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CHAPTER I. CONDUCT IN GENERAL. § 1. The doctrine that correlatives imply one another—that a father cannot be thought of without thinking of a child, and that there can be no consciousness of superior without a consciousness of inferior—has for one of its common exãmples the necessary connection between the conceptions of whole and part. Beyond the primary truth that no idea ºf a whole can be framcil without a nascent idea of parts constituting it, and that no idea of a part can be framed without a nascent idea of some whole to which it belongs, there is the secondary truth that thcre can be no correct idea of a part without a correct idea of the correlative whole. There are several ways in which inadequate knowledge of the one involves inadequate knowledge of the other. If the part is conceived without any lefer- once to the whole, it becomes itself a wholc— an independent entity ; and its relations to existence in general arc misapprehended. Further, the size of the part as compared with the size of the whole must be misap- prehended unless the whole is not only recog- nized as including it, but is figured in its to- tal extent. Ard again, the position which the part occupies in relation to other parts cannot be rightly conceived unless there is some conception of the whole in its distribu- tion as well as in its amount. Still more when part and whole, instead of being statically related only, are dynamically related, must there be a general understand- ing of the whole before the part can be un- derstood. Dy a savage who has never seen a vehicle, no idea can be formed of the use and action of a wheel. To the unsymmetrically- pierced disk of an eccentric, no place or pur- pose can be ascribed by a rustic unac- quainted with machinery. Even a mechani- cian, if he has never looked into a piano, will, if shown a damper, be unable to con- ceive its function or relative value. Most of all, however, where the whole is organic, does complete comprehension of a part imply cytensive cºmprehension of the whole. Suppose a being ignorant of the hu- man body to find :l detached arm. If not mis- conceived by him as a supposed whole, instead of being conceived as a part, still its relations to other parts, and its structure, would be wholly inexplicable. Admitting that the co- operation of its bones and muscles might be divined, yet no thought could be framed of the share taken by the arm in the actions of the unknown whole it belonged to ; nor could any interpretation be put upon the nerves and vessels ramifying through it, which sev- elally refer to certain central organs. A the 476 THE DATA OF ETIHICS. * ory of the structure cf the arm implies a thcory of the structure of the body at large. And this truth holds not of material aggro- gates only, but of immatcrial aggregates— aggregated motions, deeds, thouglits, words. The moon’s movements cannot be fully in- terpreted without taking into account the movements of the Solar System at large. The process of loading a gun is meaningless until the subsequent actions performed with the gun are known. A fraginent of a sen- tence, if not unintelligible, is wrongly inter- preted in the absence of the remainder. Cut off its beginning and cnd, and the rest of a demonstration proves nothing. given by a plaintiff often misłcads unti, the evidence which the defendant produces is joined with it. § 2. Conduct is a whole ; and, in a sense, it is an organic whole—an aggregate of inter- dependent actions performed by an organism. That division or aspect of conduct with which ethics deals is a part of this organic whole —a part having its components inextricably lound up with the rest. ceived, stirring the fire, or reading a news- paper, or eating a meal, are acts with which morality has no concern. Opening the win- dow to air the room, putting on an overcoat when the weather is cold, are thought of as having no ethical significance. These, how- ever, are ail portions of conduct. The be- havior we call good and the behavior we call bad are included, along with the behavior we call indifferent, under the conception of behavior at large. The whole of which eth- ics forms a part is the whole constituted by the theory of conduct in general ; and this whole must be understood before the patt can be understood. Let us consider thig prop- osition more closely. And first, how shall we define conduct 2 It is not co-extensive with the aggregate of actions, though it is nearly so. Such actions as those of an epileptic in a fit are not in- cluded in our conception of conduct : the conception excludes purposeless actions. And in recognizing this cxclusion, we simul- taneously recognize all that is included. The drfinition of conduct which emerges is either acts adjusted to ends or else the adjustment of acts to ends, according as we contemplate the formed body of acts or thin'i of the form alone. And conduct in its ful) acceptation must be taken as compre- heriding all adjustments of acts to ends, frºm the simplest to the most complex, what. e'er their special natures and whether consid- * red separately or in their totality. Conduct in general being thus distinguish- 3d from the somewhat larger whole cousti- 1uted by actions in general, let us next ask what distinction is habitually made between the conduct on which ethical judgments are passed and the remainder of conduct. As *lready said, a large part of ordinary con- luct is indifferent. Shall I walk to the waterfall to-day ? or shall I ramble along the sea-shore? IIere the ends are ethi. cally indifferent. If I go to the water- Evidence As currently con- fall, shall I go over the moor or take the path through the wood 2 Here the means are ethiºlly indifferent. And from hour to hour most of the things we do are not to be judgetſ as either good or bad in re. spect of either ends or means. No less cleay is it that the transition from indifferent acts to acts which are good or bad is gradual. If a friend who is with me has explored the sea- shore, but has not seen the waterfall, the ehoice of one or other end is no longer ctimi- cully indifferent. And if, the waterfall being fixed on as our goal, the way over the moor is too long for his strength, while the shotter way through the wood is not, the choice of Ineans is no longer ethically indifferent. Again, if a probable result of making the one excursion lather than the other is that I shall not be back in time to keep an appoint- ment, or if taking the longer I out tº c mtails this risk while taking the shorter does not, the decision in favor of one or other cnd Cr means acquires in another way an ethical character ; and if the appointment is one of Some importance, or one of great importance, or one of life-and-death importance, to Seif or others, the ctlyical character becomes pro- nounced. suggest the truth that conduct with which morality is not concel ned passes into con- duct which is moral or immoral by small degrees and countless ways. . But the conduct that has to be conceived scientifically before we can scientifically con- ceive those modes of conduct which are the objects of ethical judgments, is a conduct immensely wider in range than that just indi- cated. Complete comprºhension of conduct is not to be obtained by contemplating the con- duct of human beings only : We have to regard this as a part of universal conduct—conduct as exhibited by all living creatures. For evidently this comes within our definitiºn— acts adjusted to ends. The conduct of the higher animals as compared with that of man, and the conduct of the lower animals as compared with that of the higher, mainly differ in this, that the adjustments of acts to ends are relatively simple and relatively in- complete. And as in other cases, so in this case, we must interpret the more developed by the less developed. Just as, fully to un- derstand the part of conduct which ethics deals with, we must study human conduct as a whole ; so, fully to understand human con- duct as a whole, we must study it as a part of that larger whole constituted by the con- duct of animate beings in general. Nor is even this whole conceived with the needful fulness, so long as we think only of the conduct at present displayed around us. We have to include in our conception the less-developed conduct out of which this has arisen in course of time. We have to regard the conduct now shown us by creatures of all orders as an outcome of the conduct which has brought life of every kind to its present height. And this is tantamount to saying that our preparatory step must be to study the evolution of conduct. These instakces will sufficiently THE DATA OF ETHICS. 477 which a hand is moved to a particular place and the fingers closed (which is also a pur. tion of physiology), we observe a weapon be: § 3. We have become quite familiar with ing seized by a hand under guidance of the the idea of an evolution of structures eye. We now pass from the thought of throughout the ascending types of animals. combined internal functions to the thought To a considerable degree we have become of combined external motions. Doubtless if familiar with the thought that an evolution we could trace the cerebral processes which of functions has gone on pari passu with the accompany these, we should find an inner evolution of structures. Now advancing a physiological co-ordination corresponding step, we have to frame a conception of the with the outer co-ordination of actions. But \ evolution of conduct as correlated with this this admission is consistent with the asser- \ evolution of structures and functions. tion, that when we ignore the internal com- These three subjects are to be definitely bination and attend only to the external com- distinguished. Obviously the facts Com- bination, we pass from a portion of physiol- parative morphology sets forth form a whole ogy to a portion of conduct. For though it which, though it cannot be treated in general may be objected that the external combina- or in detail without taking into account facts tion instanced is tuo simple to be rightly in- belonging to comparative physiology, is cluded under the name conduct, yet a mo- essentially independent. No less clear is it ment's thought shows that it is joined with that we may devote our attention exclu- what we call conduct by insensible grada- sively to that progressive differentiation of tions. Suppose the weapon seized is used functions and combination of functions to ward off a blow. Suppose a counter- which accompanics the developmcnt of struc- blow is given. Suppose the aggressor runs tures—Inay say no more about the characters and is chased. Suppose there comes a strug- and connections or organs than is implied in gie and a handing him over to the police. describing their separate and joint actions. Suppose there follow the many and varied And the subject of conduct lies outside the acts constituting a prosecution. Obviously subject of functions, if not as far as this lics the initial adjustment of an act to an end, in- outside the subject of structures, still far separable from the rest, must be included rnough to make it substantially separate. with them under the same general head ; and For those functions which are already vari- obviously from this initial simple adjustment, ously compoundcd to achieve what we re- having intrinsically no moral character, we gard as single bodily acts are cndlessly les pass by degrees to the most complex adjust- ſº to achieve that co-ordination of CHAPTER II. THE EVOLUTION OF CONDUCT. º: and to those on which moral judg- \bodily acts which is known as conduct. ments are passed. - We are concerned with functiºns in the Hence, excluding all internal co-ordina- true sense, while we think of them as pro- tions, our subject here is the aggregate of all cesses carried on within the body : and, external co-ordinations; and this aggregate withºut exceeding the limits of playsiology, includes not only the simplest as well as the we may treat of their adjusted combinations, most complex performed by human beings, so long as these are legalded as parts of the but also those performed by all inferior vital consensus. If we observe how the beings considered as less or more evolved. lungs ačrate the blool which the heart sends $ 4. Already the question, What consti- to them ; how healt and lungs together tutes advance in the evolution of conduct, as supply ačrated blood to the stomach, and so we trace it up from the lowest types of living enable it to do its work ; how these co-oper- creatures to the highest ? has been answered ate with sundry secreting and excreting by implication. A few examples will now glands to further digestion and to remove biing the answer into conspicuous relief. waste matter ; and how all of them join to We saw that conduct is distinguished from keep the brain in a ſit condition for carrying the totality of actions by excluding purpose- on those actions which indirectly conduce to less actions; but during evolution this distine- maintenance of the life at large, we are deal- tion arises by degrees. In the very lowest ing with functions. Even when considering creatures most of the movements from mo- how parts that act directly on the environ- ment to moment made have not more recog.' ment—legs, arms, wings—perform their nizable aims than have the struggles of ar duties, we are still concerned with functions epileptic. An infusorium swims randomly in that aspect of thern constituting physiol- about, determined in its course not by a per ogy, so long as we restrict our attention to ceived object to be pursued or escaped, but internal processes and to internal combina- apparently by varying stimuli in its me. tions of them. But we enter on the subject\ dium ; and its acts, unadjusted in any appre of conduct when we begin to study such ciable way to ends, lead it now into contact combinations among the actious of sensory with some nutritive substance which it ab. and motor organs as are externally manifest- sorbs, and now into the neighborhood of ed. Suppose that instead of observing those 'some creature by which it is swallowed and contractions of Inuscles by which the optic axes are converged and the foci of the eyes ad- justed (which is a portion of physiology), and that instead of observing the co-ope I a tion of other nerves, muscles, and boues, by digested. Lacking those developed senses and motor powers which higher animals pos- sess, ninety-nine in the hundred of these mi. nute animals, severally living for but a few hours, disappear either by innutrition or by 478 THE DATA OF ETHICS. Jastruction. 'Irie conduct is constituted of at tions so little adjusted to ends that life continues only as long as the accidents of the environment are favorable. Bu when, aulong aquatic creatures, we observe on? which, though still low in type, is much higher than the ir, fusorium—say a rotifer— we see how, along with larger size, more de- veloped structures, and greater power of combining functions, the e goes an advance in conduct. We see how by its whirling cilia it sucks in as food these small animals moving around ; how by its prehensile tail it fixes itself to some fit object ; how by with- drawing its outer organs and contracting its body, it preserves itself from this or that in- jury from time to time threatened ; and how thus, by better adjusting its own actions, it becomes less dependent on the actions going on around, and so preserves itself for a long- er period. A superior sub kingdom, as the Mollusca, still better exemplifies this contrast. When we compare a low 1:10llusk, such as a floating ascidian, with a high mollusk, such as a ce- phalopod, we are again shown that greater or- ganic evolution is accompanied by more evolved conduct. At the mercy of every marine creature large enough to swallow it, and drifted about by currents which may chance to keep it at Sea or may chance to leave it fatally stranded, the ascidian dis’ plays but little adjustment of acts to ends in tomparison with the cephalopod, which, How crawling over the ijeach, now exploring the rocky crevices, now swimming through the open water, now darting after a fish, now hiding itself from some larger animal in a cloud of ink, and using its suckered arms at one time for anchoring itself and at another for holding fast its prey, selects, and coin- bines, and proportions its movements from minute to minute, so as to evade dangers which threaten, while utilizing chances of food which offer ; so showing us varied ac tivities which, in achieving special ends, achieve the general end of securing continu ance of the activities. sº Among vertebrate animals we similarly trace up, along with advance in structures and functions, this advance in conduct. A fish roaming about at hazard in seat ch of something to eat, able to detect it by smell or sight only within short distances, and now and again rushing away in alarm on the ap- proach of a bigger fish, makes adjustments of acts to ends that are relatively few and simpie in their kinds, and shows us, as a consequence, how small is the average dura- tion of life. So few survive to maturity that, to make up for destruction of unhatched young and small fry and half-grown individ- uals, a million ova have to be spawned by a codfish that two may reach the spawning age. Conversely, by a highly evolved mam- mal, such as an elepliant, those general ac- tions performed in common with the fish are far better adjusted to their ends. By sight as well, probably, as by odor, it detects food at relatively great distances; and when, at intervals, there arises a meeti for escape, rel. atively great speed is attained. But the chief difference arises from the addition of new sets of adjustments. We have colnbingd actions which facilitate nutrition—the bleak- ing off of succulent and fruit-bearing branches, the selecting of edible growths throughout a comparatively wide reach ; and in case of danger, Safety can be achieved not by flight only, but if necessary by de fence or at lack ; li inging into combiuéd usé tusks, trunks, aud ponderous ſect. Fuli ther, we sce various subsidiary acts adjusted tº subsidiary ends—now the going into a river for coolness, and using the trunk as a liteans of projecting water over the body ; now the employment of a bough for sweeping away flies from the back ; now the making of sig- nal sounds to alarm the herd, and adapting the actions to such sounds when made by others, Evidently the effect of this more highly evolved conduct is to secure the bal- ance of the organic actions throughout far longer periods. And now, on studying the doings of the highest of mammals, mankind, we nºt only find that the adjustments of acts to ends and both more numerous and better than among lower mammals, but we find the same thing on comparing the doings of higher races of men with those of lower I aces. If we take any one of the major ends achieved, we see greater completeness of achievement by civ- ilized than by Savage ; and we also sce an achievement of relatively numerous minor ends subserving major ends. Is it in nutri- tion ? The food is obtained more regularly in response to appetite ; it is far higher in quality ; it is free from dirt ; it is greater in variety; it is better prepared. Is it in warmth ? The characters of the fabrics and forms of the articles used for clothing, and the adaptations of them to requirements from day to day and hour to hour, are much supe- rior. Is it in dwellings 2 Between the shel- ter of boughs and grass which the lowest savage builds and the mansion of the civil- ized inan, the contrast in aspect is not more extreme than is the contrast in number and efficiency of the adjustments of acts to ends betrayed in their respective constructions. And when with the ordinary activities of the savage we compare the ordinary civilized ac- tivities—as the business of the trader, which involves multiplied and complex transactions extending over long periods, or as profes. sional avocations, prepared for by claborate studies and daily carried on in endlessly va. ried forms, or as political discussions and agitations, directed now to the carrying this measure and now to the defeating of that—we see sets of adjustments of acts tº ends, not only immensely exceeding those seen among lower races of men in variety and intricacy, but sets to which lower races of men present aothing analogous, And along with this greater elaboration of life produced by the pursuit of more numerous ends, there goes that increased duration of . life which constitutes the supreme end. { f TELE DATA OF ETHICS. 479 And here is suggested the need for supple- menting this conception of evolving conduct. For besides being an improving adjustment of acts to ends, such as furthers prolongation of life, it is such as furthers increased amount of life. Tºeconsideration of the examples above given will show that length of life is not by itself a measure of evolution of eon- duct, but thal, quantity of life must be taken into account. An oyster, adapted by its struc- ture to the diffused food contained in the water it draws in, and shielded by its shell from nearly all dangers, may live longer than a cuttlefish, which has such superior powers of dealing with numerous contingencies; but then the sum of vital activities during any given interval is far less in the oyster than in the cuttlefish. So a worm, ordinarily shel- tered from most enemies by the earth it bur- rows through, which also supplies a sufti- ciency of its poor food, may have greater longevity than many of its annulose rela- tives, the insects ; but one of these, during its existence as Jarva find imago, may experi- ence a greater quantity of the changes which constitute life. Nor is it otherwise when we comyſ are 1 he indire evolved with their less evolved among mankind. The difference between the average lengths of the Hives of Savage and civilized is no true meas- ure of the difference between the totalities of their two lives, considered as aggregates of thought, feeling, and action. Hence, estimating life by multiplying its length into its breadth, we must say that the augmenta- tion of it which accompanies evolution of conduct results from increase of both fac- tors. The more multiplied and varied ad- justments of acts to ends, by which the more developed creature from hour to hour fulfils ymore numerous requirements, severally add to the activities that are castried on abreast, and severally help to make greater the period through which such simultaneous activities endure. Each further evolution of conduct widens the aggregate of actions while con- ducing to elongation of it. § 5. Turn we now to a further aspect of the phenomena separate from, but necessa- rily associated with, the last. Thus far we have considered only those adjustments of ucts to ends which have for their final pur- vation of the species. Race-maintaining conduct, like self-maintaining conduct, arises gradually out of that which cannot be called, conduct: adjusted actions are preceded by unadjusted ones. divide and subdivide, in consequence of physical changes over which they have no control, Gr, at other times, after a period of quiescence, break up into minute portions which severally grow in new individuals. In neither case can conduct be alleged. Higher up, the process is that of ripening, at inter- vals, germ-cells and sperm-cells, which, on cecasion, are sent forth into the surrounding water and left to their fate, perhaps one in ten thousand surviving to maturity. Here, again, we see only development and disper- sion going on apart from parental care. Types above these, as fish which choose fit places in which to deposit their ova, or as thc higher crustaceans which carry masses of ova about until they are hatched, exhibit adjustments of acts to ends which we may properly call conduct, though it is of the simplºgº, kind. Where, as among certain fish, ºr: male keeps guard over the eggs, driving away intruders, there is an additional adjustinent of acts to ends, and the applica- bility of the name conduct is more decided. Passing at once to creatures far superior, such as birds, which, building nests and sit- ting on their eggs, feed their broods for con- siderable periods, and give them aid after they can fly, or such as mammals, which, suck- iing their young for a time, continue after- wald to bling them food or protect them while they feed, until they reach ages at which they can provide for themselves, we are shown how this conduct which ful thers race-maintenance evolves hand-in-land with the conduct which furthers self-maintenance. That better organization which makes pos- sible the last makes possible the first also. Munkind exhibit a great progress of iike na- ture. Compared with brutes, the Savage, higher in his self-maintaining conduct, is higher too in his race-maintaining conduct. A larger number of the wants of offspring are provided for ; and parental care, enduring longer, extends to the disciplining of off- spring in arts and habits which fit them for their conditions of existence, Conduct of Protozoa spontaneously | pose complete individual life. Now we have | to consider those adjustments which have for \ their final purpose the life of the species. this order, equally with conduct of the first order, we see becoming evolved in a still greater degree as we ascend from savage to Self-preservation in each generation has all along depended on the preservation of off- spring by preceding generations. . And in proportion as evolution of the conduct sub- serving individual life is high, implying high organization, there must previously have been a highly evolved conduct subserving nurture of the young. Throughout the ascending grades of the animal kingdom, this second ind of conduct presents stages of advance like those which we have observed in the first. Low down, where structures and func- tions are little developed, and the power of adjusting acts to ends but slight, there is no conduct, properly so named, furthering Sal- civilized. in the rearing of children become far more elaborate, alike in number of ends met, vari- ety of means used, and efficiency of their The adjustments of acts to ends', \ | f J adaptations; and the aid and oversight are / continued throughout a much greater part of early life. - - In tracing up the evolution of conduct, so that we may frame a true conception ef con- duct in general, we have thus to recognize these two kinds as mutually dependent. Speaking generally, opither can evolve with: out evolution of the other ; and the highest evolutions of the two must be reached simul taneous" 480 THE DATA OF ETHICS. § 6. To conclude, however, that on reach- ing a perfect adjustment of acts to ends sub- serving individual life and the rearing of off- spring, the evolution of conduct becomes complete, is to conclude erroneously. Or rather, I should say, it is an error to Sup- pose that either of these kinds of conduct can assume its highest form without its highest form being assumed by a third kind of con- duct yet to be named. The multitudimous creatures of all kinds which fill the earth cannot live wholly apart from one another, but are more or less in presence of one another—-are interfered with by one another. In large measure the ad- justinents of acts to ends which we have been considering are components of that “strug- gle for existence” carried on both between members of the same species and between members of different species; and, very gen- erally, a successful adjustment made by one creature involves an unsuccessful adjustment made by another creature, either of the same kind or of a different kind. That the carni- vore may live herbivores must die; and that its young may be reared the younty of weaker creatures must be orphaned 3 Maintenance of the hawk and its brood involves the deaths of many small birds; and that small birds may multiply, their progeny must be fed with innumerable sacrificed worms and larvae. Competition among members of the same species has allied, though less conspicuous, results. The stronger often carries off by force the prey which the weaker has caught. Monopolizing certain huuting grounds, the more ferocious drive others of their kind into less favorable places. With plant-eating an- inlals, too, the like holds : the better food is secured by the more vigorous individuals, while the less vigorous and worse fed suc- cumb either directly from innutrition or in- ditcctly from resulting inability to escape en- emies. That is to Say, among creatures whose lives are carried on antagonistically, each of the two kinds of conduct delineated above must remain imperfectly evolved. Even in such few kinds of them as have lit- tle to fear from enemies or competitors, as lions or tigers, there is still inevitable failure in the adjustments of acts to ends toward the close of life. Death by starvation from inability to catch prey shows a falling short of conduct from its ideal. This imperfectly evolved conduct intro- duces us by antithesis to conduct that is per- fectly evolved. Contemplating these adjust- ments of acts to ends which miss complete- ness because they cannot be made by one creature without other creatures being pre- vented from making them, raises the thought of adjustments such that each creature may make them without preventing them from Being made by other creatures. That the highest form of conduct must be so distin- guished is an inevitable implication ; for while the form of conduct is such that ad- justments of acts to ends by some necessitate non-adjustments by others, there remains Yoom for Knodifications which bring conduct into a form avoiding this, and so making ºne totality of life greater. From the abstract let us pass to the con- Crete. Recognizing men as the beings whose conduct is most evolved, let us ask under What conditions their conduct, in all three as- bects of its evolution, reaches its limit. Clearly while the lives led are entirely pred. atory, as those of savages, the adjustments of acts to ends fall short of this highest form of conduct in every way. Individual life, ill carried on from hour to hour, is prematurely çut short ; the fostering of offspring often fails, and is incomplete when it does not fail; and in so far as the ends of self-maintenance and race-maintenance are met, they are met by destruction of other beings, of different kind or of like kind. In sucial groups form- ed by compounding and recompounding primitive hordes, conduct remains imper. fectly evolved in proportion as there con- tinue antagonisms between the groups and antagonisins between members of the same group—two traits necessarily associated, Since the nature which prompts international aggression prompts aggression of individuals on One another. * Hence the limit of evolu- tion can be reached by conduct only in per- manently peaceful societies. That perfect adjustment of acts to ends, in maintaining in- dividual life and rearing new individuals, which is effected by each without hindering others from effecting like perfect adjust. ments, is, in its very definition, showit to constitute a kind of conduct that can be ap- proached only as war decreases and dies out.' A gap in this outline must now be filled up. There remains a further advance not yet even hinted. For beyond so behaving that each achieves his ends without preventing others from achieving their ends, the mem- bers of a society may give mutual help in the achievement of ends And if, either indi- rectly by industrial co-operation, or directly by Volunteered aid, fellow-citizens can make easier for one another the adjustments of acts to ends, then their conduct assumes a still higher phase of evolution, since whatever facilitates the making of adjustments b each increases the totality of the adjust & ments made, and serves to render the lives of/ all more complete. . § 7. The reader who recalls certain pas- sages in First Principles, in the Principles of Biology, and in the Principles of Psychology, will perceive above a restatement, in ans other form, of generalizations set forth in those works. Especially will he be remind- ed of the proposition that life is “ the defi. nite combination of heterogeneous changes, both simultaneous and successive, in corre. spondence with external coexistences and sequences;” and still more of that abridged and less specific formula in which life is said to be “the continuous adjustment of internal relations to external relations.” 'The presentation of the facts here made differs from the presentations before made, mainly by ignoring the inner part of the cor- respondence and attending exclusively to ; . THE DATA OF ETHICS. 