
very nice people quietly happy — and it is hard to say
more than this in favour of any place or institution.

The idea of any sudden change is as repulsive to
us as it will be to the greater number of my readers ;
but if asked whether we thought our English univer-
sities would do most good in their present condition
as places of so-called education, or if they were turned
into Oropas, and all the educational part of the story
totally suppressed, we inclined to think they would be
more popular and more useful in this latter capacity.
We thought also that Oxford and Cambridge were
just the places, and contained all the appliances and
endowments almost ready made for constituting two
splendid and truly imperial cities of recreation — uni-
versities in deed as well as in name. Nevertheless
we should not venture to propose any further actual
reform during the present generation than to carry the
principle which is already admitted as regards the
M.A. a degree a trifle i'urther, and to make the B.A.
degree a mere matter of lapse of time and fees — leaving
the little go, and whatever corresponds to it at Oxford,

320 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

This would be

•i

(

l-^

, ) ■

enough for

as the final examination
the present.

There is another sanctuary about three hours* walk
over the mountain behind Oropa, at Andorno, and
dedicated to St. John. We were prevented by the
weather from visiting it, but understand that its objects
are much the same as those of the institution I have
just described. 1 will now proceed to tlie third sanctu-
ary for which the neighbourhood of Biella is renowned.

At Grnglia I was shown all over the rooms in which
strangers are lodged, and found them not only comfort-
able but luxurious — decidedly more so than those of
Oropa; there was the same cleanliness everywhere
which I had noticed in the restaurant. As one stands
at the windows or on the balconies and looks down
to the tops of the chestnuts, and over these to the
plains, one feels almost as if one could fly out of the
window like a bird ; for the slope of the hills is so
rapid that one has a sense of being already suspended
in mid-air.

I thought I observed a desire to attract English
visitors in the pictures which I saw in the bedrooms.
Thus there was " A view of the Black-lead Mine in
Cumberland," a coloured English print of the end of
the last century or the beginning of this, after, I think,
Loutherbourg, and in several rooms there were English
engravings after Martin. The English will not, I
thing, regret if they yield to these attractions. They
will find the air cool, shady walks, good food, and
reasonable prices. Their rooms will not be charged
for, but they will do well to give the same as they
would have paid at a hotel. I saw in one room one
of those flippant, frivolous, Lorenzo de' Medici match-

ilES.

lougli for

urs' walk
urno, and
by the
ts objects
m I have
d sanctu-
enowned.

•

in which
comfort-
those of
erywhere
ne stands
ks down
e to the
it of the
lis is so
ispended

English

edroomi,.

Mine in

e end of

I think,

English

I not, I

• They

)od, and

charged

as they

oom one

match-

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA. 321

boxes on which there was a gaudily-coloured nymph
in high-heeled boots and tights, smoking a cigarette.
Feeling that I was in a sanctuary, I was a little sur-
prised that such a matchbox should have been tolerated.
I suppose it had been left behind by some guest. I
should myself select a matchbox with the Nativity
or the Flight into Egypt upon it, if I were going to
stay a week or so at Graglia. I do not think I can
have looked surprised or scandalised, but the worthy
official who was with me could just see that there was
something on my mind. " Do you want a match ? "
said he, immediately reaching me the box. I helped
myself, and the matter dropped.

There were many fewer people at Oraglia than at
Oropa, and they were richer. I did not see any poor
about, but I may have been there during a slack time.
An impression was left upon me, though I cannot say
whether it was well or ill founded, as though there
were a tacit understanding between the establishments
at Oropa and Graglia that the one was to adapt itself
to the poorer, and the other to the richer classes of
society ; and this not from any sordid motive, but from
a recognition of the fact that any great amount of
intermixture between the poor and the rich is not
found satisfactory to either one or the other. Any wide
difference in fortune does practically amount to a
specific difference, which renders the members of either
species more or less suspicious of those of the other,
and seldom fertile i7Uc7' se. The well-to-do working-
man can help his poorer friends better than we can. If
an educated man has money to spare, he will apply it
better in helping poor educated people than those who
are more strictly called the poor. As long as the world
is progressing, wide class distinctions are inevitable ;

322 EXTRACTS FROM ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.

their discontinuance will be a sign that equilibrium has
been reached. Then human civilisation will become
as stationary as that of ants and bees. Some may say
it will be very sad when this is so ; others, that it will
be a good thing ; in truth, it is good either way, for
progress and equilibrium have each of them advantages
and disadvantages which make it impossible to assign
superiority to either; but in both cases the good
greatly overbalance."'- the evil; for in both the great
majority will be fairly well contented, and would hate
to live under any otiier system.