481 that outer part constituted of visible actions. But the two are in harmony ; and the reader who wishes further to prepare himself for dealing with our present topic from the cvo- lution point of view, may advantageously join to the foregoing more special aspect of the phenomena the more general aspects be- fore delineated. After this passing remark, I recur to the main proposition set forth in these two chap- ters, which has, I think, been fully justified. Guided by the truth that as the conduct with which ethics deals is part of conduct ut large, conduct at large must be generally under- stood before this part can be specially un- derstood ; and guided by the further truth that to understand conduct at large we must understand the evolution of conduct, we have been led to see that ethics has for its subject-matter that form which universal conduct assumes during the last stages of its evºlution. We have also concluded that these last stages in the evolution of conduct are those displayed by the highest type of. being, when he is forced, by increase of num- bers, to live more and more in presence of his fellows. And there has followed the corollary that conduct gains ethical sanction in pro- portion as the activities, becoming less and less Inilitant and more and more industrial, are sºch as do not necessitate mutual injury or hinderance, but consist with, and are fur- thered by, co-operation and mutual aid. These implications of the evolution hy- pothesis we shall now see harmonize with the leading moral ideas men have otherwise reached. CHAPTER III. GOOD AND IBAD CONDUC's, § 8. By comparing its meanings in differ- ent connections and observing what they have in common, we learn the essential mean- ing of a word ; and the essential meaning of a word that is variously applied may best be learned by comparing with one another those applications of it which diverge most widely. Let us thus ascertain what good and bad mean. ln which cases do we distinguish as good, a knife, a gun, a house 7 And what trait leads us to speak of a bad umbrella or a bad pair of boots? The characters here pred- ićated by the words good and bad are not intrinsic characters, for, apart from human wants, such things have neither merits nor demerits. We call these articles good or bad according as they are well or ill adapted to achieve prescribed ends. The good knife is one which will cut ; the good gun is one which carries far and true; the good house is one which duly yields the shelter, com- fort, and accommodation sought for. Con- versely, the badness alleged of the umbrella or the pair of boots refers to their failures in fulfilling the ends of keeping off the rain and comfortably protecting the feet, with due regard to appearances. So is it when we pass from inanimate objects to inanimate actions. We call a day bad in which storms prevent us from satisfying certain of our desires. A good season is the expression used when the weather has favored the pro- duction of valuable crops. If frºm lifeless things and actious we pass to living ones, we similarly find that these words in their cur- rent applications refer to efficient subser- vience. The goodness or badness of a pointer Or a hunter, of a sheep or an ox, ignoring all other attributes of these creatures, refer in the one case to the fitness of their actions for effecting the chds Inen use them for, and in the other case to the qualities of their flesh as adapting it to support human life. And those doings of iden which, morally consid- ered, are indifferent we class as good or bad according to their success or failure. A good jump is a jump which, remoter ends ig- Inored, well achieves the immediate purpose of a jump ; and a stroke at billiards is called good when the movements are skilfully ad- justed to the requirements. Oppositely, the badness of a walk that is shuffling and an utterance that is indistinct is alleged be- cause of the rºlative non-adaptations of the acts to the ends. Thus recognizing the meanings of good and bad as other wise used, we shall under- stand better their Ineanings as used in char- acterizing conduct under its ethical aspects. Here, too, observation shows that we apply , them according as the adjustments of acts to ends are or are not efficient. This truth is somewhat disguised. The entanglement of Social relations is such that men’s actions often simultaneously affect the welfares of self, of offspring, and of fellow-citizens. Hence results confusion in judging of ac- tions as good or bad, since actions well fitted to achieve ends of one order may pre- vent ends of the other orders from being achieved. Nevertheless, when we disentangle the three orders of ends, and consider each separately, it becomes clear that the conduct which achieves each kind of end is regarded as relatively good, and is regarded as rela- tively bad if it fails to achieve it. Take first the primary set of adjustments— those subserving individual life. Apart from approval or disapproval of his ulterior aims, a man who fights is said to make a good defence if his defence is well adapted for self-preservation ; and, the judgments on other aspects of his conduct remaining the same, he brings down on himself an unfavor- able verdict, in so far as his immediate acts are concerned, if these arefutile. The good- ness ascribed to a man of business, as such, is measured by the activity and ability with which he buys and sells to advantage, and may coexist with a hard treatment of de- pendents which is reprobated. Though in repeatedly lending money to a friend who sinks one loan after another, a man is doing that which considered in itself is held praise. worthy, yet if he does it to the extent of bringing on his own ruin he is held blame- worthy for a self-sacrifice carried too far. And thus is it with the opinions we express 482 THE DATA *) F ETHICS. from hour to nour Jn those acts of people around which bear on their health and per- sonal welfare. “You should not have done that” is the reproof given to one who crosses the street amid a dangerous rush of vehicles. “You ought to have changed your clºthes” is said to another who has taken cold after getting wet. “You were right to take a receipt,” “you were wrong to invest without advice,” icisms. All such approving and disapprov- ing utterances make the tacit assertion that, other things equal, conduct is right or wrong according as its special acts, well or ill adjusted to special ends, do or do not further the general end of self-preservation. These ethical judgments we pass on self. regarding acts are crdinarily little empha- sized ; partly because the promptings of the self-regarding desires, generally strong enough, do not need moral enforcement, and partly because the promptings of the other regarding desires, less strong and often over- ridden, do need moral enforcement. IIence results a contrast. On turning to that second class of adjustments of acts to ends which subserve the rearing of offspring, we no long- er find any obscurity in the application of the words good and bad to them, according as they are efficient or inefficient. The ex- pressions good nursing and bad nursing, whether they refer to the supply of food, the quality and amount of clothing, or the due ministration to infantine wants from hour to hour, tacitly recognize as special ends which ought to be fulfilled the furthering of the vital functions, with a view to the general cud of continued life and growth. A moth- er is called good who, ministering to all the physical needs of her children, also adjusts her behavior in ways conducive to their mental health ; and a bad father.is ong who cither does not provide the necessaries of life for bis family, or otherwise acts in a manner injurious to their bodies or minds. Similar- ly of the cducation given to them or pro- vided for them. Goodness or badness is affirmed of it (often with little consistency, however) according as its methods are so adapted to playsical and psychical require- ments as to further the children's lives for the time being, while preparing them for :arrying on complete and prolonged adult life. - - Most emplmatic, however, are the applica- Yicns of the words good and bad to conduct throughout that third division of it compris- ing the deeds by which men affect one an- other. In Iſlaintaining their own lives and fostering their offspring, men’s adjustments of acts to ends are so apt to hinder the kin- dred adjustments of other men that insistance on the needful limitations has to be perpet- ual ; and the mischiefs caused by men's in- terferences with one another's life-subserv- ing actions are so great that the interdicts have to be peremptory. Hence the fact that the words good and bad have come to be specially associated with acts which further "he complete living of others and acts which are Common crite obstruct their complete living. Goeulxess, standing by itself, suggests, above all other things, the conduct of one wilo aids the sick in reacquiring normal vitality, assists the unfortunate to recover the ineans of maintaining themselves, defends those who are thi eatened with harm in person, prop- eity, or reputation, and aids whatever prom- ices to improve the living of all his fel- lows. Contrariwise, badness brings to mind, as its leading correlative, the conduct of one who, in carrying on his own life, damage; the lives ºf t.thers by injuring their bodies, Kicstroying their possessions, defrauding thcrº, calumniating them. r * Always, then, acts it e calley' ,ood or bad according as they are well or i., adjusted to ends, and whatev Gr inconsistency there is in our uses of the words, arises from incon- sistency of the cinds. Ilere, however, the study of conduct in general, and of the evo- lution of conduct, have prepared us to har- monize these interpretations. The foregoing exposition shows that the conduct to which we apply the name good is the relatively more evolved conduct, and that bad is the name we apply to conduct which is rela- tively less evolved. We saw that evolu- tion, tending ever toward self-preservation, reaches its limit when individual life is the greatest, both in length and breadth ; a rºtt now we see that, leaving other ends aside, we regard as good the conduct furthering 'self-preservation, and as bad the conduct tending to self-destruction. It was shown that along with increasing power of main- taining individual life, which evolution brings, there goes increasing power of per- petuating the species by fostering progeny, and that in this direction evolution reaches its limit when the needful number of young, preserved to maturity, are then fit for a life that is complete in fulness and duration ; and here it turns out that parental conduct is called good or bad as it approaches or falls short of this ideal result. Lastly, we infer- red that establishment of an associated state both makes possible and requires a form of conduct such that life may be completed in each and in his offspring, not only without preventing completion of it in others, but with furtherance of it in others; and we have found above that this is the form of conduct most emplmatically termed good. Moreover, just as we there saw that evoluiion becomes the highest possible when the conduct simul- taneously achieves the greatest totality of life in self, in offspring, and in fellow-men : so here we sce that the conduct called good rises to the conduct conceived as best when it fulfils all three classcs of ends at the sang time. - § 9. Is there any postulate involved in these judgment: un conductº Is there any assumption made in calling good the acts conducive to life, in self, or others, and bad those which directly or indirectly tend tow- ard death, special or general 2 Yes; an assumption of extreme significance has been made—an assumption underlying all moral THE DATAT OF ETHICS. 483 estimates. . The question to be definitely raised and an swered before entering on any ethical discus, sion, is the question of late much agitated : Is life worth living ? Shall we take the pes- simist view 2 or shall we take the optimist view 2 or shall we, after weighing pessimis- tic and optimistic arguruents, conclude that the balance is in favor of a qualified opti- Inism 2 On the answer to this question depends cmtirely every decision concerning the good- mess or badness of conduct. By those who think life is Ilot a benefit but a misfortune, conduct which prolongs it is to be blamed rather than praised : " the euding of an un- desirable existence being the thing to be wished, that which causes the ending of it must be applauded ; while actions furthering its continuance, either in Sülf or others, must be reprobated. Those who, on the other hand, take an optimistic view, or who, if not pure optimists, yet hold that in life the good exceeds the evil, are cornmitted to op- posite Cstimates, and must regard as con- duct to be approved that which fosters life in self and, others, and as conduct to be disap- proved that which injures or endangers life in self or others, The ultimate question, therefore, is: Has evolution been a mistake, and especially : that evolution which improves the adjustment of acts to ends in ascending stages of organ- ization ? If it is lield that there had better not have been any animate existence at all, and that the Sooner it comes to an cmd the better, then one set of conclusions with re- spect to conduct emerges. If, contrariwise, it is held that there is a balance in favor of animate existence, and if, still further, it is held that in the future this balance may be increased, then the opposite set of conclu- sions emerges. Even should it be alleged that the worth of life is not to be judged by its intrinsic character, but rather by its extrinsic sequefices—by certain results to be anticipated when life has passed—the ulti- mate issue reappears in a new shape. For though the accompanying 31 ce; may nega- tive a deliberate shortening ºf X:fe that is ruiserable, it cannot justify a gratuitous lengthening of such life. i.egislation con- ducive to increased longevity would, on the pessimistic view, remain blamable, while it would be praiseworthy on the optimistic view. - - But now have these irreconcilable of inions anything in common ? Men being divisible into two schools differing on this ultimate question, the inquiry arises: Is there any. thing which their ladically opposed views alike take for granted ?. In the optimistic proposition, tacitly made when using the words good and bad after the ordinary man- ner, and in the pessimistic proposition overtly made, which implies that the words good and bad should be used in the reverse st uses, does examination disclose any joint proposition—any proposition , which, con- *ained in both of them, may be held more certain than either—any universally asserted proposition ? § 10. Yes, there is one postulate in which pessimists and optimists agree. life is good or bad according as it dues or Both their arguments assume it to be self-evident that l does not bring a surplus of agreeable feel- ing. The pessimist says he condemns life because it results in more pain than pleas- ure. The optimist defends life in the belief that it brings more pleasure than pain. Each makes the kind of sentiency which accom- panies life the 1est. They agree that the justification for life as a state of being turns on this issue—whether the average con- sciousness rises above Indifference-point into pleasurable feeling or falls below it into painful feeling. The implication common to their antagonist views is, that conduct should conduce to preservation of the individual, of the family, and at the society, only suppos- ing that life brings more happiness than mis- ery. º Changing the venue cannot alter the verdict. If either the pessimist, while say- ing that the pains of life predominate, or the optimist, while Saying that the pleas- ures predominate, urges that the pains borne here are to be compensated by pleas- ures received hereafter, and that so life, whether or not justified in its immediate results, is justified in its ultimate Iesults, the iimplication remains the same. The de- cision is still reached by balancing pleasures against pains. Animate existence would be judged by both a curse if to a surplus of misery borne here were added a surplus of misery to be borne hereafter. And for either to regard animate existence as a blessing, if here its pains were held to exceed its pleas- ures, he must hold that hereafter its pleas- ures will excecd its pains. good the conduct which subscrves life, and bad the conduct which hinders or destroys it, and in so implying that life is a blessing and not a curse, we are inevitably asserting that conduct is good or bad according as its total / effects are pleasurable or painful. One theory only is imaginable, in pur- suance of which other interpretations of good and bad can be given. This theory is that men were created with the intention that they smould be sources of misery to them. selves, and that they are bound to continue living that their Creator may have the satisfac tion of contemplating their misery. Though this is not a theory avowedly entertained by many—though it is not formulated by any in this distinct way, yet not a few do accept it under a disguised form. Inferior creeds are pervaded by the belief that the sight of suffering is pleasing to the gods. Derived Thus there is no escape from the admission that in calling . from bloodthirsty ancestors, such gods are . naturally conceived as gratified by the in- fliction of pain : when living they delighted in torturing other beings, and witnessing torture is gupposed still to give them delight. The implied conceptions long survive. It needs but to name Indian fakirs who Hang 484 OF ETHICS. THE DATA on hooks, and Eastein del Włsues Who gasºl themselves, to show that in societies consid- erably Advanced are sºil; to be found many who think that submission to anguish brings divine favor. And without enlarging on fasts and penances, it will be clear that there has existed, and still exists, among Christian peoples, the belief that the Deity whom Jeph- thah thought to propitiale by Sacrificing his daughter may be propitialed by self-in- ficted pains. Further, the conception ac- companying this, that acts pleasing to self are offensive to God, has survived along with it, and still widely prevails ; if not in formulated dogmas, yet in beliefs that are manifestly operative. Doubtless in mo lern days such beliefs have assurned qualified forms. The satisfac- tion which ferocious gods were supposed to feel in contemplating to tui es has been in large measure transfornied into the satisfac- tion felt by a deity in cºntemplating that self-infliction of pain which is held to fur- ther eventual happiness. Iłut clearly those who entertain this modified view are ex- cłuded from the class whose position we are here considering. Restricting out selves to this class—supposing that from the Savage who immolates victims to a cannihal god there are descendants among the civilized who hold that mankind were made for suffering, and that it is their duty to con- tinue living in misery for the delight of their Maker, we can only recognize the fact that devil-worshippers are not yet extinct. Omitting people of this class, if there are any, as beyond or beneath argument, we find that all others avowedly or tacitly hold that the final justification for maintaining life can only be the reception from it of a sur- plus of pleasurable feeling over painful feel- ing, and that goodness or badness can be ascribed to acts which subserve life or hin- der life only on this supposition. And here we are brought rourº to those primary meanings of the words goºd and bad which we passed over when consider- ing their secondary meanings. For on 1 e- membering that we call good and bad the things which immediately produce agreeable and disagreeable sensations, and also the Sen- sations themselves—a good wine, a good ap- petite, a bad smell, a bad ineadache—we see that, by referring directly to pleasures and pains, these meanings harmonize with those which indirectly refer to pleasures and pains. If we call good the enjoyable state itself, as a good laugh—if we call good the proximate cause of an enjoyable state, as good music— if we call good any agent which conduces immediately or remotely to an enjoyable state, as a good shop, a good teacher—if we call so adjusted to its end as to further self- preservation and that surplus of enjoy- ment which Inakes self-preservation de- sirable—if we call good every kind of conduct which aids the lives of others, that life brings Inore happiness than misery, then it. and do this under the belief ood, considered intrinsically, each act 'pecomes undeniable that, taking into ac, count immediate and remote effects on al? pºons the good is universally the pleasura- ble. § 11. Sundry influences—moral, theolog- ical, and political—conspire to make people isguise from themselves this truth. As in narrower cases so in this widest case they become so preoccupied with the means by which an end is achieved as eventually to mistake it for the end. Just as money, which is a means of satisfying wants, comes to be regarded by a miser as the sole thing to he worked for, leaving the wants unsatisfied, So the conduct man have found preferable because most conſiucive to happiness has come to be thouglit of as intrinsically prefer- able : not Ouly to be made a proximate end (which it shºuliſ be), but to be made an ul- timate end, to the exclusion of the trug ultimate end. And yet cross-examination quickly compels cvery one to confess the true ultimate end, Just as the miser, asked to justify himself, is obliged to allege the power of money to purchase desirable things as his reason for prizing it, so the moralist who thinks this conduct intrinsically gºod and that intrinsically had, if pushed home, has no choice but to fall back on their pleasure- giving and pain-giving effects. To prove this it necds but to observe how impossible it would be to think of them as we do if their effects were reversed. Suppose that gashes and bruises caused agreeable sensations, and brought in their train increased power of doing work and re- ceiving enjoyment ; should we regard as- sault in the same manner as at present 2 Or suppose that self-mutilation, say by cutting off a band, was both intrinsically pleasant and furthered performance of the processes by which personal welfare and the welfare of dependents is achieved ; should we hold, as now, that deliberate injury to one's own body is to be reprobated ? Or, again, sup- pose that picking a man’s pocket excited in him joyful emotions by brightening his prospects; would theft be counted among crimes, as in existing law-books and moral codes 2 In these extreme cases, no one can deny that what we call the badness of ac- tions is ascribed to them solely for the reason that they entail pain, immediate or remote, and would not be so ascribed did they entail pleasure. . - if we examine our conceptions on their ob- verse side, this general fact forces itself on our attention with equal distinctness. Imag- ine that ministering to a sick person always increased the pains of illness. Imagine that an orphan's relatives who took charge of it. thereby necessarily brought miseries upon it. Imagine that liquidating another man's pecuniary claims on you redounded to his disadvantage. Imagine that crediting a max with noble behavior hindered his social weł fare and consequent gratification. Whaf should we say to these acts which now fal into the class we call praiseworthy 2 Should we not contrariwise class them as hlamſ: THE DATA OF ETHICS. 485 2worthy 2 - ‘Using, then, as our tests these most pro- nounced forms of good and bad conduct, we find it unquestionable that our ideas of their goodness and badness really originate from our consciousness of the certainty or proba- bility that they will produce pleasures or A Ethical syste pains somewhere. And this truth is brought out with equal clearness by examining the standards of different moral schools; for an- alysis shows that every one of them derives its authority from this ultimate standard. as are roughly distinguishable according as they take for their cardinal ideas (1) the character of the agent ; (2) the nature of liis motive ; (3) the quality of his deeds; and (4) the results. Each of these may be characterized as good or bad ; and ºthose who do not estimate a mode of life hy / duct in terms of itself. its effects on happiness, estimate it by the implied goodness or badness in the agent, in his motive, or in his deeds. We have per- fection in the agent set up as a test by which conduct is to be judged. Apart from the agent we have his feeling considered as moral. And apart from the feeling we have luis action considered as virtuous. Though the distinctions thus indicated have so little definiteness that the words Imal king them are used interchangeably, yet there currespond to them doctrines partially unlike one another, which we may here con- veniently examine separately, with the view of showing that all their tests of goodness are derivative. § 12. It is strange that a notion so abstract. as that of perſection, or a certain ideal com- pleteness of nature, should ever have been thought one from which a system of guid- ance can be evolved ; as it was in a general way by Plato and more distinctly by Jona- than Edwards. Perfection is synonymous with goodness in the highest degree ; and hence to define good conduct in terrns of perfection is indirectly to define good con- Naturally, thcro- , fore, it happens that the notion of perfection, ‘like the notion of goodness, can be framed only in relation to cnds. w We allege imperfection of any inanimate thing, as a tool, if it lacks some part needful for effectual action, or if some part is so shapetl as not to fulfil its purpose in the best manner. Perfection is alleged of a watch if it keeps oxact timue, however plain its case : and imperfection is alleged of it because of inaccurate time-kceping, however beautifully it is ornamented. Though we call things imperfect if we detect in them any injuries cºr iiaws, even when these do not detract from efficiency, yet we do this because they imply that inferior workizianship or that wear and tear with which inefficiency is commonly joined in cyperience, absence of minor imperfections being habitually associ- ated with absence of major imperfections. As applied to living things, the word per- fection has the same meaning. The idca of perfect shape in a racc-horse is derived by generalization from those obscrved traids ºf race-horses which have usually gone along with attainment of the highest speed ; and the idea of perfect constitution in a race- horse similarly refers to the endurance which enables him to continue that speed for the longest time. With men, physically consid- ered, it is the same : we are able to furnish no other test of perfection than that of com- plete power in all the organs to fulfil their respective functions. That our conception of perfect balance among the internal parts and of perfect proportion among the exter- nal parts originates thus, is made clear by observing that imperfection of any viscus, as lungs, heart, or liver, is ascribed for no other reason than inability to meet in full the demands which the activities of the or- gunism make on it, and on observing that the conception of insufficient size or of too great size in a limb is derived from accu- Inulated experiences respecting that ratio among the limbs which furthers in the high- est degree the performance of all needful actions. And of perfection in mental nature we have no other measure. If imperfection of memory, cf judgment, of temper is aileged, it is alleged because of inadequacy to the re- quirements of life ; and to imagine a perfect balance of the intellectual powers and of the emotions is to imagine that proportion among them which insures an entire discharge of each and every obligation as the occasion calls for it. '. So that the perfection of man, considered as an agent, means the being constituted for effecting complete adjustment of acts to ends. of every kind. And since, as shown above, , the complete adjustment of acts to ends. is that which both secures and constitutes. the life that is most evolved, alike in breadth. and length, while, as also shown, the justi- fication for whatever increases life is the re- ception from life of more happiness than misery, it follows that conduciveness to happiness is the ultimate test of perfection. in a man's nature. To be fully convinced of this it needs but to observe how the propo- sition looks when inverted. It needs but to suppose that every approach toward perfec- tion involved greater misery to self, or others, or both, to show by opposition that approach to perfection really means ap- proach to that which secures greater haps piness. - - § 13. Pass we now from the view of those who make excellence of being the standard to the view Uf those who make virtuousness of action the standard. I do not here refer to moralists who, having decided empirically or rationally, inductively or deductively, that acts of certain kinds have the character we call virtuous, argue that such acts are to be performed without regard to proximate consequences : these have ample justifica- tion. 13ut I refer to moralists who suppose themselvcs to have conceptions of virtue as an end underived from any other end—who think that the idea of virtue is not resolvable into simpler idcas. 486 THE DATA OF ETHICS. This is the doctrine which appears to have been entertained by Aristotle. I say ap- pears to have been, because his statements are far from consistent with one another. IRecognizing happiness as the Supreme end of human endeavor, it would at first sight seem that he cannot be taken as typical of those who make virtue the supreme end. Yet he puts himself in this category by seek- ing to define happiness in terms of virtue, instead of defining sº virtue in terms of hap- piness. The imperfect separation of words from things which characterizes Greek speculation in general seems to lave been the cause of this. In primitive thought the name and the olject named are associated in such wise that the one is regarded as a part of the other—so much so, that Knowing a savage's name is considered by him as hav- ing some of his being, and a consequent power to work evil on him. This belief in a real connection between word and thing, continuing through luwer stages of progress, and long surviving in the tacit assiſimption that the meanings of words are int1 insic, pervades the dialogues of Plato, and is tracc- able even in Aristotle, For otherwise it is not easy to see why he should lave so in- completely dissociated the abstract idea of happiness from particular forms of hap- piness. Naturally where the divorcing of words as symbols from things as symbol- ized is impet fect, there must be difficulty in giving to abstract words a sufficiently ab- stract meaning. If in the first stages of lan- guage the concrete name cannot be separated in thought from the concrete object it be- longs to, it is inferable that, in the course of forming successively higher grades of ab- stract names, there will have to be resisted the tendency to interpret each more abstract name in terms of some one class of the less abstract names it covers. Hence, I think, the fact that Aristotle supposes happiness to be associated with some one order of human activities, rather than with all orders of human activities. Instead of including in it the pleasurable feelings accompanying actions that constitute mere living, which actions he says man has in common will; vegetables, and instead of making it include the mental states which the life of external perception yields, which he says man has in common with animals at large, he excludes these from his idea of happiness, and in- cludes in it only the modes of consciousness accompanying rational life. Asserting that the proper work of man “consists in the active exercise of the mental capacities con- formably to reason,” he concludes that “the supreme good of man will consist in performing this work with excellence or vir- tue : heroin he will obtain happiness.” And he finds confirmation for his view in its correspondence with views previously enun- ciated, saying, “our notion nearly agrees with theirs who place happiness in virtue ; for we say that it consists in the action of virtue—that is, not merely in the possession, but in the use.” - Now the implied belief that virtue can be defined otherwise than in terms of happiness (for clae the proposition is that happiness is to be obtained by actions conducive to lap- piness) is allied to the Platonic belief that there is an ideal cr absolute good, which gives to particular and relative goods their property of goodness; and an argument an- àlogous to that which Aristotle uses against Plato's conception of good may be used against his own conception of virtue. As with good so with virtue—it is not singular but plural : in Aristotle's own classification, virtue, when treated of at large, is trans- formed into virtues. Those which he calls Virtues must be so called in consequence of some common character that is either intrin- sic or extrinsic. We may class things to- gether either because they are made alike by all having in themselves some peculiarity, as we do vertebrate animals because they all have vertebral columns, or we may class them together because of some community in their outer relations, as when we group saws, knives, mallets, harrows, under the head of tools. , Are the virtues classed as such because of some intrinsic community of nature ? Then there must be identifiable a common trait in all the cardinal virtues which Aristotle specifies—“Courage, Tern- perance, Liberality, Magnanimity, Magnifi- cence, Meekiness, Amiability or Friendliness, Truthfulness, Justice.” What now is the trait possessed in common by magnificence and meekness? and if any such common trait can be disentangled, is it that which also constitutes the essential trait in truthful- ness 2 The answer must be—No. The vir- tues, then, not being classed as such because of an intrinsic community of character, must be classed as such because of something ex- trinsic ; and this something can be nothing clse than the happiness which Aristotle says consists in the practise of them. They are united by their common relation to this re- sult, while they are not united by their in- Il CI 11:ltul G.S. Perhaps still fuore clearly may the infer- cnce be drawn thus : If virtue is primordial and independent, no reason can be given why there should be any correspondence between virtuous conduct and conduct that is pleas- ure-giving in its total effects on self, or others, or both ; and if there is not a neces- sary correspondence, it is conceivable tijat the conduct classed as virtuous should be pain-giving in its total effects. That we Imay see the consequence of so conceiving it, let us take the two virtues considered as typ- ically such in ancient times and in modern times—courage and chastity. By the hypo- thesis, then, courage, displayeſi alike in self- defence and in defence of country, is to be conceived as not only cntailing pains inci- dentally, but as being necessarily a cause of misery to the individual and to the state ; while, by implication, the absence of it re- dounds to personal and general well-being. Similarly, by the hypothesis, we have to con- ceiye that irregular sexual relations are THE DATA OF ETEIICS. 487 directly and indirectly beneficial—that adul- tery is conducive to domestic harmony and “he careful rearing of children, while mar- ital relations, in proportion as they are per- sistent, generate discord between husband and wife, and entail on their offspring suffer- ing, disease, and death. Unless it is as: seited that courage and chastity could still be thought of as virtues, though thus productive of misery, it must be adr:litted that the con- ception of virtue cannot be separated from the conception of happiness-producing con- duet ; and that as this holds of all the vir. tues, however otherwise unlike, it is from their conduciveness to happiness that they come to be classed as virtues. § 14. When from those ethical estimates which take perfection of nature or virtu- ousness of action as tests we pass to thosg which take for test rectitude of motive, we approach the intuitional theory of morals : and we may conveniently deal with such estimates by a criticism on this theory. By the intuitional theory I liere mean not / that which recognizes as produced by the in- herited effects of continued experiences the feelings of liking and a version we have to acts of certain kinds, but I mean the theory which regards such feelings as divinely given, and as independent of results experi- tnced by self or ancestors. “There is there- fore,” says Hutcheson, “as cach one by close attention and reflection may convince himself, a natural and immediate determina- tion to approve certain affections, and actions consequent upon them ;” and since, in common with others of his time, he be- lieves in the special creation of man and ail uther beings, this “natural sense of imme- diate excellence” he considers as a super naturally derived guide. Though he says that the feelings and acts thus intuitively rec- ognized as good ‘‘tºl agree in oue general character, of tentling to the happiness of others,” yet he is obliged to conceive this as a preordained correspondence. Neverthe- less, it may be shown that conduciveness tº happiness, here lepresented as an incidental trait of the acts which receive these inmate moral approvals, is I cally the test by which thcse approvals are recognized as moral. The intuitionists place confidence in these verdicts of conscience, simply because they vaguely, if not distinctly, perceive them to be consonant with the disclosures of that ultimate test. Observe the proof. By the hypothesis, the wrongness of mur- der is known by a moral intuition which the human mind was originally constituted to yield, and the hypothesis therefore negatives the admission that this sense of its wrong- hess alises, immediately or remotely, from the consciousness that murder involves de- duction from happiness directly and indi- rectly. But if you ask an adherent of this doctrine to contrast lis intuition with that of the Fijian, who, considering murder an hon- diable action, is 1 estless until he has distin- guished himself by killing some one, and if wou inquite ºf him in what way the civilized by it. intuition is to be justified in opposition to the intuition of the savage, no course is open save that of showing how conformity to the one conduces to well-being, while conform- ity to the other entails suffering, individual and general. When asked why the moral sense which tells him that it is wrong to take another man’s goods should be obeyed rather than the moral sense of a Turcoman, who proves how meritorious he considers theft to be by making pilgrimages to the tombs of noted robbers to make offerings, the intuitionist can do nothing but urge that certainly under conditions like ours, if not also under conditions like those of the Tur- comans, disregard of men's claims to their property not only inflicts immediate misery, but involves a social state inconsistent with happiness. Or if, again, there is required from him a justification for his feeling of re- pugnance to lying, in contrast with the feel- ing of an Egyptian, who prides himself ori skill in lying (even thinking it praiseworthy to deceive without any further end than that cf practising deception), he can do no more than point to the social prosperity furthered ly entire trust between man and man, and the social disorganization that follows uni- versal untruthfulness—consequences that are necessarily conducive to agreeable feelings and disagreeable feelings respectively. The unavoidable conclusion is, then, that\ the intuitionist does not and cannot ignore the ultimate derivations of right and wrong from pleasurc and pain. However much h may be guided, and rightly guided, by the decisions of conscience respecting the char- acters of acts, he has corne to have confi- dence in these decisions, because he perceives vaguely but positively that conformity to them furthers the welfare of himself and others, and that disregard of them entails in the long run suffering on all. - to name any moral-sense judgment by which he knows as right some kind of act that will bring a surplus cf pain, taking into account the totals in this life and in any assumed other life, and you find him unable to name one— a fact proving that underneath all these in- tuitions respecting the goodness or badness of acts there lics the fundamental assump- tion that acts are good or bad according as their aggregate cffects increase men's happi- ness or increase their Inisery. § 14. It is curious to see how the devil- worship of the savage, surviving in various disguises among the civilized, and leaving as one of its products that asceticism which in many forms and degrees still prevails widely, is to be found influencing in marked ways men who have apparently emancipated them- selves, not only from primitive superstitions, but from more developed superstitions. Vicws of life and conduct which originated with those who propitiatell deified ancestors by self-tortures enter even still into the ethi- cal theories of many persons who have years since cast away the theology of the past, and suppose themselves to be uo longer influence * Tequire him ` ; \ 488 THE DATA CF ETHICS. In the writings of one who rejects dogmatic Christianity together with the Hebrew cult which preceded it, a career of conquest cost- ing tens of thousands of lives is narrated with a sympathy comparable to that rejoic- ing which the Hebrew traditions show us over destruction of cnemies in the name of God. You may find, too, a delight in con- templating the exercise of despotic power, joined with insistance on the salutariness of a state in which the wills of slaves and citi- Eens are humbly subject to the wills of mas- ters and rulers—a scntiment also reminiling us of that ancient Oriental life which biblical narratives portray. Along with this ºorship of the strong man—along with this justifica- tion of whatever force may be needed for carrying out his ambition—along with this yearning for a form of society in which supremacy of the few is unrestrained and the virtue of the many consists in obedience to them, we not unnaturally finil repudiation of the ethical theory which takes, in some shape or other, the greatest happiness as the end of conduct : we not unnaturally find this utilitarian philosophy designa'ed by the con- temptuous title of ‘‘ pig-philosophy.” And then, serving to show what comprehension there has been of the philosophy so nick- named, we are told that not happiness but blessedness must be the criſł. Obviously, the implicatiºn is that blessed- ness is not a kind of happiness; and this * º tº º dº tº Q implication at ontº sugge 13 the question, What mode of feeling is it If it is a state of consciousness at all, it is necessarily one of three states—-painful, indifferent, or pleas- urable. Does it leave the possessor at the zero point of sentiency 2 Then it leaves him just as he would be if he had not gºt it. Does it not leave him at the zero pºint 7 Then it must leave him below zero or above Zºërſ). . Each of these possibilitics may be con- ceived under two forms. That to which the term blessedness is applied may be a partic- ular state of consciousness—one among the Imany states that occur ; and on this supposi- tion we have to recognize it as a pleasurable state, an indifferent state, or a painful state. Otherwise blessedness is a word not applicas ble to a particular state of consciousness, but characterizes the aggregate of its states ; and in this case the average of the aggregate is to be conceived as one in which the pleasur- able predominates, or one in which the pain, ful predominates, or one in which pleasures and paius exactly cancel onc another. i.et us take in turn these two imaginalle appli- cations of the word. “Blessed are the merciſul,” “Blessed are the peacemakers,” “Blessed is he that considereth the poor,” are sayings which we may fairly take as conveying the accept- &d meaning of blessedness. What now shall we say of one who is, for the time being, blessed in performing an act of mercy 2 Is his mental state pleasurable 2 If so the hy- ..pothesis is abandoned : blessedness is a par- :ticular form of happiness. Is the state in- * º duct. different or painful? In that case the blessed man is so devoid of sympathy that relicving another from pain or the fear of pain leaves him either wholly unmoved or gives him an unpleasant cmotion. Again, if one who is blessed in making peace receives no gratifi- cation from the act, then seeing men injure each other does not affect him at all, or gives him a pleasure which is changed into a pain when he prevents the injury. Once more, to say that the blessedness of one who ‘‘considereth the poor” implies no agreeable feeling is to say that his consideration for the poor leaves him without feeling or enfails on him a disagreeable feeling. So that if blessedness is a patticular mode of con- Sciousness témporarily existing as a concom- ilant ºf each kind of beneficent action, those who deny that it is a pleasure or constituent of happiness confess themselves cither not pleased by illc welfare of others or dis- pleased by it. Otherwise understood, blessedness must, as we have scen, 1.cfer to the totality of feel- ings experienced during the life of one who occupies himself with the actions the word Connotes. This also presents the three pos- Sibilities—surplus of pleasures, surplus of pains, cquaiity of the twº). If the pleasur. able states are in excess, then the blessed life can be distinguished frºm any other pleasur- able life only by the relative amount or the quality of its pleasures: it is a life which makes happiness of a certain kind and de- gree its end ; and the assumption that blessedness is not a form of happiness lapses. If the blessed life is one in which the pleasures and pains received balance one an- other, so producing an average that is in- different, or if it is one in which the pleas- ures are out balanced by the pains, then tho blessed life has the character which the pes. simist alleges of life at large, and therefore regaré's it as cursed. Annihilation is best, Ile will argue, since if an average that is in- different is the outcome of the loléssed life, annihilatiºn at once achieves it, and if a surplus of suffering is the outcome of this highest kind of life called blessed, still more should life in general be ended. A possible rejoinder must be named and disposed of. While it is admitted that the particular kind of consciousness accompany- ing conduct that is blessed is pleasurable, it may be contended that pursuance of this conduct and receipt of the pleasure blings by the implied self-denial and persistent effort, and perhaps bodily injury, a suffering that exceeds it in amount. And it may then be urged that blesseducss, characterized by this excess of aggregate pains over aggregate pleasures, should nevertheless be pursued as an end, rather than the happiness constituted by excess of pleasures over pains. But now, defensible though this conception of blessed- ncSS may be when limited to one individual, or some individuals, it becomes indcfensible when extended to all individuals ; as it must be if blessedness is taken for the end of con- To see this we need but ask for what THE DATA CF ETIIICS. 489 purpose are these pains in czcess of pleag- tures to be borne. Blessedncss being the ideal state for ail persons, and the self-sac- lifices inade by each person in pursuance of this ideal state having for their end to help all other persons in achieving the like ideal gtate it, results that the blessed though pain- ful state of each is to be acquired by fur- thering the like blessed though painful states of others ; the blessed consciousness is to be constituted by the contemplation of their consciousnesses in a condition of average suffering. Does any one accept this inter. ence 2 if not, his rejection of it involves the admission that the motive for bearing pains in performing acts called blessed is not the obtaining for others like pains of blessedness, but the obtaining of pleasures for others, and that thus pleasure somewhere is the tacitly-implied ultimate end. / In brief, then, blessedness has for its noccs- sary condition of cxistence increased hap- piness, positive or negative, in some con- sciousness or other, and disappears utterly if \ we assurne that the actions ('ailed blessed are known to cause decrease of happiness in others as well as in the actor. § 15. To make clear the meaning of the general argument set for th in this chapter, its successive parts must be briefly summarized. That which in the last chapter we found to be highly evolved conſiuſ t is that which in this chapter we find to he what is called good conduct ; and the ideal goal to the natural evolution of cºnduct there recog- nized we here “cºgnize as the ideal stand- ard of conduct ethicaliy “t.nsidered. The acts adjust 1 to eu s, which while constituting the outt r visible life from mu- ment to moment ful ther the continuance of life, we saw become, as evolution pro- gresses, better a justed : until finally they make the life ºf each individual entire in length and breadth, at the same time that they citiciently stiliserve the rcating of young, and do both these not only without hindering other individuals from doing the like, but while giving aid to them in doing the like. And here we see that goodness is asserted of such cunduct until r cach of these three as- pects. Other things cqua), well-atjusted, self- conserving acts we call gº . . ; ; ther things equal, we call goo the acts that are well adjusted for bringing up progen V capable of complete living ; and ther things equal, we ascribe goodness to acts whicla ful ther the complete living of ſ the is. This judging as good conduct which con- duces to life in each and all, we fºund to in- volve the assumption that animate existence is desirable. By the pessiinist, conduct which subserves life cannot consistently be called good : to call it good implies some form of optimism. We saw, however, that pessimists and optimists, both stait with the postulate that life is a blessing, or a curse, according as the average consciºusness ac- companying it is pleasurable or painful. And since avowed or implied pessitaists, and optimists of ºne or other shade, taken together constitute all men, it results that this postulate is universally accepted. Whence it follows that if we call good the conduct conducive to life. we can do so only with the implication that it is conducive to a surplus of pieasures over pains. The truth that conduct is considered by us as good or bad, according as its aggregate results, to sclf or others or both, are pleasur- able or painful, we found on examination to be involved in all the current judgments on con- duct—the proof being that reversing the ap- plications of the words creates absurditics. And we found that every other proposed standard of conduct derives its authority from this standaid. Whether perfection of nature is the assigned proper aim, or virtil- ousness of action or rectitude of motive, we saw that deſinition of the perfection, the wir- tue, the rectitude inevitably brings us down to happiness experienced in some form, at some time, by some person, its the funda- mental idea. Nor could we discover anv in- telligible conception of blesseſſness, save one which implics a raising of cºnsciousness, in- dividual or general, to a happiei state. either by mitigating pains or increasing pleasures. Even with those who judge of conduct from the religious point of view rather than frºm the ethical point of view it is the same. Men who set k to propitiate God loy inflicting pains on themselves, or refrain from pleasures to avoid offending him, do so to escape greater ultimate pains or to get greater ultimate picasul (s. If by positive or negative suſtering 1.e. c, they expected to achieve more suffering licreafter, they would not do as they do. That which they now. think duty they would not think duty if it promised clernäi misery instead of cternal happiness. Nay, if theic be any who believe that human beings were citaled to be un- happy, and that they ought to continue liv- ing to display their unhappiness for the sat- isfaction of their creator. such believers are obliged to use this standard of ſº for the pleasure of their diabolical god is the end to be tuchieved. So that no school can avoid taking for the ultimate moral aim a desirable state of feel- ing called by whatever name—gratification, enjoyment, happiness. Pleasure somewhere, at some time, to some loeing or beings, is an inexpugnable element of the conception. It is as much a necessary form of moral intu- ition as space is a necessary form of intellect- ual intuition. - CHAPTER IV. ways of JUDGING CONDUCT. § 17. Intellectual progress is by no one trait so adequately characterized as by de- velopment of the idea of causation, since developinent of this idea involves develop. ment of so many other ideas. Before any way can be made, thought and language 3 mºst have advanced far enough to render p-operties or attributer thinkable as such, apart from objects; which, in low stages of human intelligence, they are not. Again. 490 THE DATA OF ETHICS. even the simplest notion of cause, as we un- derstand it, can be reached only after many like instances have been grouped into a sim- ple generalization ; and through all ascend- ing steps, higher notions of causation imply wider notions of generality. Turther, as there must be clustered in the mind con- crete causes of many kinds before there can emerge the conception of cause, apart from particular causes, it follows that progress in abstractitess of thought, is im: plied. Cöncomitantly, there is implied the recognition of constant relations among phenomena, generating ideas of unifor- mity of sequence and of co-existence—the idea of natural law. These advances can go on only as fast as perceptions and resulting thoughts are made definite by the use of measures, serving to familiarize the mind with exact correspondence, truth, certainty. And only when growing science accumulates examples of quantitative relations, foreseen and verified throughout a widening range of phenomena, does causation come to be con- ceived as necessary and universal. So that though all these cardinal conceptions aid one another in developing, we may properly say that the conception of causation especially depends for its development on the develop- ments of the rest, and therefore is the best measure of intellectual development at large. How slowly, as a consequence of its de- pendence, the conception of causation evolves, a glance at the evidence shows. We hear with surprise of the savage who, falling down a precipice, ascribes the failure of his foothold to a malicious demon ; and We, simile at the kindred notion of the ancient Greek, that his death was prevented by a goddess who unfastened for him the thong of the helmet by wholl his enemy was drag- ging him. But daily, without surprise, we hear men who describe themselves as saved from shipwreck by “ Divine interposition,” who speak of liaving “providentially.” missed a train which met with a fatal disas- ter, and who call it a “mercy” to have escaped injury from a falling chimney-pot— men who, in such cases, recognize physical causation no more than do the uncivilized or semi-civilized. The Veddah who thinks that failure to hit an animal with his arro W re- sulted from inadequate invocation of an an- cestral spirit, and the Christian priest who says prayers over a sick man in the expecta- tion that the course of his disease will so be stayed, differ only in respect of the agent from whom they expect supernatural aid and the phenomena to be altered by him : the necessary relations among causes and cffects are tacitly ignored by the last as much as by the first. Deficient belief in causatiou is, in- deed, exemplified even in those whose dis- cipline has been specially fitted to generate this belief—even in men of science. For a eneration after geologists had become uni- ormitarians in geology, they remained catas- trophists in biology ; while recognizing none but natural agencies in the genesis of the earth’s crust, they ascribed to supernatural sº agency the genesis of the organisms on its Surface. Nay more—among those who are convinced that living things in general have been evolved by the continued interaction of forces everywhere operating, there ale some who make an exception of man, or who, if they admit that his body lias licen evolved in the same manner as the bodies of other creatures, allege that his mind has been not evolved but specially created. If, then, universal and necessary causation is Unly now approaching full recognition, even ly those whose investigations are daily neillus- trating it, we may expect to find it very little recognized among men at large, whose cul- ture has not been calculated to impress them with it, and we may cypect to find it least recognized by them in respect of those classes of plienomena amid which, in con. sequence of their complexity, causation is most difficult to trace—the psychical, the social, the moral. - Why do I here make these reflections on what seems an irrelevant subject 7 I dº if because, on studying the validus ethical theo. ries, I am struck witli the fact that they are all characterized either by entire absence of the idea of causation or by inadequate pres- once of it. Whether theological, political, intuitional, or utilitarian, they all display, if , nët in the same degree, still each in a large degree, the defects which result from this lack. We will consider them in the order named. r * h § 18. The School of morals propenly to be considcred as the still extant representative of the most ancient school, is that which rec- ognizes no other rule of conduct than the alleged will of God. It originates with the savage, whose only restraint beyond fear of his felly w.rman is fear of an ancestral spirit, and whose notion of moral duty as distin- guished from his notion of sºcial prudence alises from this fear. IIere the ethical doc. trine and the religious doctrino are idenii- cal—lave in no degree differentiated. This primitive form of ethical doctrine, changed only by the gradual dying out of multitudiuyus rhinor supernatural agents and accompanying duvelopment of one universal \ .*. supernatural agent, survives in great strenglii down to our own day. Religious creeds, estab- lished and dissenting, all embody the belief that right and wrong are right and wrong sim- ply in virtue of Divine enactment. And this tacit assumption has passed from systems of theology into systems of morality ; or rather let us say that moral systems in early stages of development, little differentiated from the accompanying theological systems, have par- ticipated in this assumption. We see this in the works Gf the Stoics, as well as in the works of certain Christian moralists. Among recent ones I may instance the “IES- says on the Principles of Morality,” by Jon- athan Dymond, a Quaker, which makes “ the authority of the Deity the sole ground of duty, and his communicated will the only ultimate standard of light and wrong.” Nor is it by writers belonging to so rela: / X THE DATA CF ETHICS. 491 ſ tively unphilosophical a sect only that this view is held ; it is held with a difference by writers belonging to sects contraliwise dis- tinguished. For these assert that in the ab- sence of belief in a deity there would be no moral guidance ; and this amounts to assert- ing that moral truths have no other origin than the will of God, which, if not consid- ered as revealed in sacred writings, must be considered as revealed in conscience. This assumption, when examined, proves to be suicidal. If there are no other origins for right and wrong than this enunciated or intuited Divine will, then, as alleged, were there no knowledge of the Divine will, the acts now known as wrong would not be Known as wrong. Iłut if men did not know such acts to be wrong because contrary to the Divine will, and so, in committing them, did not offend by disobedience, and if they could not otherwise know them to be wrong, then they might commit them indifferently with the acts now classed as right : the re- sults, practically considered, would be the same. In so far as secular matters are con. cerned, there would be no difference be- tween the two ; for to say that in the affairs of life any evils would arise from continu- ing to do the acts called wrong and ceasing to do the acts called light, is to say that these produce in themselves certain mischievous consequences and certain beneficial conse- quences; which is to say there is another source for moral rules than the revealed or inferred Divine will : they may be establish- ed by induction from these observed conse- quences. - From this implication I sce no escape. It must be either admitted or denied that the acts called good and the acts called bad nat- urally conduce, the one to human well- being and the other to human ill-being Is it admitted 2 Then the admission amounts to an assertion that the conduciveness is shown by experience, and this involves abandonment of the doctrine that there is no origid for morals apart from Divine injunc- tions. Is it denied that acts classed as good and bad differ in their cffects 2 Then it is tacitly affirmed that human affairs vould go on just as well in ignorance of the dis- tinction, and the alleged need for command- ments from God disappears. And here we see how entirely wanting is the conception of cause. his notion that such and such actions are made respectively good and bad simply by Diving injunction, is tantamount to the notic in that such and such actions have not in the nature of things such and such kinds of effects. If there is not an unconsciousness of causation there is an ignoring of it. - § 19. Following Plato and Aristotle, who make state enactments the sources of right and wrong, and following Hobbes, who holds that there can be neither justice nor injustice till a legularly constituted coercive power exists to issue and enforce corumands, not a few modern thinkers hold that there is *o oiler origin for good and bad in conduct spond to the necessities, than law. Al:d this implies the belief that moral obligation originates with Acts of Par- liament, and can be changed this way or that way by majoritics. They ridicule the idea that men have any natural rights, and allege that rights are wholly results of conventiod : the necessar y implication being that duties are so too. Before considering whether this theory coheres with outside truths, let us ob- . Serve how far it is coherent within itself. In pursuance of his argument that rights and duties originate with established social arrangements, IIobbes says: ... } “Where no covenant hath preceded, there haëh Bo right been transferred. and every man has right to de everything ; and consequently no action can be un- just. But when a covenant is made, then to bíeak it is ur.just ; and the definition of INJUSTICE is no other than , the not perfºrmance of covenant. And whatsoever is not unjust is just. . . . . . Therefore, before the names of just and unjust can have place, there must be some coercive power to compel mem equaily to the performance of their covenants, by the terror of some punishment greater than the benefit they expect by the breach of their covenant.”—Levia- than, xv. - In this paragraph the essential propositions are: justice is fulfilment of covenant; ful- filment of coverlant implies a power enforc- ing it : “just and unjust can have no place” unless men arc compelled to perform their covenants. Put this is to say that men cºrn- not perform their covenants without compul- sion. Grant that justice is performance of covenant. Nºw suppose it to be performed voluntarily : theie is justice. In such case, however, there is justice in the absence of coercion ; which is contrary to the hypothe- sis. The only conceivable rejoinder is an absurd one : voluntary performance of cov- enant is impossible. Assert this, and the doctrine that right and wrong come into ex- istence with the establishment of sovereignty is defensible. Decline to assert it, and the doctrine vanishes. From inner incongruities pass now to Outer ones. The justification for his dec- trine of absolute civil authority as the source of rules of conduct, Hobbes seeks in the mis- eries entailed by the chronic war, between man and man which must exist in the ab- sence of society ; holding that under any kind of government a better life is possible than in the state of nature. Now whether we accept the gratuitous and baseless theory that men surrendered their liberties to a SUV- ereign power of some kind, with a view to the promised increase of satisfactions, of whether we accept the rational theory, in: ductively based, tuat a state of political Sub: ordination gradually became established through experience of the increased satisfac- tions derived under it, it equally remains obvious that the acts of the sovereign power have no other warrant than their subservi ence to the purpose for which it came into existence. The necessities which initiate government themselves prescribe the actions. If its actions (lo not re- they are unwar- ranted. The authority of law is, then, by the hypothesis, derived, and ean, newer of government. £6% 'SOIII.LGI JO WJLVCI (IHL orſ, on IIAa Jo da Inoxſsadiſ potonsol aq 01 qqāno Jaujoug Ka isol Āinadoid ºutſ] pſes sp ºf ‘olduſtrza : oy ‘u at AA ‘soouanbosuno [t, lauai; $ou put ‘shouatabasutoo quition ind out papitä -91st p aq (1 sootionb.jsttoo oth lurin ano suing JJ Kanſ) it to 1ng ‘sootionbastiod on pluj -oi Anot ti A pons ind od 1suu Tú5ii su uoilm) -III Ibiotii &l pozłuńooºl Sasanoo tºul soutobo', ūoſt|AA : [not]os Stul Ka polouš ĀIontioqLop alt; Sloago Tuul pouloſal od “poapuſ ‘Ābū II • , "sysotilod Kū oul ol Kitt: Inudo sº top|A : Urotſ, U10, J AOU Tºti, Shoojo ot) Jo SSoup BQ Io ssou pooj ou] Kq potaſtu.1910p aq ĀIlliuſ, Tsnu put, ‘oſquuſui •Iglop sº Sut ſlot; Jo SSouffuo.I.A. io Ssaultipſ 9IIl quitſ, Ho, nutpu sº ºr uatl) ‘pouluapuoo 00 G1 0;logo.10th sº tº IIIA ‘Jolypuoo Jo pupi it:til Áq poonpold ${ Klasitu out M ‘paac.id “dº àq 0) aloja.i.aul Si (1911A “Jonpugo Jo pupſ sit!" Kg poonpolid st ssau Iddºtſ 'suoſhule.I lºtnuti Ulans Jo ostbooq quul polytu?pt. od q JI buy out: āsoul Tºll AA ‘Uloo Jo ‘uoſion pop Io tio lonput Áq ūſt) 139st; Kulu ow uðūl “stion -*[9] Uions Kut; spºo odot{\ j} tº "slinsa.I puu Shing uno. Aloq Suomulo.1 it injuu Kuu Kuop on Wilſoul SI ‘āuo. A UIOjj Túñſt Aotix as AA -10U)0 JOUI op a AA 113th Ui IIIjt: ol Kilpot, snu) but “ootLogosuoo UAAIf KIIulnut.Jodins tº go on] IIA Kq ‘5uol A oci on sºuntil lau}o put Just 1 an Ói sãIn oups Aoux ow itſui uſinge oi, ‘sootualladko palu Inunoots Au pastıto suo'ſ] -tzogſpotu poli,19tuſ U(10,1] pollnsou o Autī osotil *Ul lot. “Soll [not] lºngtu (Ill.M. paxcptio Kloſiſ Aſp trooq 0Abu Utºur jutu si Aaj A asor[A $13:1ttpºll—astos ſtuff, Io all) up ontºutſ ord suondooiad Ittout quul plou cu w "sisſuojun, rtiſ o ind oth tin.W. as A.latºo iſ sº lo N (); $ ‘Iloſ, usutā) It: In tu go uop|ſujood.1-uou say!duſ Eſtil Jo Go!) ſuffooed-uoN 3 slot; out) Jo shoalja It injuu out UIOIJ Kuſiounnt, sly sa Aguap util -RISE.50I otl Inq ‘UOI) g|Sºl Ka ptſ. It) pooj optiuſ 10u oit, slot; oth ‘spooja snoſ,tnſuſ Kilt...I -ninu 64 UUI ſºul slaulo spinuoy put: “smoolya It’ſogouoq KIIt initºu o Abul Uloſt|A slot, uptº) iao uo Sissuſ (IoIntistial uan M. Jaun Juoſo on 11 SI 101Abūaq S. trouſ ſo SIII; lap all, Iſt; Inoqānolul Sp10II ox{II oli, Juuſ, Isajyutsut lou q spºu'aul ‘SIIolº ſquid id Jo as ſhoadsally opinb ‘uoul -tuoo olt, Koul six Uoliodoid up Kılunuſuiod tº ſlo SjøftioSIUI lºo& ‘uopula][mpt, Jſ ‘5unt:auſo H ‘younuoo Jo quotaſgnj-uðu Ji-sloppo 5.12in.I tº Ol Kit; Inuod 10u sſ to sº q, loquoq w ‘SIA2 It’ſottaş pſit; IT ſoads sity to adjoj Aq Suſt;3 S, lauyout; Jo Uonupidoiddu sutu atto Ji -10U do Al:I Ág uappiq,10] Ioviiot A ‘snoſ,inſtiſ <190s old slopinul JI soo.15ap Jallºtus to Jolbolā (Iſ 5ulaq-III to 5uſoq IIow on aompuuo “Kouofit; [effolutoig 11tdº olynbºuloſt|A soouauh asugo AOU isnu, olorſ) Áloloos uſ until io stinſlot, IBIAI 11 Sout.aul on snolias soul all IIIo.ſy jutſ, Joſſaq oſquistsai iſ out sployſ Hontsnto Jo Ssousnojosuoo olumbopt try ‘riollusneo Jo SSousnokosuoo Juoropop 5uſſein •oºl A loatſ, IoH, out oAuti o A ‘tſoq) ‘oloFI "ShooIIo sno Aaſtrosttu In ſupportoq aonpord on salariapua, oſsuſ,thuſ on nauti Kam Triun Kt's on si ‘fino.I.A. Jo Júšji tuatl) oxſtatu slopia]T Io Shuouaiſnbol any }*ſū Kuş on put: : sloplonuſ Jo shuouloumbai' 2a1}t;Istijoi Joj qubilt'AA all) (ISIuling sapouap -tral opsuſ 1111 asſium uaul 's loalſa stroAaltios][H Jo (1:100-yu oil ºn polid or saſoilopºlo) of stild luſ A tit: o Abū slot; tıons J ſtºl Auſ Aq Bury. A Jo qūški optºtil O.It sºuld stºl ou, Jo slot; ºutſ] pouasse Knuous stion on 11 upo suſ, 5unlosso jays Áluo soouanbostoo peq Io poojº ÁII61 '-nyau aartſ Kou, Juun shot asqui-Jo paſuap aq Agua qi ‘powout aq. 1snu soononbasüoo puq Jo poofi KIIRInjuu alſ, spot: osau) go aſſu AA STIns -or Jo spupſ uſehloo Tino Xiao A on puo, “sfulfil go annºu on uſ “you op Jonpuoo Jo spripſ Jatino “slunsa.I. Jo Spurl III*) iao Tno XIAOAA o, pun) “siuſ!In Jo ain ſun oun uſ ‘op lanpuos go spupi outos stolat[AA Tºun Hontoſíduºſ ann aatu o AA until : Sonnp put, SUTIt ſo longū 103. uţăuo aa prisºol tº osofit on to oi; Áail) ‘SITI) 5ughlupt: ‘Aus I ‘JI—luatil aolog(to on Atalatu qūq ol Bolo on lou u0, pistial log sº $4 quTI, put: “uopºlsifioſ, utúl Jadoop sist:q t oat"I.O.). pongitupu aq isntu ‘Iuurpino st; parisinăuſ]sſp oq 0) ‘suo Int:5 ſqo (biotu uſe, 100 trul ‘IOOttos sitſ) on 5uſ;noloq Kuu Ko plus aſ TI JI 'Ittilätto jou, put oaſt. Alſop Atºl Jo Kiprotºnd oth 5uptin Os alt; pub ‘olons Tepos eun uſ ajil onoſculoo on stropipuoo Augssooou out) tuo, J olqon pºp st; 39mpUIo9 uo supeansai uprliam Joj poan otºl 5u!]ioSst, AImpotº, altº Kaul ºutſ, a Ayºolad Koſil Op ‘āoAa -Aoû “asto Jouniºtt ui "altºgloss on spºt: St. IIB TITA “guaudopoa op [t]oos dog polymbol [b]yduo Jo uomº (nunoon quill go etion oq IIIA along, Alſiussaoau Juul put: “uoridrunsuoo aquip -auruſ poaoxo Átooltºns IIIA unnarupoſd ‘apill MII tºngoalſ) qolt Op slooſqns stu 85ttſult:o la Ao -jetIAA saleſ.Idojcidt; Joini snoſaudºl g aroq&A Io ‘poxlooutoun si Kuoqqo. olotſ,w KITuanb -asudo quul : ][ UIouj safúnut Apt. 5uidual tro. ATIIIqbr;old taif u1 A quinoo quo Kot , SSouth A1.ladolid Aq KūI gou IIIA uatu Itill tºn.J1 aſſi 2.log.td. p aquiojuſ St, ozluffooo..I Koti, L '810aja Tſons pug uons oompoud “sº ſiſtſ Jo ornºut all, Aq ‘IIIM sasnto qons put ſtons quil] ‘Sapo -utai ou', put, sIIAa out go toadson uſ (I.10q ‘āuſ -nālū os : Shua.I.1a)ap qsaq alſ, juſtisſuan] st; UIons.Ks [puad Jeu". Io spun out:00Apt, Kaúl put; ‘ousinball out “old ‘lºnusst. ‘Janušnt:15ubtu ‘Iapanui 5unuoA and Joj sainstatu quºtil 2015t; Kaul ‘pºuoua: Jo Iºnppalpuſ ‘Āquadsoid Jou ssauſdottu launſau aqugo alouſ, ‘ssouſsnq IIaun ºncoſ ÁIssaliuag of on uoul solſ|uuo so agit Joy Anſinoosuons quoq11A quith Joſtaq It touai; out uſ 5uluſoſ juonsistioduſ aq on 9Aoid SøIdiosp sitſ put sodgoFI Jo SAOIA olin op 40%ansqu out) up palapisuo) uot (A (Itu, alolo -Uoo ouſ) uſ potapſsuoo uous a.ſoul III]S v 3. 'suazi \ -qJo Jo soapſ alſ, 5UTIaunung goû 10 FuſioUling ÁIIdunjuu sº shoalſa sh; Āq poniulianop isºl aul of syssomptſ lossoupoofi sh; Juq : ABI Atl puq to poof optuſ aq, 10ungo Jonpuoſo Áus on 'X §ſ ºutſ.L. "Juguas.icpuſ sit Juaq 10u Op Matil J. 5uola alu Matú puu 'uloru Sosiopuſ A11.10til -nn (butºpio on, asutoaq Kuo si iſ ‘Juſãli aut Aoun uoq AA 'pua aulandns slul Olssolio Ato -nruco tºo.II sasſur st: Åluo &ntion1nt; tıons oAutt sluauhotºna altºns uatin ‘prio attia.Idris spun ol sutotu st: pagúsūſ b.11; Slugullºu -uo ontº's gº put ‘pua atuaidris all sl Kiſſiºn ao “airylaas Jo ‘poofi triatioš JI ‘po A Liap sº H torq A utoly Turi) go Álſ.Ioqīnī; all, Ottºogubill \ THE DATA OF ETIHICS. 493 finder, who possibly may, by restoring it, łose that which would have pºcserved him from starvation, it is meant that, in pursu- ance of the principlc, ille inimcdiate aud Special consequences must be dist egarded, not the diffused and remote consequences. By which we are shown that though the theory for bids ovelt ecognition of causutiun, there is an unavºwel i cc.ognition of it. And this implies the trait to which I am drawing at tention. The conception of nat- ural causation is so imperfectly developed that the c is only an indistinct consciousness that throught, ul the whole ºf hurutun coll- duct iècessary relations of causes and ef- fects prevail, and that from them are ulti- mately derived all moral rules, however much these may be proximately derived from moral intuitions. - § 21. Strange to say, even the utilitarian School, which at first sight appears to be distinguished from the rest by 1ecognizing natui ai Causation, is, if not so far from com- plei e recognition of it, yet very far. C., titluçl, according to its theory, is to be t stimated by observation of results. When, in sufficietitiy utlinerous cases, it has been found I hat tº havior of this kind works evil while liehavior ºf that kind works good, these kilods of behavior are to be judged as wrong and right respectively. Now though it seems that the origin of moral rules in natural causcs is thus asserted by implica- tion, it is but partially assel ted. The impli- çation is simply that we are to ascertain ly induction that such and such mischiefs or bc.ncſits do go along with such and such acts, anºl are then to infer that the like re- łaliuns wiłł Inc..] sº ey º jº : 532 THE DATA OF ETITICS. i i w sensitive to pain than the lower, the most fleusitive are those whose nervous develop- ments, as shown by their mental powers, are the highest—part of the evidence being the relative intolerance of disagreeable sensations Common among men of genius, and the general irritability characteristic of them. That pain is relative not to structareg only, but to their states as well, is also manifest—more manifest indeed. The sensi- bility of an external part depends on its tem- perature. Cool it below a cel tain point and it becomes, as we say, numb ; and if by ether-Spray it is made very cold, it may be cut without any feeling being produced. Conversely, heat the part so that its blood- vessels dilate, and the pain which any injury or irritation causes is greater than usual. How largely the production of pain depends on the conditiou of the part affected, we see in the extreme tenderuess of an inflamed surface—a tenderness such that a slight touch causes shrinking, and such that rays from the fire which ordinarily would be in- different become intolerable. Similarly with the special senses. A light which eyes that are in good order bear without disagree- able feeling cannot be borne by inflamed eyes. And beyond the local state, the state of the system as a whole and the state of the nervous centres are both factors. Those enfeebled by illness are distressed by noises which those in health bear with equaniinity ; and men with overwrought brains are irri- lated in unusual degrees by annoyances, both playsical and moral. Further, the tem- orary condition known as exhaustion enters into the relation. Limbs overworn by pro- longed exertion cannot without aching per- form acts which would at other times cause no appreciable feeling. After reading con- tinuously for very many hours, even strong eyes begin to Smart. And Iloises that can be listened to for a short time with indifference become, if there is no cessation, causes of suffering. - So that though there is absoluteness in the relation between positive pains and actions that are positively injurious, in so far that wherever there is sentiency it exists, yet even here partial relativity may be asserted. For there is no fixed relation between the act- ing force and the produced feeling. The amount of feeling varies with the size of the organism, with the character of its outer structures, with the character of its nervous system, and also with the temporary states of the part affected, of the body at laige, and of the nervous centres. § 65. The relativity of pleasures is far more conspicuous, and the illustrations of it furnished by the sentient world at large are innumerable. It needs but a glance round at the various things which different creatures are prompt- ed by their desires to eat and are gratified in eating—flesh for predaceous animals, grass for the herbivora, worms for the inole, flies for the swallow, seeds for the finch, honey for the bee, a decaying carcase for the mag- : got—to be reminded that the tastes for foot are relative to the structures of the creatures And this truth, made conspicuous by a sur vey of animals in general, is forced on ou. attention even by a survey of different race: of men. Here human flesh is abliofred, anº there regarded as the greatest delicacy ; it this country roots ate allowed ſo putley be fore they ate eaten, and in that the taint of decay produces disgust ; the whale's blubbel which one race devours with avidity, will in another by its very odor produce nausea, Nay, without looking abroad, we may, in the common saying that “one man's meat is anuther man’s poison,” see the general ad- mission that members of the same society so far differ that a taste which is to these pleasurable is to those displeasurable. So is it with the other senses. Assafoetida, which by us is singled out as typical of the disgust- ing in odor, ranks among the Esthonians as a favorite perfume ; and even those around us vary so far in their likings that the scents of flowers grateful to sºme are repugnant to others. Analogous differences in the pref- erences for cºlors we daily hear expressed. And in a greater or less degree the like holds with all sensations, down even to those of touch—the feeling yielded by velvet, which is to most agreeable, setting the teeth on edge in some. - It needs but to name appetite and Satiety to suggest multitudinous facts showing that pleasures are relative not only to the organic structures lout also to their states. The food which yields keen gratification when there is great lunger ceases to be grateful when hunger is satisfied, and if then forced on the eater is rejected with aversion. So, too, a particular kind of food, seeming when first tasted so delicious that daily repetition would be a source of endless enjoyment, hecomes, in a few days, not only unenjoyable but re- pugnant. Brilliant colors which, falling on unaccustomed eyes, give delight, ball on the sense if long looked at, and there is relief in getting away from the impressions they yield. Sounds sweet in themselves and sweet in their combinations, which yield to unfatigued eurs intense pleasure, become, at the end of a long concert, not only weari. some, but, if there is no escape from them, causes of irritation. The like holds down even to such simple sensations as those of heat and cold. The fire so delightful on a winter's day is, in hot weather, oppressive, and pleasure is then taken in the cold water from which, in winter, there would be shrinking. Indeed, experiences lasting over but a few moments suffice to show how relative to the states of the structures are pleasurable sensations of these kinds ; for it is observable that on dipping the cold hand into hot water the agreeable feeling gradu- ally diminishes as the half warins. These few instances will carry home the truth, Inanifest enough to all who observe, that the receipt of each agreeable sensation depends primarily on the existenee of a structure which is called into play, and, THE DATA OF ETHICS. 