Equilibrium, if it is ever reached, will be attained
very slowly, and the importance of any change in a
system depends entirely upon the rate at which it is
made. No amount of change shocks — or, in other
words, is important — if it is made sufficiently slowly,
while hardly any change is too small to shock if it
is made suddenly. We may go down a ladder of ten
thousand feet in height if we do so step by step, while
a sudden fall of six or seven feet may kill iis. The
importance, therefore, does not lie in the change, but
in the abr aptness of its introduction. Nothing is abso-
lutely important or absolutely unimportant ; absolutely
good, or absolutely bad.

This is not what we like to contemplate. The
instinct of those whose religion and culture are on the
surface only is to conceive that they have found, or
can find, an absolute and eternal standard, about which
they can be as earnest as they choose. They would
have even the pains of hell eternal if they could. If
there had been any means discoverable by which they
could torment themselves beyond endurance, we may
be sure they would long since have found it out ; but
fortunately there is a stronger power which bars them

UES.

SANCTUARIES OF OROPA AND GRAGLIA.

323

brium has
11 become
e may say
lat it will
r way, for
dvantages
to assign

good

the

the great

ould hate

inexorably from their desire, and which has ensured
that intolerable pain shall last only for a very little
while. For either the circumstances or the sufferer
will change after no long time. If the circumstances
are intolerable, the sufferer dies i if they are not in-
tolerable, he becomes accustomed to them, and will
cease to feel them grievously. No matter what the
burden, there always has been, and always must be, a
way for us also to escape.

3 attained
mge in a
hich it is
in other
ly slowly,
^ock if it
ier of ten
tep, while
rs. The
ange, but
g is abso-
ibsolutely

Lte. The
re on the
found, or
•ut which
sy would
)uld. If
lich they
we may
out; but
ars them

'i'/^^" t . t

•I-: :

A PSALM OF MONTREAL.

[The City of Montreal is one of the most risin'^ and, in many respects,
most agreeable on the American continent, but its inhabitants are as
yet too busy Avith commerce to care greatly about the masterpieces
of old Greek Art. A cast of one of these masterpieces — the finest
of the several statues of Discoboli, or Quoit-throwers — was found by
the present writer in the Montreal Museum of Natural History ; it
was, however, banished from public view, to a room where were all
manner of skins, plants, snakes, insects, &c., and in the middle of these,
an old man, stuffing an owl. The dialogue — perhaps true, perhaps
imaginary, perhaps a little of one and a little of the other — between
the writer and this old man gave rise to the lines that follow.]

Stowed away in a Montreal lumber-room,
The Discobolus standeth, and turneth his face to the wall ;
Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed, and set at naught.
Beauty crieth in an attic, and uo man regardeth.

God ! Montreal !

Beautiful by night and day, beautiful in summer and winter,
Whole or maimed, always and alike beautiful, —
He preacheth gospel of grace to ti.«e skins of owls,
And to one who seasoneth the skins of Canadian owls.

O God ! Montreal !

When I saw him, I was wroth, and I said, " Discobolus !
Beautiful Discobolus, a Prince both among gods and men,
What doest thou here, how earnest thou here. Discobolus,
Preaching gospel in vain to the skins of owls 1 "

God ! Montreal !

A PSALM OF MONTREAL.

3=5

any respects,
itanta are as
masterpieces
I — the finest
vaz found by
History ; it
ere were all
Idle of these,
rue, perhaps
er — between
ow.]

the wall ;
ht,

)ntreal !

id winter,

owls,
ntreal !

And I turned to the man of skins, and said unto him, " Oh !

thou man of skins,
Wherefore hast thou done thus, to shame the beauty of the

Discobolus 1 "
But the Lord had hardened the heart of the man of skins,
And he answered, " My brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr.

Spurgeon." O God ! Montreal !

" The Discobolus is put here because he is vulgar, —

He hath neither vest nor pants with which to cover his

limbs ;
I, sir, am a person of most respectable connections, —
My biother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon."

O God ! Montreal !

Then I said, " brother-in law to Mr. Spurgeon's haber-
dasher !

Who seasonest also the skins of Canadian owls,

Thou callest 'trousers' 'pants,' whereas I call them
'trousers,'

Therefore thou art in hell-fire, and may the Lord pity thee !

God ! Montreal !

" Preferrest thou the gospel of Montreal to the gospel of
Hellas,

The gospel of thy connection with Mr. Spurgeon's haber-
dashery to the gospel of the Discobolus ? "

Yet none the less blasphemed he beauty, saying, " The
Discobolus hath no gospel, —

But my brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon."

God ! Montreal !

scobolus !
,nd men,
icobolus,

atreal !

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