533 secondarily, on the condition of that struc- ture, as fitting it or unfitting it for activity. $ 66. The truth that emotional pleasures are made possible, partly by the existence of correlative structures and partly by the states of those structures, is equally undeni- able. Observe the animal which, leading a life demanding Sol. ſary habits, has an adapted organization, and it, gives no sign of need for the presence of its kind. Observe, con- versely, a gregarious animal separated from the herd, and you see marks of unhappiness while the separation cºntinues, and equally distinct marks of joy on joining its coin- panions. In the one case there is no nervous structure which finds its sphere of action in the gregarious state, and in the other case such a structure exists. As was implicd by instances cited in the last chapter for another purpose, auimals leading lives involving particular kinds ºf activities llave become so constituted that pursuance of thos 3 activitics, exercising the correlative struc- tures, yields the associated pleasures. Iłeasts of prey confined in dens show us by their pacings from side to side the endeavor to obtain, as well as they can, the satisfactions that accompany roaming about in their natural habitats ; and that gratification in the expenditure of their locomotive energies shown us by porpoises playing round a vessel is shown us by the similarly unceas- ing excursions from on 1 to end of its cell which a captured porpoise makes. The perpetual hoppings of the Canary from bar to bar of its cage, and the ceaseless use of claws and bill in climbing about its perch by the parrot, are other activities which, severally related to the needs of the species, have severally themselves become sources of agreeable feelings. Still Inoic clearly are we shown by the efforts which a caged beaver makes to build with such sticks and pieces of wood as are at hand, how domi- nant in its nature has become the building instinct, and how, apart from any advan- tage gained, it gets gratification by repeat- ing, as well as it can, the processes of con- struction it is organized to carry on. The cat which, lacking something to tear with her claws, pulls at the mat with them, the confined giraffe which, in default of branches to lay hold of wears out the upper angles of the doors to its house by continually grasp- ing them with its prehensile tongue, the rhinoceros which, having no enemy to fight, ploughs up the ground with his horn, till yield us analogous evidence. Clearly, these various actions performed by these valious creatures are uot intrinsically pleasurable, for they differ more or less in each species and are often utterly unlike. The pleasur- ableness is simply in the exercise of nervo- muscular structures &apted to the perform- ance of the actions. Though races of men are coutrasted with Une apother SU. Ilauch less than genera and ordels of animals are, yet, as we saw in the last chapter, along with visible differences there go invisible differeuces with accompany ing likings for different modes of life. Among some, as the Mantras, the love of un- restrained action and the disregard of coin- panionship are such that they separate if they quarrel, and hence live scattered ; while among others, as the Damaras, there is little tendency to resist, but instead an admiration for any one who assumes power over them. Already when exemplifying, the indefinite- ness of happiness as an end of action, I have referred to the unlike ideals of life pursued by the nomadic and the settled, the warlike and the peaceful—unlike ideals which imply unlikenesses of nervous structures caused by the inherited effects of unlike habits accumulating through generations. These contrasts, various in their kinds and degrees among the various types of mankind, every one can supplement by analogous contrast: observable among those around. The occu- . pations some delight in are to those other. wise constituted intolerable ; and men's hobbies, sewcrally appearing to themselves quite natural, often appear to their friends ludicrous and almost insane—facts which alone might make us see that the pleasurable- ness of actions of this or that kind is dug not to anything in the natures of the actions but to the existence of faculties which find exercise in them. - It must be added that each pleasurable emotion, like each pleasurable sensation, is relative not only to a certain structure but also to the state of that structure. The parts called into action must have had proper rest —must be in a condition fit for action, not in the condition which prolonged action broduces. Be the order of emotiºn what it may, an unbroken continuity in the receipt of it eventually brings satiety. The pleasur. able consciousness becomes less and less. vivid, and there arises the need for a tein- porary cessation, during which the parts that have been active may recover their fitness for activity, and during which also the activities of other parts and receipt of the accompanying emotions mily find due place. § 67. 1 have insisted on these general truths with perhaps needless iteration, to prepare the reader for more fully recognizing a corollary that is practically ignored. , Abun- dant and clear as is the evidence, and forced though it is daily on every one’s attention, the conclusiºns respecting life and conduct which should be drawn are uot drawn; and so Iruch at variance are these conclusions with current beliefs that enunciation of thein causes a stare of incredulity. Pervaded as all past thinking has been, and as most pres- ent thinking is, by the assumption that the nature of every creature has been specially created for it, and that human nature, also specially created, is, like other natures, fixed —pervaded too as this thinking has been, and is, by the allied assumption that the agreeableness of certain actions depends Gn their essential qualities, while other actions are by their essential qualities made disa- greeable, it is difficult to obtain a hearing for the doctrine that the kinds of activil which are now pleasurable will, under con- (litions 1 equiring the change, cease to be pleasurable, while other kiutls of action will become pleasurable. Even those who accept the doctrine of evolution mostly hear with Sęenticism. or at best with nominal faith, the inferences to be drawn from it respecting the humanity of the future. And yet as shown in myriads of instances in licated by e.e few above given, those natural processes which have produced multitudiuſ, its forms of structure adapted to multitudinous forms of activity llave simul- taneously made these forms of activity pleasurable. And the inevitable implication is that within the limits imposed by physical laws the e will be evolved, in adaptation to any new sets of conditions that may be es- tablished, applopriate structures of which the functions will yield their respective gratifications. When we have got rid of the tendency to think that certain modes of activity are nec- essarily pleasurable because they give us pleasure, and that other modes which do not please us are necessarily unpleasing, we thall Sce that the remoulding of human nature into fitness for the requirements of social life must eventually make all needful activities pleasurable, while it makes dis- pleasurable all activities at variance with these I equirements. When we have come fully to ecognize the truth that there is noth- ing intrinsically more gratifying in the ef- forts by which wild animals are caught than in the efforts expended in rearing plants, and that the combined actions of muscles and senses in owing a boat are not by their cssential natures more productive of agreeable feeling than those gone through in reaping corn, but that everything depends on the Co-operating emotions, which at present are mole in accCrdance with the one than with the other, we shall infer that along with decrease of those emotiUns for which the social state affolds little or no scope, and increase of those which it persistently exer. cises, the things now done with dislike from a sense of obligation will be done with im. mediate liking, and the things desisted from as a matter of duſy will be desisted from because they are repugnant. This conclusion, alien to popular beliefs and in Cthical speculation habitually ignored, or at most recognized but partially and occasionally, will be thought by the majority so improbable that I must give further justi. fication of it, enforcing the d priori argu ment by an d posterior; one. Small as is the attention given to the fact, yet is the fact conspicuous that the corollaiy above drawn from the doctrine cf evolution at large coincides with the cºrollary which past and present changes in human nature force on us. The leading contrasts of character be. tween savage and civilized are just those contrasts to be expected from the process of adaptation. The life of the primitive man is passed inainly in the pursuit of beasts, birds, and fish, which yields him a gratifying excite- ment; but though to the civilized man the chase gives gratification, this is neither so persistent nor so general. There are among us keen sportsmen, but there are many to whom shooting and fishing soon become wealisome, and there are not a few to whom they are altogether indifferent or even distasteful. Conversely, the power of con- tinued application which in the primitive man is very small has among ourselves be- come considerable. It is true that most are coerced into industry by necessity ; but there are sprinkled throughout society men to whom active occupation is a need—men who are restless when away from business and miserable when they eventually give it up ; men to whom this or that line of investiga- tion is so attractive that they devote them. selves to it day after day, year after year ; men who are so deeply interested in public affairs that they pass lives of labor in achiev- ing political ends they think advantageous, hardly giving themselves the rest necessary for health. Yet again, and still more strik- ingly, does the change become manifest when we compare undeveloped with developed humanity in respect of the conduct prompted by fellow-feeling. Cruclty rather than kind ness is characteristic of the savage, and is in many cases a source of marked gratification to him ; but though among the civilized are some in whom this trait of the savage survives, yet a love of inflicting pain is upt general, and besides numbers who show be- nevolence, there are those who devote their whole time and much of their money to philanthropic ends, without thought of re- ward either here or hereafter. Clearly these major, along with many minor, changes of nature conform to the law set forth. Activ- ities appropriate to their needs which give pleasures to savages have ceased to be pleasurable to many of the civilized, while the civilized have acquired capacities for other appropriate activities and accompany. ing pleasures which savages had no capaci- ties for. - Now, not only is it rational to infer that changes like those which have been going oil during civilization will continue to go on, but it is irrational to do otherwise. Not he who believes that adaptation will increase is absurd, but he who doubts that it will in- crease is absurd. Iack of faith in such further evolution of humanity as shall liar- monize its nature with its conditious aſids lout another to the countless illustrations of inadequate consciousness of causatiºn. One who, leaving behind both primitive dogm.is and primitive ways of looking at things, has, while accepting scientific conclusions, acquir- ed those habits of thought which scienc enerates will regards the conclusion above drawn as inevitable. IIe will find it impos- sible to believe that the processes which have heretofore so moulded all beings to the re- quirements of their lives that they get satis- factions in fulfilling them will not hereafter THE DATA OF ETHICS. 535 eontinue so moulding them. He will infer that the type of nature to which the highest social life affords a sphere such that every faculty has its due amount, and no more t!, in the due amount, of function and accom- panying gratification, is the type of nature toward which progress cannot cease till it is 1 eached. Pleasure being producible by the exercise of any structure which is adjusted to its special end, he will see the necessary implication to be that, supposing it consis- tent with maintenance of life, there is no kind of activity which will not become a source of pleasure if continued ; and that therefore pleasure will eventually accom- pany every mode of action demanded by social conditions. This corollary I here emphasize because it will presently play an important part in the argument. r CHAPTER XI. EGOISM Cé)’8tts ALTRUISM. § 68. If insistence on them tends to un- settle established systems of belief, Self- evident truths are by most people silently passed over, or else there is a tacit refusal to draw from thein the most obvious in- ferences. Of self-evident truths so dealt with, the r:me which here concerns us is that a Crea- ture must live before it can act. From this it is a corollary that the acts by which each maintains his own life must, speaking gener- ally, precede in imperativeness all other acts of which he is capable. For if it be asserted that these other acts must precede in im- perativeness the acts which inaintain life, and if this, accepted as a general law of Con- duct, is conformed to by all, then by post- poning the acts which maintain life to the other acts which life Inakes possible, all must lose their lives. That is to say, ethics has to recognize the truth, recognized in un- ethical thought, that egoism comes before altruism. The acts required for continued self-preservation, including the enjoyment of lif benefits achieved by such acts, are the first requisites to universal welfare. Unless each duly cares for himself, his care for all others is ended by death ; aud if each thus dies, there remain no others to be cared for. This permauent supremacy of egoism over altruism, made manifest by contemplating existing life, is ful ther made manifest by contemplating life in course of evolution. § 69. Those who have followed with assent the recent course of thought do not need telling that throughout past eras, the life, vast in amount and varied in kind, which has overspread the earth has pro- gressed in subordination to the law that every individual shall, gain by whatever aptitude it has for fulfilling the conditions to its existence. The uniform principle has been that better adaptation shall bring greater benefit, which greater ... benefit, Twhile inci easing the prosperity of the better adapted, shall increase also its ability to leave offspring inheriting more or less its better adaptation. And, by implication, the uniform principle has been that the ill- adapted, disadvantaged in the struggle for existence shall bear the consequent evils, either disappearing when its imperfections are extreme, or else rearing fewer offspring, which, inheriting its imperfections, tend to dwindle away in posterity. - It has been thus with innate superiorities : it has been thus also with acquired ones, All along the law has been that increased function brings increased power, and that therefore such extra activities as aid Welfare in any member of a race produce in its structures greater ability to carry on such extra activities—the derived advantages be- ing enjoyed by it to the heightening and jengthening of its life. Conversely, as lessened function ends in Icssened structure, the dwindling of unused faculties has ever entailed loss of power to achieve the correla- tive ends—the result of inadequate fulfil- ment of the ends being diminished ability to maintain life. And by inheritance, such functionally produced modifications have respectively furthered or hindered survival in posterity. . . . . As already said, the law that each creature shall take the benefits and the evils of it? own nature, be they those derived frotra ancestry or those due to self-produced moſlt- fications, has been the law under which life has evolved thus far, and it must continue to be the law, however much further life may evolve. Whatever qualifications, this natural course of action may now or her e- after undergo are qualifications that cannot, without fatal results, essentially change it. Any arrangements which in a considerable degree prevent superiority from profiting by . the rewards of superiority, or shield in- feriority from the evils it entails—any ar- rangements which tend to make it as well to be inferior as to be superior, are arrange- ments diametrically opposed to the progress of organization and the reaching of a higher £3. But to say that each individual shall reap the benefits brought to him by his own powers, inherited and acquired, is to enunciate egoism as an ultimate principle of conduct. It is to say that egoistic claims must take precedence of altruistic claims. - - § 70. Under its biological aspect this prop- osition cannot be contested by those who agree in the doctrine of evolution ; but prob- ably they will not at once allow that admis- sion of it under its ethical aspect is equally unavoidable. While, as respects develop- ment of life, the well-working of the uni- versal principle described is sufficiently mani- fest, the well-working of it as respects increase of happiness may not be seen at once. But the two cannot be disjoined. Incapacity of every kind and of whatever degree causes unhappiness directly and in- directly—directly by the pain consequent on the overtaxing of inadequate faculty, and indirectly by the non-fulfilment, or imper- fect fulfilment, of certain conditions to Wel 536 THE DATA OF ETHICS. fare. Conversely, capacity of every kind sufficient for the requir ment conduces to happiness immediately and remotely—im- mediately by the pleasure accompanying the normal exercise of each power that is up to its work, and lemotely by the pleasures which are furthered by the cinds achieved. A creature that is weak or slow of foot, and so gets food only by exhausting efforts or escapes enemies with difficulty, suffers the pains of overstrained powers, of unsatisfied appetites, of distressed emotions; while the strong and swift creature of the same species delights in its efficient activities, gains more fully the satisfactions yielded by food as well as the renewed vivacity this gives, and has to bear fewer and smaller pains in defending itself against foes or escaping from them. Similarly with duller and keener senses, or higher and lower degrees cf Sagacity. The mentally inferior individual Gf any race suffers negative and positive miseries, while the mentally superior individual receives negative and positive gratifications. Inevi- tably, then, this law, in conformity with which cach mcmber of a species takes the consequences of its own nature, and in virtue of which the progeny of each Inem- ber, participating in its nature, also takes such consequences, is one that tends ever to raise the aggregate happiness of the species, by furtheling the multiplication of the happier and hindering that of the less happy. All this is true of human beings as of other beings. The conclusion forced on us is that the pursuit of individual happiness within those limits prescribed by Social conditions is the first requisite to the attainment of the greatest general happiness. To see this it needs but to contrast one whose self-regard has maintained bodily well-being with one whose regardlessness of self has brought its natural results, and then to ask what must be the contrast between two societies formed of two such kinds of individuals. Bounding out of bed after an unbroken sicep, singing or whistling as he dresses, coming down with beaming face Teady to laugh on the smallest provocation, the healthy man of high powers, conscious of past successes, and by his energy, quickness, i.esource, made confident of the future, enters on the day’s business not with repugnance but with gladness; and from hour to hour experiencing satisfactions from work ef- fectually done, comes home with an abun- dant surplus of energy relilaining for hours of relaxation. Far otherwise is it with one whº is cºnfeebled by great neglect of self. Already deficient, his energies are made more deficient by constant endeavors to execute tasks that prove beyond his strength, and by the resultiug discouragement. Besides the depressing consciousness of the immediate future, there is the depressing consciousness of the remoter future, with its probability of accurmulated difficullies and diminished ability to meet them. Hours of leisure which, rightly passed, bring pleasures that raise the tide of life and renew the powers of work, cannot be utilized -—there is ract vigor enough for enjoyments in vulving action, and lack of spirits prevents passive enjoyments from being entered upon with zest. In brief, life becomes a bul den. Now if, as must be admitted, in a community composed of individuals like the first the happiness will be relatively great, while in one composed of individuals like the last there will be relatively little happiness, Or 'allier much misery, it must be admitted that conduct causing the one result is good and conduct causing the other is bad. I3ut diminutions of general happiness are produced lºy inadequate egoism in several other ways. These we will successively glance at. - § 71. If there were no proofs of heredity —if it were the rule that the strong are usually begotten by the weak, while the weak usually descend from the strong, that vivacious children form the families of mel- ancholy parents, while fathers and mothers with overflowing spirits mostly lºave dull progeny, that from stolid peasants there ordi- marily come sons of high intelligence, while the sons of the cultured are commonly fit för nothing but following the plough—if there were no transmission of gout, scrofula, in- sanity, and did the diseased habitually give lirt!: to the healthy and the healthy to the diseased, writers on ethics might be justified in ignoring those effects of conduct which are felt by posterity through the natures they inherit. # rº As it is, however, the current ideas con- cerning the relative claims of egoism and altruism are vitiated by the omission of this all-important factor. For if health, strength, and capacity are usually transmitted, and if disease, feebleness, stupidity, generally reappear in descendants, then , a rational altruism requires insistance on that egoism which is shown by receipt of the satisfac: tions accompanying preservation of body and mind in the best state. The necessary im- plication is that blessings are provided for offspring by due self-regard, while disregard of self carried too far provides Curses. When, indeed, we remember how commonly it is remarked that high health and overflow- ing spirits render any lot in life tolerable, while chronic ailments make gloomy a life most favorably circumstanced, it becomes amazing that both the world at large and writers who make conduct their study should ignore the terrible evils which disre- gard of personal well-being inflicts on the unborn, and the incalculable good laid up for the unborn by attention to personal Well- being. Of all bequests of parents to children the most valuable is a sound constitution. Though a man's body is not a property that can be inherited, yet his constitution may fitly be compared to an entailed estate ; and if he rightly understands his duty to pos- terity, he will see that he is bound to pass on that estate uninjured if not improved. . To say this is to say that he must be egoistic to the extent of satisfying all those desires as THE DATA OF ETHICS. S37 sociated with the Jue performance of func- tions. Nay, it is to say more. It is to say that he must seek in due amounts the various pleasures which life offers. For beyond the effect these have in raising the title of life and maintaining constitutional vigor, there is the effect they have in preserving and in- creasing a capacity for receiving enjoyment. Endowed with abundant energies and various tastes, some can get gratifications of many kinds on opportunities hourly oc- curring, while others are so inert, and so uninterested in things around, that they cannot even take the trouble to amusc illem- selves. And unless heredity be denied, the inference must be that due acceptance of the miscellaneous pleasures life offers conduces to the capacity for enjoyment in posterity, and that persistence in dull, monotonous lives by parents diminishes the ability of their descendants to make the best of what gratifications fall to them. § 72. Beyond the decrease of general happiness which results in this indirect way if egoism is unduly subordinated, there is a decrease of general happiness which results in a direct way. IIe who carries self-regard far enough to keep himself in good health and high spirits, in the first place thereby becomes an immediate source of happiness to those around, and in the second place main- tains the ability to increase their happiness by altruistic actions. But one whose bodily vigor and mental health are undermined by self-sacrifice carried too far, in the first place becomes to those around a cause of depres- sion, and in the second place renders himself incapable, or less capable, of actively fur- thering their welfare. In estimating conduct we must remember that there are those who by their joyousness beget idy in others, and that there are those who by their melancholy cast a gloom on every circle they enter. And we must re- member that by display of overflowing happiness a man of the one kind may add to the happiuess of others more than by positive efforts to benefit them, and that a man of the other kind may decrease their lappiness more by his presence than he in- creases it by his actions. Full of vivacity, the one is cver welcome. For his wife he has smiles and jogose speeches; for his children stores of fun and play ; for his friends pleasant talk interspersed with the sallies of wit that come from buoyancy. Contrariwise, the ciher is shunned. The irritability resulting now from ailments, Ilow from failures caused by feebleness, his family has daily to bear. Lacking adequate g energy for joining in them, he has at best but a tepid interest in the amusements of his children, and he is called a wet blanket by his friends. Little account us our ethical reasonings take note of it, yet is the fact obvious that since happiness and misery are infectious, such regard for self as conduces to health and high spirits is a benefaction to others, and such disregard of self as blings on suffering, bodily or mental, is a lilalefac. real happiness. tion to others. The duty of making one's self agreeable by seeming to be pleased is, indeed, often urged, and thug to gratify fr’ends is applauded so long as sclf-sacrificing cffort is implied. Iłut though display of real happiness gratifies friends far more than display of sham happiness, and has no drawback in the shape either of hypocrisy or strain, yet it is not thought a duty to fulfil the conditions which favor the display of Nevertheless, if quantity of happiness produced is to be the measure, the last is more imperative than the first. And then, as above indicated, beyond this primary series of effects produced on others there is a secondary series of effects. The adequately egoistic individual retains those powers which make altruistic activities possible. The individual who is inadequately egoistic loses more or less of his ability to he altruistic. The truth of the one proposi- tion is self-evident, and the truth of the other is daily forced on us by examples. Note a few of them. Here is a mother who, brought up in the insane fashion usual among the cultivated, has a physique not strong enough for suckling her infant, but who, knowing that its natural food is the best, aud anxious for its welfare, continues to give it milk for a longer time than her system will bear. Eventually the accumu- lating reaction tells. There comies exhaustion, running, it may be, into illness caused by depletion ; occasionally cnding in dcatlı, and often entailing chronic weakness. She be- comes, perhaps for a time, perhaps per- manently, incapable of carrying on household affairs ; her other children suffer from the loss of maternal attention ; and where the income . is small, payments for nurse and doctor tell injuriously on the whole family. Instance, again, what not unfrequently happens with the father. Similarly prompt- ed by a high schse of obligation, and misled by current Inoral theories into the notion that self-denial may rightly be carried to any extent, he daily continues his office-work for long hours regardless of hot head and cold feet, and debars himself from social pleasures, for which he thinks he can afford neither time inor money. What comes of this entirely unegoistic course ? Eventually a sudden collapse, sleeplessness, inability to work. That rest which he would not give himself when his sensations prompted he has now to take in long measure. The extra earnings laid by for the benefit of his family are quickly swept away by costly journeys in aid of recovery, and by the many expenses which illness entails. Instead of increased ability to do his duty by his offspring, there comes now inability. Lifelong evils on them replace hoped-for goods. And so is it, too, with the social effects of inadequate egoism. All grades furnish examples of the mischiefs, positive and negative, inflicted on society by excessive neglect of self. Now the ‘ase is that of a laborer who, conscientiously continuing his work under a broiling sun, spite of violent protest from his feelings, 533 THE DATA OF ETHICS. dies of sunstroke, and leaves his family a burden to the parish. Now the case is that of a clerk whose eyes permanently fail from overstraining, or who, daily writing for hours after his fingers are painfully cramped, is attacked with “scrivener's palsy,” and, unable to write at all, sinks with aged parents into poverty which friends are called on to mitigate. And now the case is that of a man devoted to public ends who, shat- tering his health by ceaseless application, fails to achieve all he might have achieved by a more reasonable apportionment of his time between labor on behalf of others and ministration to his own needs. § 73. In one further way is the undue subordination of egoism to altruism injurious. Both directly and indirectly unselfishness pushed to excess generates selfishness. Consider first the immediate effects. That one man may yield up to another a gratifica- tion, it is needful that the other shall accept it ; and where the gratification is of a kind to which their respective claims are equal, or which is no more required by the one than by the other, acceptance implies a readiness töget gratification at another's cost. The cir- cumstances and needs of the two being alike, the transaction involves as much culture of egoism in the last as it involves culture of filtruisun in the first. It is true that not un- frequently difference between their means or difference between their appetites for a pleas- ure which the one has had often and the other rarely, divests the acceptance of this character ; and it is true that in other cases the benefactor manifestly takes so much pleasure in giving pleasure that the sacrifice is partial, and the reception of it not wholly selfish. Dut to see the effect above indicated we must exclude such inequalities, and con- sider what happens where wants are ap- proximately alike and where the sacrifices, not reciprocated at intervals, are perpetually on one sidc. So restricting the inquiry all can name instances verifying the alleged re- sult. Every one can remember circles in which the daily surrender of benefits by the generous to the greedy has caused increase of greediness, until there has been produced an unscrupulous egoism intolerable to all around. There are obvious social effects of kindred nature. Most thinking people now recognize the demoralization caused by in- discriminate charity. They see how in the mendicant there is, besides destruction of the normal relation between labor expended and benefit obtained, a genesis of the expec- tation that others shall minister to his needs, showing itself sometimes in the venting of curses on those who refuse. Next consider the remote results. When the egoistic claims are so much subordinated to the altruistic as to produce physical mis- chief, the tendency is toward a relative de- crease in the number of the altruistic, and therefore an increased predominance of the egoistic. Pushed to extremes, sacrifice of self for the benefit of others leads occasion- ally to death before the ordinary period of marriage; leads sometimes to abstention from marriage, as in sisters of charity ; leads sometimes to an ill-health or a loss of attrac- tiveness which prevents marriage ; leads sometimes to non-acquirement of the pecu- niary means needed for marriage ; and in all these cases, therefore, the unusually altruis- tic leave no descendants. Where the post- ponement of personal welfare to the welfait, of others has not been carried so far as to pre- vent marriage, it yet not unfrequently occurs that the physical degradation lesulting from years of self-neglect causes inſel lility, so that again the most altruistically-natured leave no like-natured posterity. And then in less marked and more numerous cases the resulting enfeeblement shows itself by the production of relatively weak offspring, of whom some die early, while the rest are less likely than usual to transmit the parental type to future generations. Inevitably, then, by this dying out of the especially unegoistic, there is prevented that desirable mitigation of egoism in the average nature which would else have taken place. Such disregard of self as brings down bodily vigor below the normal level eventually produces in the S9- ciety a counterbalancing excess of regard for self. - § 74. That egoism precedes altruism in or- der of imperativeness is thus clearly shown. The acts which make continual life possiole must, on the average, be more peremplory than all those other acts which life makes possible, including the acts which benefit others. Turning from life as existing to life as evolving, we are equally shown this. Sentient beings have progressed from low to high types, under the law that the superior shall profit by their superiority and the in- ferior shall suffer from their inferiority. Conformity to this law has been, and is still, needful, not only for the continuance of life but for the increase of happiness, sizıce the superior are those having faculties better ad- justed to the requirements—faculties, there- fore, which bring in their exercise greater pleasure and less pain. More special considerations join these more general ones in showing us this truth. Such egoism as preserves a vivacious mind in a vigorous body furthers.the happiness of de- scendants, whose inherited constitutions make the labors of life easy and its pleasures keen ; while, conversely, unhappiness is entailed on posterity by those who bequeath them con- stitutions injured by self-neglect. Again, the individual whose well-conserved life shows itself in overflowing spirits becomes, by his mere existence, a source of pleasure to all around, while the depression which com- monly accompanies ill-health diffuses itself through family and among friends. A fui- ther contrast is that whereas one who has been duly regardful of self retains the power of being helpful to ºthers there results from self-abnegation in excess not only an in- ability to help others but the infliction of pos- itive hurdens on them. Lastly, We come upon the truth that undue altruism increases THE DATA OF ETHICS. 539 egoſsm, both directly in contemporaries and _^ 2’ indirectly in posterity. And now observe that though the general conclusion enforced by these special conclu- sions is at variance with nominally accepted beliefs, it is not at variance with actually" accepted beliefs. While opposed to the doc- trine which men are taught should be acted upon, it is in harmony with the doctrine which they do act upon and dimly see must be acted upon. For omitting such abnormali- ties of conduct as are instanced above, every one, alike by deed and word, implies that in the business of life personal welfare is the primary consideration. The laborer looking for wages in return for work done, no less than the merchant who sells goods at a profit, the doctor who expects fees for advice, the priest who calls the scene of his ministra- tions “a living,” assumes as beyond ques- tion the truth that selfishness, carried to the extent of enforcing his claims and enjoying the returns his efforts bring, is not only legiti- mate but essential. Even persons who avow a contrary conviction prove by their acts that it is inoperative. Those who repeat with emphasis the maxim, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” do not render up what they pos- sess so as to Satisfy the desires of all as much as they satisfy their own desires, Nor do those whose extreme maxim is, “Live for oth- ers,” differ appreciably from people around in their regards for personal welfare, or fail to appropriate their shares of life’s pleasures, In short, that which is above set forth as the belief to which scientific ethics leads us is that which men do really believe, as distin- guished from that which they believe they believe. Finally, it may be remarked that a rational egoism, so far from implying a more egoistic human nature, is cousistent with a human nature that is less egoistic. For excesses in one direction do not prevent excesses in the opposite direction, but rather extreme de- viations from the mean on one side lead to extreme deviations on the other side. A so- ciety in which the most exalted principles of self-sacrifice for the benefit of neighbors are enunciated may be a Society in which un- scrupulous sacrifice of alien fellow-creatures is not only tolerated but applauded. Along with professed anxiety to spread these ex- alted principles among heathens there may go the deliberate fastening of a quarrel upon them with a view to annexing their territory. Men who every Sunday have listened approv- ingly to injunctions carrying the regard for other men to an impracticable extent may yet hire themselves out to slay, at the word of command, any people in any part of the world, utterly indifferent to the right or wrong of the matter fought about. And as in these cases transcendent altruism in theory co-exists with brutal egoism in practice, so, conversely, a more qualified altruism may have for its concomitant a greatly moderated egoism. For asserting the due claims of self is, by implication, drawing a limit beyond which the claims are undue, and is, by conse- - .*-*.*. * ; : *. quence, bringing into greater clearness the claims of others. CHAPTER XII. AI.TIt UISMI (Cé1'87/.3 EGOISM, 75. If we define altruism as being all ac. tion which, in the normal course of things, benefits others instead of benefiting self, then, from the dawn of life, altruism has been no less essential than egoism. Though primarily it is dependent on egoism, yet secondarily egoism is dependent on it. Under altruism in this comprehensive sénse, I take in the acts by which offspring are preserved and the species maintained. More- Over, among these acts must be included not Such only as are accompanied by conscious- ness, but also such as conduce to the welfare of Offspring without mental representation of the Welfare—acts of automatic altruism as we IIlay call them. Nor must there be left out those lowest altruistic acts which subserve race-maintenance without implying even automatic nervous processes—acts not in the remotest sense psychical, but in a literal Sense physical. Whatever action, uncon- scious or conscious, involves expenditure of individual life to the end of increasing life in Other individuals, is unquestionably altruis- tic in a sense, if not in the usual sense; and it is here needful to understand it in this Sense that we may see how conscious altruism grows out of unconscious altruism. The simplest beings habitually multiply by Spontaneous fission. Physical altruism of the lowest kind, differentiating from physi- cal egoism, may in this case be considered as not yet independent of it. For since the two halves which before fission constitute the in dividual do not on dividing disappear, we must Say that though the individuality of the parent infusorium or other protozoon is lost in ceasing to be single, yet the old in- dividual continues to exist in each of the new individuals. When, however, as hap- pens generally with these smallest animals, an interval of quiescence ends in the break- ing up of the whole body into minute parts, each of which is the germ of a young one, We see the parent entirely sacrificed in form- ing progeny. ere might be described how among crea- tures of higher grades, by fission or genma- tion, parents bequeath parts of their hodies, more or less organized, to form offspring at the cost of their own individualities. Numer- ous examples might also be given of the ways in which the development of ova is car. ried to the extent of making the parental body little more than a receptacle for them— the implication being that the accumulations of nutriment which parental activities have laid up are disposed of for the benefit of posterity. And then might be dwelt on the Inultitudinous cases where, as generally thloughout the insect world, maturity having been leached and a new generation provided for, life ends—-death follows the sacrifices made for progeny. * But leaving these lower types in which the -- = THE DATA OF ETHICs. altruism is physical only, or in which it is bhysical and automatically psychical only |. us ascend to those in which it is also, to a considerable degree, conscious. in birds and manmals such parental activi- ties as are guided by instinct are accompa- nied by either no representations or but vague representations of the benefits which the young receive, yet there are also in them actions which we may class as altruis- tic in the higher sense. The agitation which cleatures of these classes show when their young are in danger, joined often with efforts on their behalf, as well as the grief displayed after loss of their young, make it manifest that in them parental altruism has a con- comitant of emotion. Those who understand by altruism only the conscious sacrifice of self to others among human beings will think it strange, or even absurd, to extend its meaning so widely. But the justification for doing this is greater than has thus far appeared. I do not mean merely that in the course of evolution there has been a progress through inſinitesimal gradations from purely physical and uncon- scious sacrifices of the individual for the welfare of the species, up to sacrifices con- sciously made. I mean that from first to last the sacrifices are, when reduced to their low- est terins, Uf the Saine essential nature ; to the last, as at first, there is involved a loss of bodily substance. When a part of the parental body is detached in the shape of gemmule, or egg, or foetus, the material sac- ifice is conspicuous; and when the mother yields milk by absorbing, which the young grows, it cannot be questioncé that there is also a material sacrifice. But though a ma- terial sacrifice is not manifest when the young are benefited by activities on their be- half, yet as no effort can be made without an equivalent waste of tissue, and as the bodily loss is proportionate to the expend- iture that takes place without reimburse- ment in food consumed, it follows that efforts made in fostering offspring do really represent a part of the parental Substance, which is now given indirectly instead of directly. . Self-sacrifice, then, is no less primordial than self-preservation. Being in its simple playsical form absolutely necessary for the continuance of life from the beginning, and being extended under its automatic form, as indispensable to maintenance of race in types considerably advanced, and being developed to its semi-conscious forms, along with the continued and complicated attendance by which the Offspring of superior creatures are brought to thaturity, altruism has been evolving simultaneously with egoism. As was pointed out in an early chapter, the same superiorities which have enabled the in- dividual to preserve itself better have en- abled it better to preserve the individuals de- rived from it ; and each higher species, using its improved faculties primarily for egoistic benefit, has spread in proportion as it has used them secondarily for altruistic benefit. Though The imperativeness of altruism as thus un- derstood is, indeed, no less than the imper- ativeness of egoism was shown to be in the last chapter. For while, on the one hand, a falling short of normal egoistic acts entails enfeeblement or loss of life, and thereforo loss of ability to perform altruistic acts. On the other hand such defect of altruistic acts as Causes death of offspring or inadequate development of them involves disappearance from future generations of the nature that is not altruistic enough—so decreasing the average egoism. In short, every species is continually purifying itself from the unduly egoistic individuals, while there are being lost to it the unduly altruistic individuals. § 76. As there has been an advance by de- grees from unconscious parental altruism to conscious parental altruism of the highest kind, so has there been an advance by de- grees from the altruism of the family to so- cial altruism. A fact to be first noted is that only where altruistic relations in the domestic group have reached highly developed forms do there arise conditions making possible fu'l development of altruistic relations in the po- litical group. Tribes in which promiscuity prevails or in which the marital relations are transitory, and tribes in which polyandry entails in another way indefinite relationships, are incapable of Imuch organization. Nor do peoples who are habitually polygamous show themselves able to take on those high forms of social co-operation which demand due subordination of self to others. Only where monogamic marriage has become gen- eral and eventually universal—only where there have consequently been established the closest ties of blood --only where family altruism has been inost fostered, has social altruism become conspicuous. It needs but to recall the compound forms of the Aryan family as described by Sir Henry Maine and others, to see that family feeling, first ex- tending itself to the gens and the tribe, and afterward to the society formed of related tribes, prepared, the way for fellow-feeling among citizens not of the same stock. Recognizing this natural transition, we are here chiefly, concerned to observe that throughout the latter stages of the progress, as throughout the former, increase of egois- tic satisfactions has depended on growth of regard for the satisfactions of others. On contemplating a line of successive parents and offspring, we see that each, enabled while young to live by the sacrifices prede- cessors make for it, itself makes, when adult, equivalent sacrifices for successors; and that in default of this general balancing of bene- fits received by benefits given, the line dies out. Similarly, it is manifest that in society each generation of members, indebted for such benefits as social organization yields them to preceding generations, who have by their Sacrifices elaborated this organizatiº ..., are called on to make for succeeding genera- tions such kindred sacrifices as shall at least maintain this organization, if they do not '1'HE DATA OF ETHICS. 541 improve it—the alternative being decay and eventual dissolution of the society, , implying gradual decrease in the egoistic safisfactions of its members. And new we are prepared to consider the several ways in which, under social con- ditions, personal welfare depends on due re- gard for the welfare of others. Already the conclusions to be drawn have been fore- shadowed. As in the chapter on the biolog- ical view were implied the inferences defi- nitely set forth in the last chapter, so in the chapter on the sociological view were implied the inſererces to be definitely set forth here. Sundry of these are trite enough, but they must nevertheless be specified, since the statement would be incomplete without them. § 77. First to be 'dealt with comes that negative altruism implied by such curbing of the egoistic impulses as prevents direct aggression. - As before shown, if men instead of living separately are to unite for defence or ſcr other purposes, they must severally reap more good than evil from the union. On the average, each must lose less from the an- tagonisms of those with whom he is asso- Ciated than he gains by the association. At the outset, therefore, that increase of egoistic. satisfactions which the social state brings can be purchased only by altruism sufficient to cat se some recognition of others' claims— if not a voluntary recognition, still a com- pulsory recognition. While the recognition is but of that lowest kind due to dread of retaliation or of pre- scribed punishment, the egoistic gain from association is small, and it becomes con- siderable only as the recognition becomes voluntary—that is, more altruistic. Where, as among some of the wild Australians, there cxists no limit to the right of the strongest, and the men fight to get possession of women while the wives of one man fight among themselves about him, the pursuit of egoistic satisfactions is greatly impeded. Be sides the bodily pain occasionally given to each by conflict, and the more or less of sub- sequent inability to achieve personal ends, there is the waste of energy entailed in main- taining readiness for self-defence, and there is the accompanying occupation of conscious- ness by emotions that are on the average of cases disagreeable. Moreover, the primary cnd of safety in presence of external foes is ill-attained in proportion as there are inter- nal animosities; such furtherance of satisfac- tions as industrial co-operation brings cannot be had ; and there is little motive to labor for extra benefits when the products of labor are insecure. And from this early stage to comparatively late stages we may trace in the wearing of arms, in the carrying on of family feuds, and in the taking of daily pre- cautions for safety, the ways in which the egoistic satisfactions of each are diminished by deficiency of that altruism which checks overt injury of others. The private interests of the individual are on the average better subserved, not only in proportion as he himself refrains from di- rect aggression, but also, on the average, in proportion as he succeeds in diminishing the aggressions of his fellows on onc another. The prevalence of antagonisms among those around impedes the activities carried on by each in pursuit of satisfactions, and by causing disorder makes the beneficial results of activities more doubtful. Hence, each profits egoistically from the growth of an altruism which leads each to aid in prevent- ing or diminishing others' violence. º The like holds when we pass to that altru- ism which restrains the undue egoism dis- played in breaches of contract. General acceptance of the maxim that honesty is the best policy implies general experience that gratification of the self-regarding feelings is eventually furthered by such checking of them as maintains equitable dealings. And here, as before, each is personally interested in securing good treatment of his ſellows by one another. For in countless ways evils are entailed on each by the prevalence of fraud- ulent transactions. As every one knows, the larger the number of a shopkeeper's bills left unpaid by some customers, the higher must be the prices which other customers pay. The more manufacturers lose by defective raw materials or by carelessness of workmen, the more must they charge for their fabrics to buyers. The less trustworthy, people are, the higher rises the rate of interest, the larger becomes the amount of capital hoarded, the greater are the impediments to industry. The further traders aqd people in general go be- yond their means, and hypothecate the prop- erty of others in speculation, the more seri- ous are those commercial panics which bring disasters on multitudes and injuriously affect all. - This introduces us to yet a third way in which such personal welfare as results from the proportioning of benefits gained to labors given depends on the making of certain sac- rifices for Social welfare. The man who, expending his energies wholly on private affairs, refuses to take trouble about public affairs, pluming himself on his wisdom in minding his own business, is blind to the fact that his own business is made possible only by maintenance of a healthy social state, and that he loses all round by defective gov- ernmental arrangements. Where there are many like-minded with himself—where, as a consequence, offices come to be filled by polit- ical adventurers at d opinion is swayed by demagogues—where bribery vitiates the ad- ministration of the law and makes fraudulent state transactions habitual, heavy penalties fall on the community at large, and, among others, on those who have thus done every- thing for self and nothing for society. Their investments are insecure, recovery of their debts is difficult, and even their lives are less safe than they would otherwise have been. So that on such altruistic actions as are implied, firstly in being just, secondly in 542 THE DATA OF ETHICS. seeing justice done between others, and thirdly in upholding and improving the agencies by which justice is administered, depend, in large measu: e, the egoistic satis- factions of each. § 78. But the identification of personal ad- vantage with the adv ntage of fellcw-citi- zens is much wider than this. In various other ways the well-being of each rises and falls with the well-being of all. A weak man left to provide for his own wants suffers by getting smaller amounts of food and other necessaries than he might get were he stronger. In a community formed of weak men, who divide their labors and exchange the products, all suffer evils from the weakness of their fellows. The quantity of each kind of product is made deficient by the deficiency of laboring power, and the share each gets for such share of his own product as he can afford to give is relatively small. Just as the maintenance of paupers, hospital patients, inmates of asylums, and others who consume but do not produce, heaves to be divided among producers a smaller stock of commodities than would ex- ist were there no incapables, so must there be left a smaller stock of commodities to be divided, the greater the number of inefficient producers, or the greater the average de- ficiency of producing power. Hence, what- ever decreases the strength of men in general restricts the gratifications of eachs by making the means to them dearer. - More directly, and more obviously does the bodily well-being of his fellows concern him, for their bodily ill-being, when it takes certain shapes, is apt to bring similar bodily iſl-being on him. If he is not himself at- tacked by cholera, or small-pox, or typhus, when it invades his neighborhood, he often suffers a penalty through his belongings. Under conditions spreading it, his wife catches diphtheria, or his servant is laid up with scarlet fever, or his children take now this and now that infectious disorder. Add together the immediate and remote evils brought on him year after year by epidemics, and it becomes manifest that his egoistic sat- isfactions are greatly furthered by such altru- istic activities as render disease less prevalent. With the mental as well as with the bod- ily states of fellow-citizens, his enjoyments are in multitudinous ways bound up. Stu- pidity like weakness raises the cost of com- modities. Where farming is unimproved, the prices of food are higher than they would else be ; where antiquated routine maintains itself in trade, the needless expense of distribution weighs on all ; where there is no inventiveness, every one loses the benefits which improved appliances diffuse. Other than economic evils come from the average unintelligence—periodically through the ma- nias and panics that arise because traders rash in herds all to buy or all to sell ; and habitually through the maladministration of justice, which people and rulers alike disre- gard while pursuing this or that legislative will-o'-the-wisp. Closer and clearer is the depsndence of his personal satisfactions on others' mental states which each experiences in his household. Unpunctuality and want of system are perpetual sources of annoy- ance. The unskilfulness of the cock causes frequent vexation and occasional indigestion. Lack of forethought in the housemaid leads to a fall over a bucket in a dark passage. And inattention to a message or forgetfulness in delivering it entails failure in an impor- tant engagement. Each, therefore, benefits egoistically by such altruism as aids in rais- ing the average intelligence. I do not mean such altruism as taxes ratepayers that chil- dren's minds may be filled with dates, and names, and gossip about kings, and narra- tives of battles, and other useless information no amount of which will make them capable workers or good citizens; but I mean such altruism as helps to spread a knowledge of the nature of things and to cultivate the power of applying that knowledge. Yet again, each has a private interest in public morals, and profits by improving them. Not in large ways only, by aggres- sions and breaches of contract, by aduitera- tions and short measures, does each suffer from the general unconscientiousness, but in more numerous small ways. Now it is through the untruthfulness of one whº gives a good character to a bad servant ; now it is by the recklessness of a laundress who, using bleaching agents to save trouble in washing, destroys his linen ; now it is by the acted falsehood of railway passengers who, by dispersed coats, make him believe that all the seats in a compartment are taken when they are not. Yesterday the illness of his child, due to foul gases, led to the discovery of a drain that had become choked because it was ill-made by a dishonest builder under supervision of a careless or bribed surveyor. To-day workmen employed to rectify it bring on him cost and inconvenience by dawdling ; and their low standard of work, determined by the unionist principle that the better workers must not discredit the worse by exceeding them in efficiency, he may trace to the immortal belief that the unworthy should fare as well as the worthy. To- morrow it turns out that business for the plumber has been provided by damage which the bricklayers have done. Thus the improvement of others, physi- cally, intellectually, and moralky, personally concerns each, since their imperfections tell in raising the cost of all the commodities he buys, in increasing the taxes and rates he pays, and in the losses of time, trouble, and money, daily brought on him by others' carelessness, stupidity, or unconscientious- Il CSS. § 79. Very obvious are certain more im- mediate connections between personal wel- fare and ministration to the welfare of those around. The evils suffered by those whose behavior is unsympathetic, and the benefits to self which tº nº e. fish conduct brings, show these. That ally one should have formulated his THE DATA OF ETHICS. 545 experience by Saying that the conditions to success are a hard heart and a sound diges- tion is marvellous, considering the many proofs that success, even of a material kind, greatly depending as it does on the good offices of others, is furthered by whatever creates good-will in others. The contrast be- tween the prosperity of those who to but moderate abilities join natures which beget friendships by their kindliness, and the ad- versity of those who, though possessed of superior faculties and greater acquirements, arouse dislikes by their hardness or indiffer- ence, should force upon all the truth that egoistic enjoyments are aided by altruistic actions. This increase of personal benefit achieved by benefiting others is but partially achieved where a selfish motive prompts the seemingly unselfish act : it is fully achieved only where the act is really unselfish. Though services rendered with the view of some time profit- ing by reciprocated services answer to a certain extent, yet, ordinarily, they answer only to the extent of bringing equivalents of reciprocated services, Those which bring more than equivalents are those not Fº by any thoughts of equivalents. or obviously it is the spontaneous outflow of good nature, not in the larger acts of life only but in all its details, which generates in those around the attachments prompting un- stinted, benevolence. . . . . . Besides furthering prosperity, other-regard. ing actions conduce to self-regarding gratifi- cations by generating a genial environment. With the sympathetic being every one feels more sympathy than with others. All con- duct themselves with more than usual amia- bility to a person who hourly discloses a lov- able nature. Such a one is practically sur- rounded by a world of better people than one who is less attractive. If we contrast the state of a man possessing all the material means to happiness, but isolated by his abso- lute egoism, with the state of an altruistic man relatively poor in means but rich in friends, we may see that various gratifica- tions not to be purchased by money come in abundance to the last and are inaccessible to the first. While, then, there is one kind of other-re- garding action, furthering the prosperity of fellow-citizens at large, which admits of be- ing deliberately pursued from motives that are remotely self-regarding—the conviction being that personal well-being depends in large measure on the well-being of society— there is an additional kind of other-regarding action having in it. no element of conscious self-regard, which nevertheless conduces greatly to Cygoistic satisfactions. $80. Yet other modes exist in which egoism unqualified by altruism habitually fails. It diininishes the totality of egoistic pleasure by diminishing in several directions the capacity for pleasure. Self-gratifications, considered separately or in the aggregate, lose their intensities by that too great persistence in them which results , Spring this is conspicuously shown. if they are made the exclusive objects of pur- Suit. The law that function entails waste, and that faculties yielding pleasure by their action cannot act incessantly without ex- haustion and accompanying satiety, has the implication that intervals during which altru- istic activities absorb the energies are inter- vals during which the capacity for egoistic pleasure is recovering its full degree. The Sensitiveness to purely personal enjoyments is maintained at a higher pitch by those who minister to the enjoyments of others than it is by those who devote themselves wholly to personal enjoyments. ... - This which is manifest even while the tide of life is high becomes still more manifest as life ebbs. It is in maturity and old age that We especially see how, as egoistic pleas- ures grow faint, altruistic actions come in to revive them in new forms. The contrast between the child's delight in the noveltics daily revealed and the indifference which comes as the world around grows familiar, until in adult life there remain comparatively few things that are greatly enjoyed, draws from all the reflection that as years go b pleasures pall. And to those who think, it becomes clear that only through sympathy can pleasures be indirectly gained from things that have ceased to yield pleasures di- rectly. In the gratifications derived by parents from the gratifications of their off Trite as is the remark that men live afresh in their children, it is needful here to get it down as reminding us of the way in whicº, as the egoistic satisfactions in life fade, altruism renews them while it transfigures them. We are thus introduced to a more general consideration—the egoistic aspect of altruis- tic pleasure. Not, indeed, that this is the place for discussing the question whether the egoistic element can be excluded from altru- ism, nor is it the place for distinguishing between the altruism which is pursued with a foresight of the pleasurable feeling to be achieved through it, and the altruism which, though it achieves this pleasurable feeling, does not make pursuit of it a motive, Here we are concerned with the fact that, whether knowingly or unknowingly gained, the state of mind accompanying altruistic action, be- ing a pleasurable state, is to be counted in the sum of pleasures which the individual can receive, and in this sense cannct be other than egoistic. That we must so re- gard it is proved on observing that this pleas- ure, like pleasures in general, conduces to the physical prosperity of the ego. As every other agreeable emotion raises the tide of life, so does the agreeable emotion which accom- panies a benevolent deed. As it cannot bg denied that the pain caused by the sight of suffering, depresses the vital functions—some- times even to the extent of arresting the . heart’s action. as in one who faints on seeing. a surgical operation, so neither can it be de- nied that the joy felt in witnessing others' joy exalts the vital functions. Hence, how- ever much we may hesitate to class altruistic 544 THE DATA OF ETHICS. pleasure as a highcr kind of egoistic pleas- ure, we are obliged to 1 ccognize the fact that its immediate effects in augmenting life, and so furthering persenal well-being, are like those of pleasures that a: e directly C&Cistic. And the corollary dilawn mºust be that pure egoism is, even in its immediate 1esults, less sticcessfully egoistic than is the egoism duly qualified by altiuism, which, besi es achiev- ing additional pleasules, achieves , also, through raised vitality, a greater capacity for pleasures in gencial. f That the range of aesthetic gratifications is wider for the altruist.c nature than for the egoistic nature is also a truth net to be over- looked. The jºys and sorrows cf human be- ings form a chief clement in the subject mat- ter of art, and evidently the plcasures which art gives increase as the fellow-ſecling with these jºys and sorrows strengthens. . If we contrast early pºctly occupied mainly with war and gratifying the savage instincts by descriptions of bloody victorics, with the po- etry of Inodern times, in which the Sangui- nary forms but a small part, while a large part, dealing with the gentler affections, cm- lists the feelings of readers on behalf of the weak, we are shown that with the devclop- ment of a more altruistic nature thcro has been opencil a sphere of enjoyment inaccCŞ- sible to the całlous Cgoism of Darliarous timics. So, too, between the fiction of the past and the fiction of the present there is the diffcr- ence that, while the one was almost exclu- sively occupied with the doings Cf the Iuling classes, and found its plots in thicit antago- misms and dcc.ds of Violence, the Otincr, chiefly taking storics cf peaceful liſc for its subjects, anu to a considerable extint the life of the humbler classcs, discloses a new world of interest in the every-day pleasures and pains of oldimary people. A like con- trast exists between carly and late forms of plastic art. When not representing acts of worship, the wail sculptuics and Wall paint- ings of the Assyrians and Egyptians, or the decorations of temples among the Grecks, represented decels of conquest ; whercas in modern times, while the works which glorify destructive activities are less numerº.us, there are an incleasing number of Works gratify- ing to the kindlier sentimeñts of spectators. To see that those who care nothing about the feelings of othcr lucings are, by implica- tion, shut out from a wide lange of aesthetic pleasures, it needs but to ask whether men who delight in dog-fights may be expected to appreciate Beethoven's “Adelaida,” or whether Tennyson's “In Memoriam” would greatly move a gang of convicts. - $81. From the dawn of life, then, egoism has been dependent upon altruism as altruism has been dependent upon egoism ; and in the course of evolution the reciprocal ser- vices of the two have been increasing. The physical und unconscious self-sacrifice of parents to form offspring, which the low est living things display from hour to hour, shows us in its primitive form the alttuisin which makes possible the cgoism of individ- in Sundry other ways. ual life and growth. As we ascend to higher grades of crea tures, this parental altruism becomes a direct yielding up of only part of the body, joined with an increasing contribution from the re- m inder in the shape of tissue wastell in cfforts made on bellalf of progeny. This indirect sacrifice of substance, replacing more and more the direct sacrifice as parental altruisin becomes higher, continues to the last to represent also altruism which is other than parental, since this, too, implies loss of substance in making efforts that do not bring their return in personal aggrandizement. After noting how among mankind parental altruism and family altruism pass into Social altruism, we observed that a society, like a species, survives only on condition that each generation of its members shall yield to the next benefits equivalent to those it has re- ceived from the last. And this implies that care for the family must be supplemented by care for the society. - * Fulless of egoistic satisfactions in the as- sociated state, depending primarily on main tenance of the norinal relation between efforts expended and benefits obtained, which underlies all life, implies an altruism which both prompts equitable conduct and prompts the enforcing of equity. The well-being of each is involved with the well-being of all Whatever conduces to their vigor concerns him, for it dimin- ishes the cost of everything he buys. What- ever conduces to their freedom from disease concerns him, for it diminishes his own lia- bility to disease. Whatever raises their in- telligence concerns him, for inconveniences are daily entailed on him by others' ignorance or folly. Whatever raises their moral char- acters concerns him, for at every turn he suffers from the average unconscientiousness. Much niore directly do his egoistic satisfac- tions depend on those altruistic activities which enlist the sympathies of others. By alienating those around, selfishness loses the unbought aid they can render, shuts out a wide range of social enjoyments, and fails to ſeceive those exaltations of pleasure and mitigations of pain, which come from men's fellow-feeling with those they like. Lastly, undue egoism defeats itself by bringing on an incapacity for happiness. Purely egoistic gratifications are rendered less keen by saliety, even in the earlier part of life, and almost disappear in the later ; the less satiating gratifications of altruism are missed throughout life, and especially in that latter part when they largely replace egoistic gratifications, and there is a lack of susceptibility to acsthetic pleasures of the higher orders. An indication must be added of the truth, scarcely at all I ecognized, that this depend ence of egoism upon altruism ranges beyond the limits of each Society, and tends ever toward universality. That within each so- ciety it becomes greater as social evolution, in plying increase of mutual dependence, progresses, necds not be shown ; and it is a THE DATA OF ETHICS. 545 corollary that as fast as the dependence of societies on one another is increased by com- mercial intercourse, the internal welfare of each becomes a matter of concern to the others. That the impoverishment of any country, diminishing both its producing and consuming powers, tells detrimentally on the people of countries trading with it, is a com- monplace of political economy. Moreover, we have had of late years abundant experi- ence of the industrial derangements through which distress is brought on nations not im- mediately concerned, by wars between other nations. And if each community has the egoistic satisfaction of its members dimin- isi, 2d by aggressions of neighboring commu- nities on one another, still more does it have them diminished by its own aggressions. One who marks how, in various parts of the world, the unscrupulous greed of conquest, cloaked by pretences of spreading the bless- ings of British rule and Biitish religion, is now reacting to the immense detriment of the industrial classes at home, alike by in- creasing expenditure and paralyzing trade, may see that these industrial classes, absorbed in questions about capital and labor, and thinking themselves unconcerned in our do- ings abroad, are suffering from lack of that wide-reaching altruism which should insist on just dealings with other peoples, civilized or savage. And he may also see that beyond these immediate evils they will for a genera- tion to come suffer the evils that must flow from resuscitating the type of social organi- zation which aggressive activities produce, and from the lowered moral tone which is its accompaniment. CHAPTER XIII. * RIAL AND COMPROMISE. § 82. In the foregoing two chapters the case on behalf of egoism and the case on be- half of altruism have been stated. The two conflict, and we have now to consider what verdict ought to be given. If the opposed statements are severally valid, or even if each of them is valid in pºrt, the inference must be that pure egoism and pure altruism are both illegitimate. If the maxim, “Live for self,” is wrong, so also is the maxim, “Live for others.” Hence a compromise is the only possibility. This conclusion, though already seeming unavoidable, I do not here set down as proved. The purpose of this chapter is to justify it in full; and I enunciate it at the outset because the arguments used will be better understood if the conclusion to which they converge is in the reader's view. How shall we so conduct the discussion as most clearly to bring out this necessity for a compromise 2 Perhaps the best way will be that of stating one of the two claims in its extreme form, and observing the implied ab- surdities. To deal thus with the principle of pure selfishness would be to waste space. Every one sees that an unchecked satisfac- tion ºf personal desires from moment to mo- ment, in absolute disregard of all othe, be- ings, would cause universal conflict and so- cial dissolution. The principle of pure un- selfishness, less obviously mischievous, may therefore better be chosen. There are two aspects under which the doctrine that others' happiness is the true: ethical aim presents itself. The “others” may be conceived personally, as individuals with whom we stand in direct relations; or they may be conceived impersonally, as coal- stituting the com...ſunity. In so far as the self-abnegation implied by pure altruism is concerned, it matters not in which sense “others” is used. But criticism will be facilitated by distinguishing between these two forms of it. We will take the last form first. § 83. This commits us to an examination of “the greatest-happiness principle,” as enunciated by Bentham and his followers. The doctrine “that the general happiness” ought to be the object of pursuit is not, in- deed, overtly identified with pure altruism. But as, if general happiness is the proper end of action, the individual actor must regard his own share of it simply as a unit in the aggregate, no more to be valued by him than any other unit, it results that since this unit is almost infinitesimal in comparison with the aggregate, his action, if directed conclusively to achievement of general happiness, is, if not absolutely altruistic, as nearly so as may be. Hence the theory which makes general happiness the immediate object of pursuit may rightly be taken as one form of the pure altruism to be here criticised. Both as justifying this interpretation and as furnishing a definite proposition with which to deal, let me set out by quoting a passage from Mr. Mill’s “Utilitarianism.” “The greatest-happiness principle,” he says, “is a mere form of words without rational signification, unless one person's happiness, supposed equal in de- gree (with the proper allowance made for kind), is counted for exactly as much as another's. Those conditions being supplied, Bentham's dictum, “every- body to count for one, nobody for more than one,’ might be written under the principle of utility as are explanatory commentary’’ (p. 91). Now though, the meaning of “greatest happiness” as an end is here to a certain de- gree defined, the need for further definition is felt the moment we attempt to decide on ways of regulating conduct so as to attain the end. The first question which arises is, Must we regard this “greatest-happiness principle” as a principle of guidance for the community in its corporate capacity, or as a principle of guidance for its members sepa- rately considered, or both 2 If the reply is that the principle must be taken as a guide for governmental action rather than for indi- vidual action, we are at once met by the in- quiry, What is to be the guide for individual action ? If individual action is not to be reg- ulated solely for the purpose of achieving “the greatest happiness of the greatest num- ber,” some other principle of regulation for individual action is required; and “the greatest-happiness principle" fails to furnie's 546 THE DATA OF ETHICS. the needful ethical standard. Should it be rejoined that the individual, in his capacity of political unit, is to take furtherance of gen- eral happiness as his end, giving his vote or otherwise acting on the legislature with a view to this end, and that in so far guidance 's supplied to him, there comes the further .nquiry, Whence is to come guidance for the remainder of individual conduct, constituting by far the greater part of it 2 If this private part of individual conduct is not to have gen- eral happiness as its direct aim, then an ethi- cal standard otlier than that offered has still to be found. Hence, unless pure altruism as thus formu- lated confesses its inadequacy, it must jus- tify itself as a sufficient rule for all conduct, individual and social. We will first deal with it as the alleged right principle of pub- lic policy, and then as the alleged right principle of private action, $84. On trying is understand precisely the statement that when taking general llappi- mess as an end the rule must be, “Every- body to count for one, nobody for more than one,’’ there arises the idea of distribution. We can form no idea of distribution without thinking of something distributed and recipi- ents of this sometling. That we may clearly conceive the proposition we must clearly conceive both these elements of it. Let us take first the lecipients. “Everybody to count for one, nobody for more than one.” Does this mean that, in respect of whatever is portioned out, each is to have the same share, whatever his charac- ter, whatever his conduct 2 Shall he if pas- sive have as much as if active 2 Shall he if useless have as much as if useful ? Shall he if criminal have as much as if virtuous 2 If the distribution is to be made without refer- ence to the natures and deeds of the recipi- ents, then it must be shown that a system which equalizes, as far as it can, the treat- ment of good and bad, will be beneficial. If the distribution is not to he indiscriminate, then the formula disappears. The something distributed must be apportioned otherwise than by equal division. There must be ad- º of amounts to deserts ; and we are eft in the dark as to the mode of adjustment —we have to find other guidance. Let us next ask, what is the something to be distributed ? The first idea which occurs is that happiness itself must be divided out among all. Taken literally, the notions that the greatest happiness should be the end sought, and that in apportioning it cverybody should count for one and nobody for more than one, imply that happiness is something that can be cut up into parts and handed round. This, however, is an impossible in- terpretation. But after recognizing the im- possibility of it, there returns the question, What is it in respect of which everybody is to count for one and nobody for more than One 2 s Shall the interpretation be that the con- erete means to happiness are to be equally di- vided ? Is it intended that there shall be dis- tributed to all in equal portions the necessa. ries of life, the appliances to comfort, the facilities for amusement 2 . As a conception simply, this is more defensible. But passing over the question of policy—passing over the question whether greatest happiness would Qultimately be secured by such a process (which it obviously would not), it turns out on examination that greatest happiness could not even provinately be so secured. Differ- ences of age, of growth, of constitutional need, differences of activity and consequent expenditure, differences of desires and tastes, would entail the inevitable result that the matelial aids to happiness which each re- ceived would be more or less unadapted to his requirements. Even if purchasing power were equally divided, the greatest happiness would not be achieved if every- body counted for one and nobody for more than one, since, as the capacities for utilizing the purchased means to happiness would vary both with the constitution and the stage of life, the means which would approximately suffice to satisfy the wants of one would be extremely insufficient to satisfy the wants of another, and so the greatest total of happiness would not be obtained—means might be un- equally apportioned in a way that would pro- duce a greater total. But now if happiness itself cannot be cut up and distributed equally, and if equai di- vision of the material aids to happiness Would not produce greatest happiness, what is the thing to be thus apportioned ? what is it in respect of which everybody is to count for one and nobody for more than one 2 There seems but a single possibility. There remain to be equally distributed noth- ing but the conditions under which each may pursue happiness. The limitations to action, the degrees of freedom and re- Straint, shall be alike for all. Each shall have as much liberty to pursue his ends as consists with maintaining like liberties to pursue their ends by others, and One as much as another shall have the enjoyment of that which his efforts, carried on within these limits, obtain. But to say that in re- spect of these conditions everybody shall count for one and nobody for more than one, is simply to say that cquity shall be enforced. Thus, considered as a principle of public policy, Bentham's principle, when analyzed, transforms itself into the principle he slights. Not general happiness becomes the ethical standard by which legislative actiºn is to be guided, but universal justice. And so the altruistic theory under this form collapses. $85. From examining the doctrine that general happiness should be the end of pub- lic action we pass now to examine the doc- trine that it should be the end of private uction. - It is contended that from the standpoint of pure reason, the happiness of others has no less a claim as an object of pursuit for each than personal happiness. Considered as parts of a total, happiness felt by self and like happiness felt by another are of equal THE DATA OF ETHICs. 547 valuss, and hence it is inferred that, ration- ally estimated, the obligation to expend effort for others' benefit is as great as the obliga- tion to expend effort for one's own benefit. Holding that the utilitarian system of morals, rightly understood, harn onizes with the Christian maxim, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” Mr. Mill says that “as between his own happiness and that of others, utili- tarianism 1 equires him to be as strictly im- partial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator” (p. 24). Let us consider the alter- native interpretations which may be given to this statement. - Suppose, first, that a certain quantum of happiness has in some way become available without the special instrumentality of A, B, C, or D, constituting the group concerned. Then the proposition is that each shall be ready to have his quantum of happiness as much enjoyed by one or more of the others as by himself. The disinterested and benev- olent spectator would clearly, in such a case, rul that no one ought to have more of the happiness than another. Ibut here, assum- ing as we do that the quantum of happiness has become available without the agency of any among the group, simple equity dictates as much. No one having in any way estal- lished a claim different from the claims of others, their claims are equal, and due re- gard for justice by each will not permit him to monopolize the happiness. Now suppose a different case. Suppose that the quantum of happiness has been made available by the efforts of one member of the group. Suppose that A has acquired by labor some material aid to happiness. He decides to act as the disinterested and benevolent spectator would direct. What will he decide? what would the spectator direct 2 Let us consider the possible Sup- positions, taking first the least reasonable, The spectator may be conce.ved as decid- ing that the labor expended by A in acquir- ing this material aid to happiness originates no claim to special use of it, but that it ought to be given to B, C, and D, or that it ought to be divided equally among B, C, and D, or that it ought to be divided equally among all members of the group, including A who has labored for it. And if the specta- tor is conceived as deciding thus to-day, he must be conceived as deciding thus day after day, with the result that one of the group cxpends all the effort, getting either none of the benefit or only his numerical share while the others get their shares of the benefit with- out expending any efforts. That A might conceive the disinterested and benevolent spectator to decide in this way, and might ſeel bound to act in conformity with the im- agined decision, is a strong supposition: and probably it will be admitted that such kind of impartiality, so far from being conducive to the general happiness, would quickly be fatal to every one. But this is not all. Ac- tion in pursuance of such a decision would in reality be negatived by the very principle enunciated. For not only A, but also B, C, and D have to act cn this principle. Each of them must behave as he conceives an im- partial spectator would decide. Does B con- ceive the impartial spectator as awarding to him, B, that product of A's labor 2 Then the assumption is that B conceives the im- partial spectator as favoring himself, B, more than A conceives him as favoring himself, A, which is inconsistent with the hypothe- sis. Does B, in conceiving the impartial spectator, exclude his own interests as com- pletely as A does 2 Then how can he decide so much to his own advantage, so partially as to allow him to take from A an equal share of the benefit gained by A's labor, toward which he and the rest have done nothing 2 Passing from this conceivable, though not credible, decision of the spectator, here noted for the purpose of observing that habitual conformity to it would be impossible, there remains to be considered the decision which a spectator really impartial would give. He would say that the happiness, or material aid to happiness, which had been purchased by A's iabor, was to be taken by A. He would say that B, C, and D had no claims to it, but only to such happiness or aids to happiness as their respective labors had purchased. Consequently, A, acting as the imaginary impartial spectator would direct, is, by this test, justified in appropriating such happiness or aid to happiness as his own efforts have achieved. And so under its special form as under its general form, the principle is true only in so far as it embodies a disguised justice. Analysis again brings out the result that making “general happiness” the end of ac- tion really means maintaining what we call equitable relations among individuals. De- cline to accept in its vague form “the great- est-happiness principle,” and insist on know- ing what is the implied conduct, public or private, and it turns out that the principle is meaningless save as indirectly asserting that the claims of each should be duly regarded by all. The utilitarian altruism becomes a duly qualified egoism. . $ 86 Another point of view from which to judge the “altruistic theory may now be taken. If, assuming the proper object of pursuit to be general happiness, we proceed rationally, we may ask in what different ways the aggregate, general happiness, may be composed, and must then ask what com- position of it will yield the largest sum. Suppose that each citizen pursues his own happiness independently, not to the detriment of others but without active concern for others; then their united happinesses consti- tute a certain sum—a certain general happi- ness. Now suppose that each, instead of making his own happiness the object of pur- suit, makes the happiness of others the ob- ject of pursuit; then, again, there results a certain sum of happiness. This sum must be less than, or equal to, or greater than, the first If it is admitted that this sum is either less than the fist or only equal to it, the 543 THE DATA OF ETHICS. altruistic course of action is confessedly either worse than, or no better than, the egoistic. The assumption must be that the sum of happiness obtained is greater. Let us observe what is involved in this assump- tion. If each pursues exclusively the happiness of others, and if each is also a recipient of happiness (which he must be, for other wise no aggregate happiness can be ſo into out of their individual liappinesses) ; then the im- plication is that each gains the happiness due to altruistic action (xclusively, and that in each this is greater in amt unt than the egoistic happin'ss obtainable by him, if he devoted himself to pursuit of it. Leaving Out of consideration for a moment these 1 ela- tive amounts of the two, let us note the con- ditions to the receipt of alti uistic happiness by each. The sympathetic uatute gets pleas- are by giving pleasure ; fl.11d the proposition is that if the general happiness is the object of pursuit, cach will be inade happy by wit- messing others' happiness. But what in such case constitutes the happiness of others ? These others are also, by the hypothesis, pur- suers and receivers of alti u is tic pleasure. The genesis of altruistic pleasure in each is to depend on the display of pleasures by others, which is again to depend on the dis- play of pleasures by others, and so on per- petually. Where, then, is the pleasure to begin 7 Obviously there must be egoistic pleasure somewhere before there can be the altruistic pleasure caused by sympathy with it. Obviously, therefore, each must be egoistic in due amount, even if only with the view of giving others the possibility of being altruistic. So far from the sum of hap- piness being made greater if all make greatest happiness the exclusive end, the sum disap- pears entirely. How absurd is the supposition that the happiness of all can be achieved without each pursuing his own happiness, will be best shown by tº physical simile. Suppose a cluster of bodies, each of which generates heat, and each of which is, therefore, while a radiator of heat to those around, also a re- ceiver of heat from them. Manifestly each Will have a certain proper heat irrespective of that which it gains from the rest, and cach will have a certain heat gained from the rest irrespective of its proper heat. What will happen? So long as each of the bodies continues to be a generator of Jheat, cach continues to maintain a temperature partly derived from itself and partly derived from others. . . But if Cach ceases to generate heat for itself and depends on the heat radiated to it by the rest, the entire cluster becomes cold. Well, the self-generated heat stands for cguistic pleasure, the heat radiated and received stanus for sympathetic pleasure, and the disappearance of all heat if each ceases to be an originator of it corresponds to the disappearange of all pleasure if each ceases to originate it egoistically. * A further conclusion may be drayºu. Be: sides time implication that before altruistic Pleasure can exist, egoistic pleasure must ex- ist, and that if the rile of conduct is to be the same for all, each must be egoistic in duo degree, there is the implication that, to achieve the greatest sum of happiness, each Inus; he inole egoistic than altruistic." iºr, Speaking generally, sympathetic pleasures must ºver continue less intense than the Pleasiliº with which there is sympathy. 9thºr ſhings equal, ideal feelings annºtic its vivil as ièal feelings. I, is true that those, having strong imaginations may, especially in cases where the affections ºft ‘ngaged, feel the Indial pain if not the physi- Cal pain of another as keenly as the ictual sufferer of it, and may participate with like intensity in another's pleasure—som, times “Yen mentally representing the received pleasure as greater than it really is, and so getting reflex pleasure greater than the rºci pi- elits direct pleasure. Such cases, however, and cases in which even, apart from exalia. tion of sympathy caused by attach Thent, i hero is a body of feeling sympatheticall, aroused cqual in amount to the original feeling, if not grºuteſ, tire necessarily exceptional. For in such cases the total consciousness includes many other elements besides the mentally represented, pleasure or pain — notably the luxury of pity and the luxury of goodness; and genesis of these can occur but occasion. ally: they could not be habitual concomi. tants of sympathetic pleasures if all pursued these from monent to moment. In estimat. ing the possible totality of sympathetic picas- ures, We must include nothing beyond the representations of the pleasures others expe- rience. And unless it be asserted that we can have other's states of consciousness per- petually reproduced in us more vividly than the kindred states of consciousness are arousei in ourselves by their proper personal Causes, it must be admitted that the totality of altru. istic. pleasures cannot become equal to the totality of egoistic pleasures. Hence, be. yond the truth that before there can be alſru- istic pleasures there must be the egoistic pleasures from sympathy with which they arise, there is the truth that, to obtain the greatest Stim of altruistic pleasures thre must be a greater Sulu of egoistic pleas- RITCS. $ 87. That pure altruism is suicidal Imay be yet otherwise demonstrated. A perfectly Inoral law must be one which becomes perſ. fectly practicable as human nature becomes perfect. If its practicableness decreases as humar, nature improves, and if an ideal human nº- ture, neºessitates its impracticability, it can, not be the moral law sought. Now opportunities for practising altruism * numerous and great in proportion as there is weakness, or incapacity, of imperfec. tion. If we pass beyond the limits of the family, in which a sphere for self-sacrificing uctivities must be preserved as long as off- Spring have to be reared, and if we ask how there can continue a social sphere for self. Sacrificing activities, it becomes obvious THE DATA OF ETHICS. 549 that the continued existence cf serious eyils, caused by prevalent defects of nature, is im- plied. As fast as men adapt themselves to the requirements of social life, so fast will the demands for efforts on their behalf di- minish. And with arrival at finished adap- tation, when all persons are at once com- pletely self-conserved and completely able to fulfil the obligations which society imposes on them, those occasions for postponement of self to others which pure altruism contem- plates disappear. - ‘Such self-sacrifices become, indeed, doubly impracticable. Ca. rying on successfully their several lives, men not only cannot yield to those around the opportunities for giving aid, but aid, cannot ordinarily be given them without interfering with their normal activi- ties, and so diminishing their pleasures. Like every inferior creature, led by its innate desires spontaneously to do all that its life requires, man, when completely molded to the social state, must have desires so adjusted to, his needs that he fulfils the needs in grati- ſying the desires. And if his desires are severally gratified by the performance of re- quired acts, none of these can be performed for him without baiking his desires. Ac- ceptance from others of the results of their activi ics can take place only on condition of relinquishing the pleasures derived from his own activities. Diminution rather than in- crease of happiness would result, could all luistic action in such case be enforced. And here, indeed, we are introduced to another baseless assumption which the theory makes. § 88. The postulate of utilitarianism as for- mulated in the statements above quoted, and of pure altruism as otherwise ex- pressed, involves the belief that it is pos- sible for happiness, or the means to hap- piness, or the conditions to happiness, to be transferred. Without any specified limit- ation, the proposition taken for grant- ed is that happiness in general admits of detachment from one and attachment to another—that surrender to any extent is pos- sible by one and appropriation to any extent is possible by another. But a moment's thought shows this to be far from the truth. On the one hand, surrender carried to a cer- tain ppint is extremely mischievous, and to a further point fatal; and on the other hand, much of the happiness each enjoys is self- get.erated and can neither be given nor re- ceived. - - To assume that egoistic pleasures may be lelinquished to any extent is to fall into one of those many errors of ethical speculation which result from ignoring the truths of bi- ology. When taking the biological view of ethics we saw that pleasures accompany nor- mal amounts of functions, while pains ac- company defects or excesses of functions ; further, that complete life depends on com- plete discharge of functions, and therefore on receipt of the correlative pleasures. , Hence, to yield up normal pleasures is to yield up so much life; and, there arises the question to what extent may this be done? If he is to continue living, the individual must take cer- tain amounts of those pleasures which go along with fulfilment of the bodily functions, and must avoid the pains which entire non- fulfilment of them entails. Complete abne- gation means death ; excessive abnegation means illness ; abnegation less excessive means physical degradation and consequent loss of power to fulfil obligations, personal and other. When, therefore, we attempt to specialize the proposal to live not for self- satisfaction but for the satisfaction of others, we meet with the difficulty that beyond a certain limit this cannot be done. And when we have decided what decrease of bodily welfare, caused by sacrifice of pleas- ures and acceptance of pains, it is proper for the individual to make, there is forced on us the fact that the portion of happiness or means of happiness which it is possible for him to yield up for redistribution is a limited portion. Even more rigorous on another side is the restriction put upon the transfer of happi- ness or the means to happiness. The pleas- ures gained by efficient action, by successful pursuit of ends, cannot by any process be parted with, and cannot in any way be ap- propriated by another. The habit of argu- ing about general happiness sometimes as though it were a concrete product to be por- tioned out, and sometimes as though it were coextensive with the use of those material aids to pleasure which may be given and re- ceived, has caused inattention to the truth that the pleasures of achievement are not transferable. Alike in the boy who has won a game of marbles, the athlete who has per- formed a feat, the statesman who has gained a party triumph, the inventor who has de- vised a new machine, the man of science who has discovered a truth, the novelist who has, well delineated a character, the poet who has finely rendered an immotion, we see pleasures which must, in the nature of things, be en- joyed exclusively by those to whom they come. And if we look at all such occupations as men are not impelled to by their necessities, if we contemplate the various ambitions which play so large a part in life, we are reminded that so long as the consciousness of efficiency remains a dominant pleasure, there will remain a dom- inant pleasure which cannot be pursued altruistically, but must be pursued egoisti- cally. Cutting off, then, at the one end, those pleasures which are inseparable from mainten- ance of the physique in an uninjured state, and cutting off at the other end the pleasures of successful action, the amount that remains is So greatly diminished as to make untenable the assumption that happiness at large admits of distribution after the manner which utilitarian- ism assumes. $89. In yet one more way may be shown the inconsistency of this transfigured util- itarianism which regards its doctrine as embodying the Christian maxim, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and of that al- tºo THE DATA OF ETHICS. truism which, going still further, enunciates the maxim, “Live for others.” A right rule of conduct must be one waich may with tºantage be adopted by all. “Act according to that maxim only which you can wish at the same time to become a universal law,” says Kant. And clearly pºssing over recdful qualifications of this maxim, We may accept it to the extent of ad- mitting that a moie of action which becomes impracticable as it approaches universality must be wrong. Hence, if the theory of pure altruism implying that effort should be expended for the benefit of others and not for personal benefit, is defensible, it must he shown that it will produce good results when acted upon by all. Mark the consequences if all are purely a titlistic. First, an impossible combination of moral attributes is implied. Each is supposed by the hypothesis to regard self so little and others so much that he willingly sacrifices his own pleasures to give pleasures to them. But if this is a universal trait, and if action is universally congruous with it, we have to conceive each as being not only a Sacrificer but also one who accept sac- rifices. While he is so unselfish as will. ingly to yield up the bend fit for which he has labored, he is so selfish as willingly to let others yield up to him the benefits they have labored for. To make pure altruism possible for all, each must be at once extremely un- egoistic and extremely egoistic. As a giver, he must have no thought for self; as a re- ceiver, no thought for others. Evidently, this implies an inconceivable mental consti- tution. The sympathy which is so solicitous for others as willingly to injure self in bene- fiting them cannot at the same time be so regardless of others as to accept benefits Which they injure themselves in giving. The incongruities that emerge if we assume pure, altruism to be universally practised imay be otherwise exhibited thus. that each, instead of enjoying such pleasures as come to him, or such consumable appli- ances to pleasure as he has worked for, or such occasions for pleasure as reward his efforts, relinquishes these to a single other, or adds them to a common stock froth which others benefit ; what will Iesult L)|fferent answers Inay be given according as we as- sume that there are or are nut additional in- fluences brought into play. Suppose there are no additional influences. Then, 11 cach transfers to another his happiness, or means to happiness, or occasions for happiness, while some one else does the like tº him, the distribution of happiness is, on the average, unchanged ; or if each adds to a common stock his happiness, or means to happiness, or occasions for happiness, from which corn- mon stock each appropriates his portion, the Average state is still, as before, unchangerſ. The only obvious effect is that transactions must be gone through in the redistribution, and loss of time and labor must result. Now suppose some additional influence which tnakes the process beneficial ; what must it . Suppose be 2 The totality can be increased only 11 the acts of transfer increase the quantity of that which is transferred. The happiness or that which brings it must be greater to one who derives it from another's efforts than it would have been had his own efforts procured it ; or otherwise, supposing a fund of happiness, or of that which brings it, has been formed by contributions from each, then each, in appropriating his share, must find it larger than it would have been had no Such aggregation and dispersion taken place. To justify belief in such increase two conceiv- able assumptions may be made. One is that though the sum of pleasures or of pleasure- yielding things remains the same, yet the kind of pieasure or of pleasure-yielding things which each receives in exchange from another, or from the aggregate of others, is one which he appreciates more than that for which he lašored. Sut to assume this is to assume that each labors directly for the thing which he ºr joys less, rather than for the thing. which lie et joys more, which is absurd. The other assumption is that while the exchanged or redistributed pieasure of the egoistic kind remains the same in amount for each, there is added to it the aiiruistic pleasure aceom- panying the exchange. But this assumption is clearly inadulissible if, as is implied, the transaction is universal—is one through which each becomes giver and receiver to equal extents. For if the transfer of pleas- ures or of pleasure-yielding things from one to air other er others is always accom- panied by the consciousness that there will be received from him or them an equivalent, there results merely a tacit exchange, either direct or roundabout. Each becomes altru. istic in no greater degree than is implied by being cquitable, and each, having nothing tº exalt his happiness, sympathetically oi other- wise, cannot be a source of sympathetic happiness to others. § 90. Thus, when the meanings of its words are inquired into, or when the neces- saily implications of its theory are examined. pure altruism, in whatever form expressed, commits its adherents to varicas absurdi. ties. - If “the greatest happiness of the greatest number,” or, in other words, “the general happiness,” is the proper end of action, then not only for all public action but for all private action it must be the end, because. otherwise, the greater part of actiºu remains unguided. Consider its fitness for each. If corporate action is to be guided by the prin. ciple, with its interpretiug comment, “everybody to count for one, nobody for more than one,’’ ‘Mere must be an ignºring of all differences of character and conduct, merits and demerits, among citizens, sincé to discrimination is provided for ; and, more- over, since that in respect of which all at e to count alike cannot be happiness itself, which is indistributable, and since equal sharing of the concrete means to happiness, besides fail- ing ultimately would fail proximately to pro- duce the greatest happiness, it results that THE DATA OF ETHICS. 551 equal distribution of thc conditions under which happiness may be pursued is the only tenable meaning : we discover in the prin- cipie nothing but a roundabout insistance on equity. If, taking happiness at large as the aim of private action, the individual is re- Huired to judge between his own happiness and that of others as an impartial spectator would do, we see that no supposition Con- cerning the spectator save one which suici- ãally ascribes partiality to him can bring out any other result than that each shall enjoy such happiness, or appropriate such means to happiness, as his own cfforts gain : equity is again the sole content. . . When, adopting another method, we consider how the great- est sum of happiness may be composed, and, 1ecognizing the fact that cquitable egoism will produce a certain sum, ask how pure altruism is to produce a greater sum, We are shown that if all, exclusively pursuing altru- istic pleasures, are so to produce a greater sum of pleasures, the implication is that al- truistic pleasures, which arise from Sym- pathy, can exist in the absence of egoistic pleasures with which there may be sympathy —an impossibility ; and another implication is that if, the necessity for egoistic pleasures being admitted, it is said that the greatest Sum of happiness will be attained if all individu- als are more altruistic than egoistic, it is in- directly said that, as a general truth, repre- sentative feelings are stronger than presenta- (ive feelings—another impossibility. Again, the doctrine of pure altruism assumes that happiness may be to any extent transferred or redistributed ; whereas the fact is that pleas- ures of one order cannot be transferred in Iarge measure without results which are fatal or extremely injurious, and that pleasures of another order cannot be transferred ill any degree. Further, pure altruism presents this fatal anomaly, that while a right principle of action must be more and more practised as men improve, the altruistic principle be- comes less and less practicable as men ap- proach an ideal form, because the sphere for p: actising it continually decreases. Finally, its self-destructiveness is made manifest on observing that for all to adopt it as a prin- ciple of action, which they must do if it is a sound principle, implies that all are at once extremely unegoistic and extremely egoistic —ready to injure self for others’ benefit, and ready to accept benefit at the cost of injury to others : traits which cannot co-exist. The need for a compromise between egoism and altruism is thus made conspicuous. We are forced to recognize the claims which his own well-being has on the attention of each by noting how in some directions we come to a deadlock, in others to contradictions, and in others to disastrous results, if they are ignored. Conversely, it is undeniable that disregard of others by each carried to a great extent is fatal to society, and carried to a still greater extent is fatal to the family, and eventually to the race Egoism and altruism are therefore co-essential. - § 91. What form is the coupromise be- sis made the object of direct pursuit. tween egoism and altruism to assume 2 how are their respective claims to be satisfied in due degrees 2 It is a truth insisted on by moralists and recognized in common life, that the achieve ment of individual happiness is not propor. tionate to the degree in which individuaj happiness is made the object of direct pur- Suit ; but there has not yet become current the belief that, in like manner, the achieve. IIlent of general happiness is not proportion- ate to the degree in which general happiness Yet, failure of direct pursuit in the last case is iº reasonably to be expected than in the rSt. When discussing the relations of meang and ends, we saw that as individual conduct evolves its principle becomes inore and more that of making fulfilment of means the prox. imate end, and leaving the ultimate end, wei- fare or happiness, to come as a result. And we saw that when general welfare or happi. ness is the ultimate end, the same principle holds even more rigorously, since the ulti-. mále end under its impersonal fort:1 is less de-erminate than under its personal form, and the difficulties in the way of achieving it by direct pursuit still greater. Recognizing, then, the fact that corporate happiness still more than individual happiness must be pursued not directly but indirectly, the first question for us is, What must be the general nature of the means through which it is to be achieved ? It is admitted that self-happiness is, in a measure, to be obtained by furthering the happiness of others. May it not be true that, conversely, general happiness is to be ob- tained by furthering self-happiness? If the well-being of each unit is to be reached partly through his care for the well-being of the ag. gregate, is not the well-being of the aggregate/ to be reached partly through the care of each unit for himself 2 Clearly, our conclusion must be that general happiness is to be achieved mainly through the adequate pur- suit of their own happinesses by individuals, while, reciprocally, the happinesses of indi- viduals are to be achieved in part by their pursuit of the general happiness. And this is the conclusion embodied in the progressing ideas and usages of mankind. This compromise between egoism and altru- ism has been slowly establishing itself; and toward recognition of its propriety, men's actual beliefs, as distinguished from their nominal beliefs, have been gradually ap- proaching. Social evolution llas been bring- ing about a state in which the claims of the individual to the proceeds of his activities and to such satisfactions as they bring, are more and more positively asserted, at the same time that insistence on others’ claims and habitual respect for them have been in- creasing. Among the rudest savages personal interests are very vaguely distinguished from the interests of others. In early stages of civilization, the proportioning of benefits to efforts is extremely rude: slaves and serfs 552 THE DATA OF ETHICS. get for work arbitrary amounts of food and shelter : exchange being infiequent, there is little to develop the idea of Gquivalence. But as civilization advances and status passes into contract, there comes daily experience of the relation between advantages enjoyed and labor given—the industrial system maintain- ing, through supply and demand, a due ad- justment of the one to the other. And this growth of voluntary co-operation—this ex- change of services under agreement has been necessilrily accompanied by decrease of ag- warranted in seizing the lands God promised to them, and in some cases exterminating the inhabitants, so we, to fulfil the “manifest intention of Providence,” dispossess inferior Iaces whenever we want their territories, it may be replied that we do not kill many more than seems needful, and tolerate the cxistence of those who submit. And should any one point out that as Atila, while con- quering or destroying peoples and nations, regarded himself as “the scourge of God,” puluishing men for their sins, so we, as repre- gressions one upon another, and increase of sented by a High Commissiouer and a priest sympathy, leading to exchange of services beyond agreement. That is to say, the more distinct assertions of individual claims and more rigorous apportioning of personal en- joyments to efforts expended have gone hand in hand with growth of that negative altruism shown in equitable conduct and that positive altruism shown in gratuitous aid. A higher phase of this double change has in our own times become conspicuous. If, on the one hand, we note the struggles for political freedom, the contests between labor and capital, the judicial reforms made to facilitate enforcement of rights, we see that the tendency still is toward complete appro- priation by each of whatever benefits are due to him. and consequent exclusion of his fel- lows from such benefits. On the other hand, if we consider what is meant by the surrender of power to the masses, the abolition of class. privileges, the efforts to diffuse knowledge, the agitations to spread temperance, the multitudinous philanthropic societies, it be- corries clear that regard for the well-being of others is increasing pari passu with the tak- ing of means to Secure personal well-being. What holds of the relations within each society holds to some extent, if to a less ex- tent, of the relations between societies. Though to maintain national claims, teal or imaginary, Gften of a trivial kind, the civil- ized still make war on one another, yet their Several nationalities are more respected than in past ages. Though by victors portions of territory are taken and Inoney compensations exacted, yet conquest is not now, as of old, habitually followed by entire appropriation of territories and enslavernerit of peoples. The individualities of societies are in a larger measure preserved. Meanwhile the altruistic intercourse is greatcr: aid is rendered on occasions of disaster by flood, by fire, by famirie, or otherwise. And in international arbitration as lately exemplified, implying the recognition of claims by one nation upon ancther, we sec a further progress in this wider altruism. Doubtless there is much to be said by way of set-off; for in the dealings 9f the civilized with the uncivilized, little of this progress can be traced. It may be urged that the primitive rule, “Life for life,” has been developed by us into the rule, “For one life many lives,’’ as in the cases of Bishop Patteson and Mr. Dirch ; but then there is the qualifying fact that we do not torture our prisoners or mutilate them. If it be said that as the Hebrews thought themselves he quotes, think Gursclves called on to chas. tise with lifies and cannon heathens who practise polygamy, there is the rejoinder that not even the most ferocious disciple of the teacher cf Inercy would carry his ven- geance so far as to depopulate whole terri- tories and crase scores of cities. And when, on the other hand, we remember that there is an Aborigines Protection Society, that there are commissioners in certain colonies appointed to protect native interests, and that in Some cases the lands of natives have beer). purchased in ways which, however unfair, have implied some recognition of their claims, We may say that little as the compromise be. tween cgoism and altruism has progressed in international affairs, it has still progressed Somewhat in the direction indicated. CFIAPTER XIV. CONCILIATION. - § 92. As exhibited in the last chapter, the compromise between the claim:3 of Self and the claims of others seems to imply perma- ment antagonism between the two. The pur- suit by each of his own httppiness, while pay- ing due regard to the bappiness, of his fel- lows, apparently necessitates the ever-recur- ring question, llow far must the one end be sought and how far the other—suggesting, if not discord in the life of cach, still an absence of complete harmony. This is not the inevi- table inference luowever. When, in the “Principles of Sociology,” Part III., the phenomena of race-maintenance among living things at large were discussed, that the development of the domestic rela- tions might be the better understºod, it was shown that during evolution there has been going on a conciliation between the Interests of the species, the interests of the parents, and the interests of the offspring. Proof was given that as we ascend from the lowest forms of life to the highest, race-maintenance is achieved with a decreasing sacrifice of life, alike of young individuals and of adult in- dividuals, and also with a decreasing Sacri- fice of parental lives to the lives of offspring. We saw that, with the progress of civiliza- tion, like changes go on among human beings, and that the highest domestic rela- tions are those in which the conciliation of welfares within the family becomes greatest, while the welfare of the society is best sub- served. Here it remains to be shown that a kindred conciliation has been, and is, taking THE DATA OF ETHICS. 553 p, -ce between the interests cf each citizen anuſ the interests of citizens at large, tending ever toward a state in which the two be- come merged in one, and in which the feel- ings answering to them respectively fall into complete cºncord. - - In the family group, even as we observe it among Imany inferior vertebrates, we see that the parental sacrifice, now become so moder- ate in amount as to consist with long-coil. tinued parental life, is not accompanied by consciousness of sacrifice, but, contrariwise, is made from a direct desire to make it : the altruistic labors on behalf of young are car- ried on in satisfaction of parental instincts. If we trace these relations up through the grades of mankind, and observe how largely love rather than obligation prompts the care of children, we see the conciliation of inter- ests to be such that achievement of parental happiness coincides with securing the happi- ness of offspring—the wish for children among the childless and the occasional adop- tion of children showing inow needful for attainment of certain egoistic satisfactions are these altruistic activities. Anti further €vo- lution, causing along with higher nature diminished fertility, and therefore smaller burdens on parents, may be expected to bring a state in which, far more than now, the pleasures of adult life will consist in rais- ing cffspring to perfection while simultane- ously furthering the immediate happiness of offspring. Now though altruism of a social kind, lacking certain elements of parental al- truism, can never attain the same level, yet it may be expected to attain a level at which it will be like parental altruism in spontane- ity—a level such that ministration to others' happiness will become a daily need—a level such that the lower egoistic satisfactions will be continually subordinated to this higher egoistic satisfaction, not by any effort to sub- ordinate them, but by the preference for this higher egoistic satisfaction whenever it can be obtained. Let us consider how the development of sympathy, which must advance as fast as conditions permit, will bring about this state. § 93. We have seen that during the evolu- tion of life, pleasures and pains have neces- sarily becn 1he incentives to and deterrents from actions which ihe conditions Uf exist- ence demanded and negatived. An implied truth to be here noted is, that faculties which, under given conditions, yield partly pain and partly pleasure cannot develop beyond the limit at which they yield a surplus of pleasure ; if beyond that iimit more pain than pleasure results from exercise of them, their growth must be arrested. - Through sympathy both these forms of feeling are excited. . Now a pleasurable con- sciousness is aroused on witnessing pleasure; now a painful consciousness is ar used on witnessing pain. Hence, if beings as ound him habitually manifest pleasure an:l hut rarely pain, sympathy yields to its pºssessor a surplus of pleasure : While, contrariwise, if little pleasure is ordinarily witnessed and much pain, sympathy yields a surplus of pain to its possessor. The average develop- IIlent of sympathy must, therefore, be regu- lated by the average manifestations of pleas- ure and pain ill others. If the life usually led under given social conditions is such that suffering is daily inflicted, or is daily dis played by associates, sympathy cannot grow : to assume growth of it is to assume that the constitution will modify itself in such way as to increase its pains and therefore depress its energies, and is to ignore the truth that bearing any kind of pain gradually produces insensibility to that pain, or callousness. On the other hand, if the social state is such that manifestations of pleasure predominate, sym- pathy will increase, since sympathetic pleas- ures, adding to the totality of pleasures en- hancing vitality, conduce to the physical prosperity of the most sympathetic, and since the pleasures of sympathy exceeding its pains in all lead to an exercise of it which strengthens it. The first implication is one already more than once indicated. We have seen that along with habitual militancy and under the adapted type of social organization, sympathy cannot develop to any considerable height. The destructive activities carried on against external enemies sear it ; the state of feeling maintained causes within the society itself frequent acts of aggression or cruelty; and further, the compulsory co-operation charac- terizing the militant régime necessarily re- presses sympathy—exists only oil condition of an unsympathetic treatment of some by Others. - But even could the militant régime forthwith end, the hinderances to development of sym’ pathy would still be great. Though cessation of war would imply increased adaptation of Iman to social life and decrease of sundry evils, yet there would remain much non- adaptation and much consequent uphappi- ness. In the first place, that form of nature which has generated and still generates wars, though by implication raised to a higher form, would not at once be raised to so high a form that there would cease all injustices and the pains they cause. For a considerable period after predatory activities had ended, the defects of the predatory nature would continue, entailing their slowly diminishing evils. In the second place, the ill-adjust- ment of the human constitution to the pur- suits of industrial life must long persist, and may be expected to survive in a measure the cessation of wars: the required modes of ae- tivity must remain for innumerable genera- tions in some degree displeasurable. And in the third place, deficiencies of self-control such as the improvident show us, as well as those many failures of conduct due to inade- quate foresight of consequences, though less marked than now, could not fail still to pro- duce suffering. - - Nor would even complete adaptation, if limited to disappearance of the non-adapta- tions just indicated, remove all sources of 554 THE DATA OF ETHICS. those miseries which, to the extent of their manifestation, check the growth of sym- pathy. For while the rate of multiplication continues so to exceed the rate of mortality as to cause pressure on the means of subsistence, there must continue to result much happi- mess, either from balked affections or from over work and stinted Imeans. Only as fast as fertility diminishes, which we have seen it must do along with further mental develop- ment (“Principles of Biology,” $$367–877), can there go on such diminution of the labors required for efficiently supporting self and family that they will not constitute a dis- pleasurable tax on the energies. Gradually then, and only gradually, as these various causes of unhappiness become Hess can sympathy become greater. Life would be intolerable if, while the causes of misery remained as they now are, all men were not only in a high degree sensitive to the pains, bodily and mental, felt by those around and expressed in the faces of those they met, but were unceasingly conscious of the miseries everywhere being suffered as con- sequences of war, crime, misconduct, mis- fortune, improvidence, incapacity. But as the moulding and remoulding of IIlan and society into mutual fitness progresses, and as the pains caused by unfitness decrease, sym- pathy can increase in presence of the pleas- ures that come from fitness. The two changes are indeed so related that each fur- thers the other. as conditions permit, itself aids in lessening pain and augmenting pleasure, and the greater surplus of pleasure that results makes possible further growth of sympathy. $94. The extent to which sympathy may develop when the hinderances are removed will be better conceived after observing the agencies through which it is excited, and set- ting down the reasons for expecting those agencies to become more efficient. Two fac- tors have to be considered—the ra'ural lan- guage offeeling in the being Sylmpathized with and the power of interpreting that language in the being who sympathizes. ticipate development of both. Movements of the body and facial changes are visible effects of feeling which, when the feeling is strong, are uncontrollable. When the feeling is less strong, however, be it sen- sational or emotional, they may be wholly or partially repressed ; and theſe is a habit, more or less constant, of Iepressing them, this habit being the concomitant of a nature such that it is often undesirable that others should see what is felt. So necessary with our existing characters and conditions are concealments thus prompted, that they have come to form a part of moral duty ; and concealment for its own sake is often insisted upon as an element in good manners. All this is caused by the prevalence of feel- ings at variance with social good—feelings which cannot be shown without producing discords or estrangements. But in propor- tion as the egoistic desires fall more under control of the altruistic, and there come ...the intellect. Such growth of sympathy . of Sentiency which accompanies the thought We may an- fewer and slighter impulses of a kind to be reprobated, the need for keeping guard over facial expression and bodily movement will decrease, and these will with increasing clear. ness convey to spectators the mental state. Nor is this all. Testrained as its use is, this language of the emotions is at present pre- Vented from growing. But as fast as the emotions become such that they may be more candidly displayed, there will go, along with the habit of display, development of the means of display : So that besides the stronger emotions, the more delicate shades and Smaller degrees of emotion will visibly CX- hibit themselves, the emotional language will become at once more copious, moie valied, more definite. And obviously sym- pathy will be proportionately facilitated. An equally important, if not a more im, portant, advance of kindred nature is to be anticipated. The vocal signs of sentient states will simultaneously evolve further. Loudness of tone, pitch of tone, quality of tone, and change of tone are severally marks of feeling, and, combined in different ways and proportions, serve to express different amounts and kinds of feelings. As else- Where pointed out, cadences are the corn- ments of the emotions on the propositions of Not in excited speech only, but in ordinary speech, we show by ascend. ing and descending intervals, by degrees of deviation from the medium tone, as well as by place and strength of emphasis, the kind expressed. Now the manifestation of feeling by Cadence, like its manifestation by visible changes, is at present under restraint : the motives for repression act in the one case as they act in the other. A double effect is produced. This audible language of feeling is not used up to the limit of its existing capacity, and it is to a considerable degree misused, so as to convey other feelings than those which are felt. The result of this dis- tise and misuse is to check that evolution which normal use would cause. We must infer, then, that as moral adaptation pro- gresses, and there is decreasing need for con- cealment of the feelings, their vocal signs will develop much further. Though it is not to be supposed that cadences will ever con- vey emotions as exactly as words convey thoughts, yet it is quite possible that the emotional language of the future may rise as much above our present emotional lan. guage as our intellectual language has already risen above the intellectual language of the lowest races. A simultaneous increase in the power of interpreting both visible and audible signs ºf feeling must be taken into account. Among those around we see differences both of abil- ity to perceive such signs and of ability to conceive the implied mental states and their causes ; here a stolidity unimpressed by a slight facial change or altered tone of voice, or else unable to imagine what is felt, and there a quick observation and a penetrating intuition, making instantly comprehensible THE DATA OF ETHICS. 555 the state of mind and its origin. If we sup- pose both these faculties . cxalted—both a more delicate perception of the signs and a strengthened constructive imagination—we shall get soºne idea of the deeper and wider sympathy that will hereafter arise. More vivid lepresentatiºns of the feelings of others, implying ideal excitements of feelings ap- proaching to real Czcitements, must imply a greater likeness between the feelings of the sympathizer and those of the sympathized with—coming near to identity. - By simultaneous increase of its subjective and objective factors, sympathy may thus, as the hinderances diiminish, Jise above that now shown by the sympathetic as much as in them it has risen above that which the cal- lous show. § 95. What must be the accompanying evolutiºn of conduct 2 What Inust the rela- tions between egoism and altruism become as this form of nature is neared ? A conclusion drawn in the chapter on the relativity of pleasures and pains, and thero. emphasized as one to be borne in mind, must now be recalled. It was pointed out that, supposing them to be consistent with Con- tinuance of life, there are no activities which may not become sources of pleasure, if sur. rounding conditions 1 equire persistence in them. And here it is to be added, as a cor- ollary, that if the cunditions require any class of activities to be relatively great, there will arise a relatively great pleasure accompanying that class of activities. What bearing have these general inferences on the special ques- tion before us? - That alike for public welfare and private welfare sympathy is essential, we have seen. We have scen that co-operation and the bene- fits which it brings to cach and all become high in proportion as the altrustic, that is the sympathetic, interests extend. The actions prompted by fellow-feeling are thus to be counted among those demanded by social conditions. They are actions which nuainten- ance and further development of social or- ganization tend ever to increase, and there- rore actions with which there will be joined an increasing pleasure. From the laws of life it must be concluded that unceasing social discipline will so mould human nature that eventually sympathetic pleasures will be spontaneously pursued to the fullest extent advantageous to each and all. The scope for altruistic activities will not exceed the desire for altruistic satisfactions. In natures thus constituted, though the altruistic gratifications must remain in a transfigured sense egoistic, yet they will not be egoistically pursued—will not be pursued from egoistic motives. Though pleasure will be gained by giving pleasure, yet the thought of the sympathetic pleasure to be gained will not occupy consciousness, but only the thought of the pleasure given. To a great extent this is so now. In the truly sympathetic, attention is so absorbed with the proximate end, others’ happiness, that there is none given to the prospective Self- An happiness which may ultimately result. analogy will make the relation clear. - A miser accumulates money, not delib- erately saying to himself, “I shall by doing this get the delight which possession gives.” He thinks only of the money and the means of getting it, and he experiences incident- ally the pleasure that comes from possession. Owning property is that which he revels in imagining, and not the feeling which Uwn- ing property will cause. Similarly, one who is sympathetic in the highest sense is mental- ly engaged solely in representing pleasure as experienced by another, and pursues it for the benefit of that other, forgetting any par- ticipation he will have in it. Subjectively considered, then, the conciliation of egoism and altruism will eventually become such that though the altruistic pleasure, as being a part of the consciousness of one who cx- periences it, can never be other than egois- tic, it will not be consciously egoistic. Let us now ask what must happen in a society composed of persons constituted in this manner. ‘. - § 96. The opportunities for that postpone- ment of self to others which constitutes allru- ism as ordinarily conceived must, in several ways, be more and more limited as the high- est state is approached. - Extensive demands on the benevolent pro- suppose much unhappiness. Before there can be many and large calls on some for efforts on behalf of others, there must be many others in conditions needing help—in conditions of comparative misery. But, as we have seen above, the development of fel- low-feeling can go on only as fast as misery decreases. Sympathy can reach its full height only when there have ceased to be frequent occasions for anything like serious self-sacrifice. - Change the point of view, and this truth presents itself under another aspect. We have already seen that with the progress of adaptation each becomes so constituted that he cannot be heiped without in some way arresting a pleasurable activity. There can- not be it beneficial interference between fac- ulty and function when the two are adjust- ed. Consequently, in proportion as man- kind approach complete adjustment of their natures to social needs, there must be fewer and smaller opportunities for giving aid. Yet again, as was pointed out in the last chapter, the sympathy which prompts efforts for others’ welfare must be painca by self-injury on the part of others, and must, therefore, cause aversion to accept benefits derived from their self-injuries. What is to be inferred ?. While each when occasion offers is ready, anxious even, to surrender egoistic satisfactions, others, similarly natured, cannot but resist the surrender. If any one, proposing to treat himself more. hardly than a disinterested spectator would direct, refrains. from appropriating that which is due, others, caring for him if he will not care for himself, must necessarily insist that he shall appropriate it. General altru- 556 THE DATA OF ETHICS. 'ism then, in its developed form, must inev- itably resist individual excesses of altruism. The relation at present familiar to us will be inverted, and instead of each maintaining his own claims, others will maintain his claims for him—not, indeed, by active efforts, which will be needless, but by pas— sively resisting any undue yielding up of them. There is nothing in such behavior which is not even now to be traced in our daily experiences as beginning. In business transactions among honorable men, there is usnally a desire on either side that the other shall treat himself fairly. Not unfrequently there is a refusal to take something regarded as the other's due, but which the other offers to give up. In social intercourse, too, the cases are common in which those who would surrender shares of pleasure are not permitted by the rest to do so. Further de— velopment of sympathy cannot but make this mode of behaving increasingly general and increasingly genuine. There are three. One of them must to the last continue large in extent, and the others must progressively diminish, though they do not disappear. The first is that which family life affords. Always there must be a need for subordination of self-regarding feel- ings to other-regarding feelings in the rear- ing of children. Though this will diminish with diminution in the number to be reared, yet it will increase with the greater elabora. tion and prolongation of the activitiés on their behalf. But as shown above, there is even now partially effected a conciliation such that those egoistic Satisfactions which parenthood yields are achieved through altruistic activities — a conciliation tending ever toward completeness. An important development of family altruism must be added: the reciprocal care of parents by children during old age—a care becoming lighter and better fulfilled in which a kin- dred conciliation may be looked for. Pursuit of social welfare at large must afford here- Certain complex restraints on excesses of after, as it does now, scope for the postpone- altruism exist, which, in another way, force back the individual upon a normal egoism. Two may here be noted. In the first place, self-abnegations often repeated imply on the part of the actor a tacit ascription of relative selfishness to others who profit by the self- abnegations. Even with men as they are there occasionally arises a feeling among those for whom sacrifices are frequently made that they are being insulted by the assumption that they are ready to receive them; and in the mind of the actor also there sometimes grows up a recognition of this feeling on their part, and a consequent check on his too great or too frequent sur- renders of pleasure. Obviously in more de- veloped natures this kind of check must act still more promptly. In the second place, when, as the hypothesis implies, altruistic pleasures have reached a greater intensity than they now possess, each person will be de- barred from undue pursuit of them by the consciousness that other persons, too, desire them, and that scope for others' enjoyment of them must be left. Even now may be observed among groups of friends, where some competition in amiability is going on, relinquishments of opportunities for self- abnegation that others may have them, “Let her give up the gratification, she will like to do so;” “Let him undertake the trouble, it will please him,” are suggestions which from time to time illustrate this, con- sciousness. The most developed sympathy will care for the sympathetic satisfactions of others as well as for their selfish satisfac- tions. What may be called a higher equity will refrain from trespassing on the spheres of others' altruistic activities, as a lower equity refrains from trespassing on the spheres of their egoistic activities. And by this checking of what may be called an egois- tic altruism, undue sacrifices on the part of each must be prevented. What spheres, then, will eventually remain for altruism as it is commonly conceived? ment of selfish interests to unselfish interests, but a continually lessening scope, because as adaptation to the social state progresses the needs for those regulative actions by which social life is made harmonious become less. And here the amount of altruistic ac- tion which each undertakes must inevitably be kept within moderate bounds by others, for if they are similarly altruistic they will not allow some to pursue public ends to their own considerable detriment that the rest may profit. In the private relations of men, op- portunities for self-sacrifice prompted by sympathy must ever in some degree, though eventually in a small degree, be afforded by accidents, diseases, and misfortunes in gen- eral, since, however near to completeness the adaptation of human nature to the conditions of existence at large, physical and social, may become, it can never reach complete- ness. Flood, fire, and wreck must to the last yield at intervals opportunities for heroic acts ; and in the motives to such acts, anxiety for others will be less allowed with love cf admiration than now. Extreme, however, as may be the eagerness for altru . istic action on the rare occasions hence aris. ing, the amount falling to the share of each must, for the reasons given, be narrowly limited. But though in the incidents of ordinary life, postponements of self to others in large ways must become very infrequent, daily intercourse will still furnish multitudi- nous small occasions for the activity of fellow- feeling. Always each may continue to fur- ther the welfare of others by warding off from them evils they cannot see, and by aid- ing their actious in ways unknown to them : or, conversely putting it, each may have, as it were, supplementary eyes and ears in other persons, which perceive for him things he cannot perceive himself—so perfecting his life in numerous details by making its adjust- ments to environing actions complete. - § 97. Must it then follow that eventually, with this diminution of the spheres for it, THE DATA OF ETHICS. 557 aitruism must diminish in total amount 7 By 11o means. Such a conclusion implies a mis- conception. - Naturally, under existing condition., with suffering widely diffused and so much of effort demandel frºm the more fortunate in succoting the less fortunate, altruism is un derstood to mean only self-sacrifice, or, at any rate, a mode of action which, while it brings some pleasure, has an accompaniment. of self-surrender that is not pleasuralle. But the sympathy which prompts denial of telf to please ºthers is a ympathy which also jeceives pleasure from their pleasures when !hey are otherwise originated. The stronger the fellow-fceling which excites efforts to make others happy, the stronger is the fellow : feeling with their happiness, however caused. In its ultimate folm, then, altruism will be the achievement of gratification through sympathy with those gratifications of others which are mainly produced by their activi- tics of all kinds successfully carried or— sympathetic gratification which costs the re- ceiver nothing, but is a gratis addition to his egoistic gratifications. This power of repre: senting in idea the mental states of others, which, during the process of adaptation has had the function of mitigating suffering, Inust, as the suffering falls to a minimum, come to have almost wholly the function of mutually exalting men's enjoyments by giv- ing every one a vivid intuition of his neigh- bor’s enjoyments. . While pain prevails widely, it is undesirable that each should participate much in the consciousness of others; but with an increasing predominance of pleasure, participation in others’ conscious- messes becomes a gain of pleasure to all. And so there will disappear that appar- ently permanent opposition between egoisin and altruism, implied by the compromise reached in the last chapter. Subjectively looked at, the conciliation will be such that the individual will not have to balance be- tween self-regarding impulses and other-re- garding impulses; but, instead, those satis- factions of other-regarding impulses which involve self-sacrifice, becoming I’are and much prized, will be so unhesitatingly pre- ferred that the competition of Self-regarding impulses with them will scarcely be felt. And the subjective conciliation will also be such that though altruistic pleasure will be attained, yet the motive of action will not consciously be the attainment of altruistic pleasure, but the idea, present will be the securing of others' pleasures. Meanwhile the conciliation objectively considered will be equally complete. Though each, Ino longer needing to maintain his egoistic claims will tend rather when occasion offers to surrender them, yet others, similarly natured, will not permit him in any large measure to do this ; and that fulfilment of personal desires re. quired for completion of his life will thus be secured to him : though not now egoistic in the ordinary sense, yet the effects of dus egoism will be achieved. Nor 3.- : *** al’ As, at an earlier stage, egoistic corrº-lii. first reaching a compromise such that each claims no more than his equitable shale fifterward rises to a conciliation such tha' yach insists on the taking of equitable shares Uy others; so, at the latest 31age, altruisti, rompetition, first reaching a compruinise un tler which each restraius hi: Inself from tah. .ng an undue share of altruistic satisfactions. eventually rises to a conciliation under which each takes care that others shall havi, their opportunities for altruistic satisfac. tions—the highest f.ſtruism being that which, ministers not to the egoistic satisfactions of others only, but also to their allruistic satiº- factions. - + r Far off as seems such a state, yet every one of the factors counted on to produce jº may already be traced in operation among those of highest natures. What now in them is occasional and feeble, may be expect- cd with further evolution to become habitual and strong ; and what now characterizes the exceptionally high may be expected event- ually to characterize ail. For that which the best human nature is capable of is with- in the reach of human nature at large. § 98. That these conclusions will meet with any considerable acceptance is improb- Aljle. Neither with current ideas nor with current sentiments are they sufficientiy con- grü Gus. | Such a view will not be agreeable to those who lament the spreading disbelief in eternal damnation ; nor to those who follow the apostle of brute force in thinking that be. cause the rule of the strong hand was once gocq It is good for all tiliac ; nor to those whose reverence fºr One who told them to put up the sword is shown by using the Sword to spread his doctrine among Beathens. The conception set forth would be received with contempt by that Fifeshire regiment of militia, of whom eight hundred, at the time of ille Franco-German war, asked to be em. ployed on foreign service, and left the gov- ernment to say on which side they should fight. From the ten thousand priests of the religion of love, who are silent when the nation is moved by the religion of hate, will come no sign of assent, nor from thei bishops who, far from urging the extreme precept of the Master they pretend to follow, to turn the other cheek when one is smitten, vote for acting on the principle, strike lest ye be struck. Nor will auy approval be felt by legislators who, after praying to be forgiven their trespasses as they forgive the trespasses of others, forthwith decide to attack those who have not trespassed against them, and who, aſter a queen's speech has invoked “the blessing of Almighty God” on their councils, immediately provide means for committing political burglary. - - - But though men who profess Christianity and practise Paganism can feel no sympathy with such a view, there are some, classed as antagonists to the current creed, who may not think it absurd to believe that a ration- alized version of its ethical principles will eventually be acted upon. - 558 THE DATA OF ETIIICS. CIIAPTER XV. ABSOLUTE AND RELATIVE ETHICS. § 99. As applid to Ethics, the word “absolute”, will. by many be supposed to imply principles of right conduct that exist out of relation to life as conditioned on the Earth-out of relation to time and place, and independent of the Universe as now visible to us--" eternal” principies as they are called. Those, howev.r, who recall the doctrine set forth in “First Principles,” will hesitate to put this interpretation on the word. Right, as we can think it, necessi- tates the thought of not right, or wrong, for its correlative; and hence, to ascribe right- ness to the acts of the Power manifested through phenomena, is to assume the possi- bility that wrong acts may be committed by this Power. But how come there to exist, apart from this Power, conditions of such kind that subordination of its acts to them makes them right and insubordination wrong. How can Unconditioned Being be subject to conditions beyond itself If, for example, any one should assert that the Cause of Things, conceived in respect of fundamental moral attributes as like our- selves, did right in producing a universe which, in the course of immeasurable time, has given origin to beings capable of pleas ure, and would have done wrong in abstain- ing from the production of such a Universe; then, the comment to be made is that, im- posing the moral ideas generated in his finite consciousness, upon the infinite Existence which transcends consciousness, he goes behind that Infinite Existence and prescribes for it principles of action. As implied in the foregoing chapters, right and wrong as conceived by us can exist only in relation to the actions of creatures capable of pleasures and pains; seeing that analysis carries us back to pleasures and pains as the element out of which the con- ceptions are framed. - But if the word “absolute,” as used above, does not refer to the Unconditioned Being—if the principles of action distin- guished as absolute and relative concern the conduct of conditioned beings ; in what way are the words to be understood P An expla. nation of their meanings will be best con- veyed by a criticism on the current concep- tions pf right and wrong. § 100. Conversations about the affairs of life habitually imply the belief that every deed named may be placed under the one head or the other. In discussing a political question, both sides take it for granted that some line of action may be chosen which is right while all other lines of action are wrong. So, too, is it with judgments on the doings of individuals; each of these is approved or disapproved on the assumption that it is definitely classable as good or bad. Even where qualifications are admitted, they are admitted with an implied idea that some such positive characterization is to be made. Nor is it in popular thought and speech only that we see this, If not wholly and definitely yet partially and by implication, the belief is expressed by moralists. In his “Methods of Ethics” (1 Ed. p. 61, Mr. Sidg- wick says: “That there is in anv given cir- cumstances some one thing which ought to be done, and that this can be known, is a fundamental assumption, made, not by phi- losophers only, but by all men who perform any processes of moral reasoning.” In this sentence there is specifically asserted only the last of the above propositions—namely, that, in every case, what “ought to be done” “can be known.” But though that “which ought to be done” is not distinctly identified with “ the right,” it may be inferred, in the absence of any indication to the contrary, that Mr. Sidgwick regards the two as iden- tical ; and, doubtless, in so conceiving the postulates of moral science, he is at one with most, if not all, who have made it a subject of study. At first sight, indeed, nothing seems more obvious than that if actions are to be judged at all, these postulates must be accepted. Nevertheless, they may both be called in question, and, I think, it may be shown that neither of them is tenable. In- stead of admitting that there is in every case a right and a wrong, it may be contended that in multitudinous cases no right, properly so-called, can be alleged, but only a least wrong ; and further, it may be contended that in many of these case when there can be alleged only a least wrong, it is not possible to ascertain with any precision which is the . least wrong. A great part of the perplexities in ethical speculation arise from neglect of this dis- tinction between right and least wrong— between the absolutely right and the rela- tively right. And many further perplexities are due to the assumption that it can, in some way, be decided in every case which of two courses is morally obligatory. § 101. The law of absolute right can take no cognizance of pain, save the cognizance implied by negation. Pain is the correlative of some species of wrong—some kind of divergence from that coursé of action which perfectly fulfills all requirements. If, as was shown in an early chapter, the conception of good conduct always proves, when analyzed, to be the conception of a conduct which pro- duces a surplus of pleasure somewhere; while conversely the conduct conceived as bad proves always to be that which inflicts somewhere a surplus of either positive or negative pain; then the absolutely good, the absolutely right, in conduct, can be that only which produces pure pleasure—pleasure un- alloyed with pain anywhere. By implication conduct which has any concomitant of pain, or any painful consequence, is partially wrong; and the highest claim to be made for such conduct is, that it is the least wrong which, under the conditions, is possible—the relatively right. - The contents of preceding, chapters imply throughout that, considered from the evolu- tion point of view, the acts of men during THE DATA OF ETHICs. - '*-- - **** the transition which has been, is still, and long will be in progress, must, in most cases, be of the kind here classed as least wrong. In proportion to the incongruity between the natures men inherit from the pre-social state, and the requirements of social life, must be the amount of pain entailed by their actions, either on themselves or on others. In so far as pain is suffered, evil is inflicted; and conduct which inflicts any evil cannot be absolutely good. To make clear the distinction here insisted. upon between that perfect conduct which is the subject-matter of absolute ethics, and that imperfect conduct which is the subject- matter of relative ethics, some illustrations must be given. § 102. Among the best examples of abso- ſuteiy right actions to be named are those arising where the nature and the requirement have been moulded to one another before social evolution began. Two will here suffice. Consider the relation of a healthy mother to a healthy infant. Between the two there exists a mutual dependence which is a source of pleasure to both. In yielding its natural food to the child, the mother receives grati- fication; and to the child there comes the satisfaction of appetite—a satisfaction which accompanies furtherance of life, growth, and increasing enjoyment. Let the relation be suspended, and on both sides there is suffer- ing. The mother experiences both bodily pain and mental pain; and the painful sen- sation borne by the child brings as its results physical mischief and some damage to the emotional nature. Thus the act is one that is to both exclusively pleasurable, while ab- stention entails pain on both; and it is con- sequently of the kind we here call absolutely right. In the parental relations of the father we are furnished with a kindred example. If he is well constituted in body and mind, his boy, eager for play, finds in him a sym- pathetic response; and their frolics, giving mutual pleasure, not only further the child's physical welfare but strengthen that bond of good feeling between the two which makes subsequent guidance easier. And then if, repudiating the stupidities of early, educa- tion as at present conceived and unhappily State-enacted, he has rational ideas of mental development, and sees that the second-hand knowledge gained through books should be- gin to supplement the first-hand knowledge gained by direct observation, only when, a good stock of this has been acquired, he will, with active sympathy, aid in that explora- tion of the surrounding world which his boy pursues with delight; giving and receiving gratification from moment to moment while furthering ultimate welfare. Here, again, are actions of a kind purely pleasurable alike in their immediate and remote effects—ac- tions absolutely right. - The intercourse of adults yields, for the reason assigned, relatively few cases that fall completely within the same category. In their transactions from hour to hour, more or less of deduction from pure gratification displeasurable. concomitant. is caused on one or other side by imperfect fitness to the requirements. The pleasure: men gain by laboring in their vocations arºl receiving in one form or other returns for their services, usually have the drawback that the labors are in a considerable degree Cases, however, do occur where the energies are so abundant that in- action is irksome; and where the daily work, not too great in duration, is of a kind ap- propriate to the nature; and where, as a consequence, pleasure rather than pain is a When services yielded by such a one are paid for by another similarly adapted to his occupation, the entire transac tion is of the kind we are here considering exchange under agreement between two sa constituted, become a means of pleasure to both, with no set-off of pain. Bearing in mind the form of nature which social disci, pline is producing, as shown in the contrasſ between savage and civilized, the implica tion is that ultimately men's activities at large will assume this character. Temem. bering that in the course of organic evolu tion, the means to enjoyment themselves eventually become sources of enjoyment; and that there is no form of action which may not through the development of appro- priate structures become pleasurable; the inference must be that industrial activities carried on through voluntary co-operation, will in time acquire, the character of ab- solute rightness as here conceived. Al- ready, indeed, something like such a stato lmas been reached among certain of those who minister to our aesthetic gratifications. The artist of genius—poet, painter, or musi- cian—is one who obtains the means of living by acts that are directly pleasurable to him, while they yield, immediately or remotely, pleasures to others. Once more, among ab- solutely right acts may be named certain of those which we class as benevolent. I say certain of them, because such benevolent acts as entail Submission to pain, positive or negative, that others may receive pleasure, are, by the definition, excluded. But there are benevolent acts of a kind yielding pleas- ure solely. Some one who has slipped is saved from falling by a bystander: a fiurt is prevented and satisfaction is felt by both. A pedestrian is choosing a dangerous route, or a fellow-passenger is about to alight at the wrong station, and warned against doing so, is saved from evil: each being, as a con- sequence, gratified. There is a misunder- standing between friends, and one who sees how it has arisen, explains: the result being agreeable to all. Services to those around in the small affairs of life, may be, and often are, of a kind which there is equal pleasure in giving and receiving. Indeed, as was urged in the last chapter, the actions of de- veloped altruism must habitually have this character. And so, in countless ways sug- gested by these few, men may add to one another's happiness without anywhere pro- ducing unhappiness—ways which are therc- fore absolutely right. - 560 THE DATA OF ETHICS. In contrast with these consider the many actions which from hour to hour are goue through, now with an accompaniment of some pain to the actor and now bringing re- sults that are partially painful to others, but which nevertheless are imperative. As im- plied by antithesis with cases above referred to, the wearisomeness of productive labor as ordinarily pursued renders it in so far wrong; but then far greater suffering would result, both to the laborer and his family, and there- fore far greater wrong would be done, were this wearisomeness not borne. Though the pains which the care of many children en- tail on a mother form a considerable set off from the pleasures secured by them to her children and herself, yet the miseries, 1m- mediate and remote, which neglect would entail so far exceed them, that submission to such pains up to the limit of physical ability to bear them, becomes morally imperative as being the least wrong. A servant who fails to fulfil an agreement in respect of work, or who is perpetually breaking crockery, or who pilfers, may have to suffer pain from being discharged; but since the evils to be borne by all concerned if incapacity or mis- conduct is tolerated, not in one case only, but habitually, must be much greater, such infliction of pain is warranted as a means to preventing greater pain. Withdrawal of custom from a tradesman whose charges are too high, or whose commodities are inferior, or who gives short measure, or who is un- punctual, decreases his welfare and perhaps injures his belongings; but as saving him from these evils would imply bearing the evils his conduct causes, and as such regard for his well-being would imply disregard of the well-being of some more worthy or more efficient tradesman to whom the custom would else go, and as, chiefly, general adop- tion of the implied course, having the effect that the inferior would not suffer from their inferiority nor the superior gain of their superiority, would produce universal misery, withdrawal is justified—the act is relatively right. - § 103. I pass now to the second of the two propositions above enunciated. After recog- nizing the truth that a large part of hu- man conduct is not absolutely right, but only relatively right, we have to recognize the further truth that in many cases where there is no absolutely right course, but only courses that are more or less wrong, it is not possible to say which is the least wrong. Recurrence to the instances just given will show this. - There is a point up to which it is relatively right for a parent to carry self-sacrifice for the benefit of offspring; and there is a point beyond which self-sacrifice cannot be pushed without bringing, not only on himself or herself, but also on the family, evils greater than those to be prevented by the Self-sacri- fice. Who shall say where this point is? Depending on the constitutions and needs of those concerned, it is in no two cases the same, and cannot be by any one more than guessed. The transgressions or shortcomings of a servant vary from the trivial to the grave, and the evils which discharge may bring range through countless degrees from slight to serious. The penalty may be in- flicted for a very small effence, and then there is wrong done; or after numerous grave offences it may not be inflicted, and again there is wrong done. How shall be deter- mined the degree of transgression beyond which to discharge is less wrong than not to discharge? In like manner with the shop- keeper's misdemeanors. No one can sum up either the amount of positive and nega- tive pain which tolerating them involves, nor the amount of positive and inegative pain involved by not tolerating them; and in medium cases no one can say where the one exceeds the other. In men's wider relations frequently occur circumstances under which a decision one or other way is imperative, and yet under which not even the most sensitive conscience, helped by the clearest judgment, can decide which of the alternatives is relatively right. Two examples will suffice. Here is a mer- chant who loses by the failure of a man in- debted to him. Unless he gets help, he himself will fail; and if he fails he will bring disaster not only on his family but on all who have given him credit. Even if by borrowing he is enabled to meet immediate engagements, he is not safe; for the time is one of panic, and others of his debtors by going to the wall may put him in further difficulties. Shall he ask a friend for a loan? On the one hand, is it not wrong forth with to bring on himself, his family, and those who have business relations with him, the evils of his failure? On the other hand, is it not wrong to hypothecate the property of his friend, and lead him too, with his belongings and dependants, into 'similar risks? . The loan would probably tide him over his difficulty; in which case, would it not be unjust to his creditors did he refrain from asking it? Contrariwise, the loan would very possibly fail to stave off his bankruptcy: in which case is not his action in trying to obtain it practically fraudulent? Though in extreme cases it may be easy to Say which course is the least wrong, how is it possible in all those medium cases, where even by the keenest man of business the contingencies cannot be calculated? Take, again, the difficulties that not unfrequently arise from antagonism between family duties and Social duties, Here is a tenant farmer whose political principles prompt him to vote in opposition to his landlord. If, being a Liberal, he votes for a Conservative, not only does he by his act say that he thinks what he does not think, but he may perhaps assist what he regards as bad legislation; his Vote may by chance turn the election, and on a Parliamentary division a single mem- ber may decide the fate of a measure. Even neglecting, as too improbable, such serious Consequences, there is the manifest truth that if all who hold like views with himself THE DATA Ol' LTTi (CŞ. £31 are similarly deterred from electoral ex- pression of them, there must result a different balance of power and a different national policy: making it clear that only by ad- herence of all to their political principles can the policy he thinks right be maintained. But now, on the other hand, how can he absolve himself from responsibility for the evils which those depending on him mily suffer if he fulfils what appears to be a peremptory public duty? Is not his duty to his children even more peremptory? Does not the family precede the State; and does not the welfare of the State depend on the welfare of the family? May he, then, take a course which, if the threats uttered are carried out, will eject him from his farm; and so cause inability, perhaps temporary, perhaps prolonged, to feed his children. The contingent evils are infinitely varied in their ratios. In one case the imperativeness of the public duty is great and the evil that may come on dependants small; in another. case the political issue is of trivial moment and the possible injury which the family may suffer is great; and between these ex- tremes there are all gradations. Further, the degrees of probability of each result, public and private, rauge from the nearly certain to the alth Ost impossible. Admit- ting, then, that it is wrong to act, in a way likely to injure the state, and admitting that it is wrong to act in a way likely to injure the family, we have to recognize the fact that in countless cases no one can decide by which of the alternative courses the least wrong is likely to be done. These instances will sufficiently show that in conduct at large, including men's dealings with themselves, with their families, with their friends, with their debtors and credi- tors, and with the public, it usually happens that whatever course is taken cmtails some pain somewhere; forming a deduction from the pleasure achieved, and making the course in so far not absolutely right. Further, they will show that throughout a consider- able part of conduct, no guiding principle, no method of estimation, enables us to Say whether a proposed course is even relatively right, as causing, proximately and remotely, specially and generally, the greatest surplus »f good over evil. - § 104, And now we are prepared for deal- ing in a systematic way with the distinction hetween absolute ethics and relative ethics. Scientific truths, of whatever order, are reached by eliminating perturbing or con- flicting factors, and recognizing only funda- mental factors. When, by dealing with fundamental factors in the abstract, not as presented in actual phenomena, but as pre- sented in ideal separation, general laws have been ascertained, it becomes possible to draw inferences in concrete cases by taking into account incidental factors. But it is only by first ignoring these and recognizing the essential elements alone, that we can dis- cover the essential truths sought. Take, in illustration, the progress of mechanics from its empirical form to its rational form. All have occasional experience of the fact that a person pushed on one side beyond a certain degree loses his balance and falls. It is observed that a stone flung or an arrow shot does not proceed in a straiglit line, but comes to the earth after pursuing a course which deviates more and more from its origi- nal course. When trying to break a stick across the knee, it is found that success is easier if the stick is seized at considerable distances from the knce on each side than if seized close to the knee. Daily use of a spear draws attention to the truth that by thrust- ing its point under a stone and depressing the shaft, the stone may be raised the more readily the further away the hand is toward the end. Here, then, are sundry experiences, eventually grouped into empirical generali- zations, which serve to guide conduct in certain simple cases. How does mechanical science evolve from these experiences? To reach a formula expressing the powers of the lever, it supposes a lever which does not, like the stick, admit 5f being beat, but is absolutely rigid; and it supposes a fulcrum not having a broad surface, like that of one ordinarily used, but a fulcrum without breadth; and it supposes that the weight to be raised bears on a definite point, instead of bearing over a considerable portion of the lever. Similarly with the leaning body, which, passing a certain inclination, over- balances. Before the truth respecting the re- lations of centre of gravity and base can be formulated, it must be assumed that the sur- face on which the body stands is unyielding, that the edge of the body itself is unyielding, and that its mass, while made to lean more and more, does not change its form—conditions not fulfilled in the cases commonly observed. And so, too, is it with the projectile: deter- mination of its course by deduction from mechanical laws primarily ignores all devia- tions caused by its shape and by the resist- ance of the air. The science of rational me- chanics is a science which consists of such ideal truths, and can come into existence only by thus dealing with ideal cases. It re- mains impossible so long as attention is re- stricted to concrete cases presenting all the complications of friction, plasticity, and so forth. But now, after disentangling certain fundamental mechanical truths, it becomes possible by their help to guide actions better; and it becomes possible to guide them still better when, as presently happens, the com- plicating elements from which they have been disentangled are themselves taken into account. At an advanced stage, the modify- ing effects of friction are allowed for, and the inferences are qualified to the requisite extent. The theory of the pulley is corrected in its application to actual cases by recogniz- ing the rigidity of cordage; the effects of which are formulated. The stabilities of masses, determinable in the abstract by reference to the centres of gravity of the 562 THE DATA OF ETHICS. masses in relation to the bases, come to be determined in the concrete by including also their characters in respect of cohesion. The courses of projectiles having been theoreti- cally settled as though they moved through a vacuum, are afterward settled in more exact correspondemee with fact by taking into account atmospheric resistance. And thus we see illustrated the relation between certain absolute truths of mechanical science, and certain relative truths which involve them. We are shown that no scientific es- tablishment of relative truths is possible, until the absolute truths have been formu- lated independently. We see that mechani- cal science fitted for dealing with the real, can arise only after ideal mechanical science has arisen. All this holds of moral science. As by early and rude experiences there were induc. tively reached, vague but partially true no- tions respecting the overbalancing of bodies, the motions of missiles, the actions of level's; so by early and rude experiences there were inductively reached, vague but partially true notions respecting the effects of men's be- havior on themselves, on one another, and on society: to a certain extent serving in the last case, as in the first, for the guidance of conduct. Moreover, as this rudimentary mechanical knowledge, though still remain- ing empirical, becomes during early stages of Civilization at once more definite and more extensive; so, during early stages of civilization these ethical ideas, still retaining their empirical character, increase in pre- cision and multiplicity. But just as we have seen that mechanical knowledge of the empirical sort can evolve into mechanical science, only by first omitting all qualifying circumstances, and generalizing in absolute ways the fundamental laws of forces; so inere we have to see that empirical ethics can evolve into rational ethics only by first neglecting all complicating incidents, and formulating the laws of right action apart from the obscuring effects of special condi- tions. And the final implication is that just as the system of mechanical truths, conceived in ideal separation as absolute, becomes ap- plicable to real mechanical problems in such way that making allowance for all inciden- tal circumstances there can be reached con- clusions far nearer to the truth than could otherwise be reached; so, a system of ideal ethical truths, expressing the absolutely right, will be applicable to the questions of our transitional state in such ways that, al- lowing for the friction of an incomplete life and the imperfection of existing natures, we may ascertain with approximate correctness what is the relatively right. § 105. In a chapter entitled “Definition of Morality” in “Social Statics” I contended that the moral law, properly so called, is .ne law of the perfect man—is the formula of ideal conduct—is the statement in all cases of that which should be, and cannot recognize in its propositions any elements implying existence of that which should not be. Instancing questions concerning the right course to be taken in cases where wrong has already been done, I alleged that the answers to such questions cannot be given ‘‘ on purely ethical principles.” I ar. gued that— . “No conclusions can lay claim to absolute truth, but such as depend upon truths that are themselves absolute. Before there can be exactness in an inference, there must be exactness in the antecedent propositions. A geometrician requires that the straight lines with which he deals shall be veritably straight; and that llis circles, and ellipses, and parabolas, shall agree with precise defi- nitions—shall perfectly and invariably an- swer to specified equations. If you put to him a question in which these conditions are not complied with, he tells you that it cannot be answered. So likewise is it with the philosophical moralist. He treats solely of the straight man. He determines the properties of the straight man; describes how the straight man conports himself; shows in what relationship he stands to other straight men; shows how a community of straight men is constituted. Any deviation from strict rectitude he is obliged wholly to ignore. It cannot be admitted into his prem- ises without vitiating all his conclusions. A problem in which a crooked mail forms one of the elements is insoluble by him.” Referring to this view, specifically it, the first edition of the “Methods of Ethics,” but more generally in the second edition, Mr. Sidgwick says: “Those who take this view adduce the analogy of geometry to show that ethics ought to deal with ideally perfect human relations, just as geometry treats of ideally perfect lines and circles. But the most irregular line has definite spatial relations with which geometry does not refuse to deal. though of course they are more complex than those of a straight line. So in astronomy, it would be more convenient for purposes of study if the stars moved in circles, as was once believed; but the fact that they move not in circles but in ellipses, and even in imperfect and perturbed ellipses, does not take them out of the sphere of scientific in- vestigation: by patience and industry we have learned how to reduce to principles and calculate even these more complicated motions. It is, no doubt, a convenient arti- fice for purposes of instruction to assume that the planets move in perfect ellipses (or even—at an earlier stage of study—in cir- cles); we thus allow the individual’s know- ledge to pass through the same gradations in accuracy as that of the race has done. But what we want, as astronomers, to know is the actual motion of the stars and its causes; and similarly as moralists we natu- rally inquire what ought to be done in the actual world in which we live.” P. 19, Sec. Ed. . - Beginning with the first of these two state- ments, which concerns geometry, I must confess mycelf surprised to find my proposi- THE DATA. OF ETHICS. tions called in question, and after full con- sideration I remain at a loss to understand Mr. Sidgwick's mode of viewing the matter. When, in a sentence preceding those quoted above, I remarked on the impossibility of solving “mathematically a series of prob- lems respecting crooked lines and broken- backed curves,” it never occurred to me that I should be met by the direct assertion that “geometry does not refuse to deal” with “the most irregular line.” Mr. Sidgwick states that an irregular line, say such as a child makes in scribbling, has “definite spa- tial relations.” What meaning does he here give to the word “definite.” If he means that its relations to space at large are defi- nite in the sense that by an infinite intelli- gence they would be definable, the reply is that to an infinite intelligence all spatial re- lations would be definable: there could be . no indefinite spatial relations—the word “ definite” thus ceasing to mark any distinc- tion. If, on the other hand, when saying that an irregular line has “definite spatial relations,” he means relations knowable definitely by human intelligence, there still comes the question, How Is the word “defi- nite” to be understood? Surely anything distinguished as definite admits of being defined; but how can we define an irregular line? And if we cannot define the irregular line itself, how can we know its “spatial relations” definitely? And how, in the ab- sence of definition, can geometry deal with it 2 If Mr. Sidgwick means that it can be dealt with by the “method of limits,” then the reply is that in such case, not the line itself is dealt with geometrically, but certain definite lines artificially put in quasi-definite relations to it; the indefinite becomes cog- nizable only through the medium of the hypothetically-definite. Turning to the second illustration, the re- joinder to be made is that in so far as it concerns the relations between the ideal and the real, the analogy drawn does not slake but strengthens my argument. . For whether considered under its geometrical or under its dynamical aspect, and whether considered in the necessary order of its development or in the order historically displayed, astronomy shows us throughout that truths respecting simple, theoretically-exact relations, must be ascertained before truths respecting the complex and practically-inexact relations that actually exist, can be ascertained. As applied to the interpretation of planetary movements, we see that the theory of cycles and epicycles was based on pre-existing knowledge of the circle: the properties of an ideal curve having been learned, a power was acquired of giving some expression to the celestial motions. We see that the Copernican interpretation expressed the facts }n terms of circular movements otherwise distributed and combined. We see that Kepler's advance from the conception of circular movements to the conception of elliptic movements, was made possible by. comparing the facts as they are with the facts as they would be were the movements circular. We see that the subsequently. learned deviations from elliptic movements were learned only through the pre-supposi- tion that the movements are elliptical. Andi we see, lastly, that even now predictions concerning the exact positions of planets, after taking account of perturbations, imply constant references to ellipses that are re- garded as their normal or average orbits for the time being. Thus, ascertainment of the actual truths has been made possible only by pre-ascertainment of certain ideal truths. To be convinced that by no other course conlol the actual truths have been ascertained. it needs only to suppose any one saying that it did not concern him, as an astronomer, to know anything about the properties of circles and ellipses, but that he had to lead with the solar system as its exists, to which end it was his business to observe and tabu- late positions and directions and to be guided by the facts as he found them. So, too, is it if we look at the development of dyna- mical astronomy. The first proposition in Newton’s “Principia” deals with the move- ment of a single body round a single centre of force; and the phenomena of central mo- tion are first formulated in a case which is not simply ideal, but in which there is no specification, of the force concerned; detach- ment from the real is the greatest possible. Again, postulating a principle of action conforming to an ideal law, the theory of gravitation deals with the several problems of the solar system in fictitious detachment from the rest; and it makes certain fictitious assumptions, such as that the mass of each body concerned is concentrated in its centre of gravity. Only later, after establishing the leading truths by this artifice of disen- tangling the major factors from the minor factors, is the theory applied to the actual problems in their ascending degrees of com- plexity; taking in more and more of the minor factors. And if we ask whether the dynamics of the solar system could have been established in any other way, we see that here, too, simple truths holding under ideal conditions, have to be ascertained be- fore real truths existing under complex con- ditions can be asceptained. The alleged necessary precedence of abso- lute ethics over relative ethies is thus, I think, further clucidated. One who has followed the general argument thus far, will not deny that an ideal social being may be conceived as so constituted that his spontaneous ac- tivities are congruous with the conditions imposed by the social environment formed by other such beings. In many places, and . in various ways, I have argued that con- formably with the laws of evolution in gen- eral, and conformably with the laws of organization in particular, there has been, and is, in progress, an adaptation of hu- manity to the social state, changing it in the direction of such an ideal congruity. And the corollary before drawn and here repeat- ed, is that the ultimate man is one in whom: 564 THE DATA OF ETIIICS. this process has gone so far as to produce a correspondence between all the promptings of his nature and all the requirements of his life as carried on in Society. If so, it is a necessary implication that there exists an ideal code of conduct formulating the be- havior of the completely adapted man in the completely evolved society. Such a code is that here called absolute ethics as distinguished from relative ethics—a code the injunctions of which are alone to be considered as absolutely right in contrast with those that are relatively right or least wrong; and which, as a system of ideal con- duct, is to serve as a standard for our guid- ance in solving, as well as We can, the problems of real conduct. § 105. A clear conception of this matter is soimportant that I must be excused for bring- ing in aid of it a further illustration, more obviously appropriate as being furnished by organic science instead of by inorganic sci- ence. The relation between morality proper and morality as commonly conceived, is an- alogous to the relation between physiology and pathology; and the course usually pur- sued by moralists is much like the course of one who studies pathology without previous study of physiology. Physiology describes the various functions which, as combined, constitute and maintain life; and in treating of them it assumes that they are severally performed in right ways, in due amounts, and in proper order; it rec- ognizes only healthy functions. If it ex- plains digestion, it supposes that the heart is supplying blood and that the visceral ner- vous system is stimulating the organs imme- diately concerned. If it gives a theory of the circulation, it assumes that blood has been produced by the combined actions of the structures devoted to its production, and that it is properly aerated. If the relations be- tween respiration and the vital processes at large are interpreted, it is on the presupposi- tion that the heart goes on Scnding blood, not only to the lungs and to certain nervous centres, but to the diaphragm and intercostal muscles. Physiology ignores failures in the actions of these several organs. It takes no account of imperfections, it neglects derange- ments, it does not recognize pain, it knows nothing of vital wrong. It simply formu- lates that which goes on as a result of com- plete adaptation of all parts to all needs. That is to say, in relation to the inner actions constituting bodily life, physiological theory has a position like that which ethical theory, under its absolute form as above conceived, has to the outer actions constituting conduct. The moment cognizance is taken of excess of function, or arrest of function, or defect of function, with the resulting evil, physi- ology passes into pathology. . We begin now to take account of wrong actions in the inner life analogous to the wrong actions in the outer life taken account of by ordinary theories of morals. The antithesis thus drawn, however, is but preliminary. After observing the fact that there is a science of vital actions normally carried on, which ignores abnormal actions, we have more especially to observe that the science of abnormal actions can reach such definiteness as is possible to it, only on con- dition that the science of normal actions has previously become definite; or rather, let us say, that pathological science depends for its advances on previous advances made by physiological science. The very conception of disordered action implies a preconception of well-ordered action. Before it can be de- cided that the heart is beating faster or slower than it should, its healthy rate of beating must be learned; before the pulse can be recognized as too weak or too strong, its proper strength must be known; and So throughout. Even the rudest and most em- pirical ideas of diseases presuppose ideas of the healthy states from which they are devia- tions; and obviously the diagnosis of diseases can become scientific only as fast as there arises scientific knowledge of organic actions that are undiseased. Similarly, then, is it with the relation be- tween absolute morality, or the law of per- fect right in human conduct, and relative morality which, recognizing wrong in human conduct, has to decide in what way the wrong deviates from the right, and how the right is to be most nearly approached. When, for- mulating normal conduct in an ideal Society, we have reached a science of absolute ethics, we have simultaneously reached a science which, when used to interpret the phenomena of real societies in their transitional states, full of the miseries due to non-adaptation (which we may call pathological states) en- ables us to form approximately true conclu- sions respecting the natures of the abnormali- ties, and the courses which tend most in the direction of the normal. § 106. And now let it be observed that the conception of ethics thus set forth, strange as many will think it, is one which really lies latent in the beliefs of moralists at large. Though not definitely acknowledged it is vaguely implied in many of their proposi- tions. From early times downward we find in ethical speculations, references to the ideal man, his acts, his feelings, his judgments. Well-doing is conceived by Socrates as the doing of “the best man,” who “as a hus- bandman, performs well the duties of hus- bandry; as a surgeon, the duties of the medi- cal art; in political life, his duty toward the commonwealth.” Plato, in Minos, as a stan. dard to which state law should conform, “ postulates the decision of some ideal wise men;” and in Laches the wise man's knowl- edge of good and evil is supposed to furnish the standard: disregarding “the maxims of the existing society” as unscientific. Plato regards as the proper guide, that “Idea of the Good which only a philosopher can as- cend to.” Aristotle (Eth., Bk. iii. ch. 4), making the decisions of the good man the standard, says: “For the good man judges everything rightly, and in every case the THE DATA OF ETIIICŞ. 565 truth appears so to him. . . . And perhaps the principal difference between the good and the bad man is that the good man sees the truth in every case, since he is, as it were, the rule and measure of it.” The Stoics, too, coneeived of “complete rectitude of action” as that “which none could achieve except the wise man”—the ideal man. And Epi- curus had an ideal standard. He held the virtuous state to be “a tranquil, undisturbed, innocuous, non-competitive fruition, which approached most nearly to the perfect hap- piness of the gods,” who “neither suffered vexation in themselves nor caused vexation to others.” • If in modern times, influenced by theologi- cal dogmas concerning the fall and human sinfulness, and by a theory of obligation de- rived from the current creed, moralists lave less frequently referred to an ideal, yet ref- erences are traceable. * We see one in the dictum of Kant, “Act according to that maxim only, which you can wish, at the same time, to become a universal law.” For this implies the thought of a society in which the maxim is acted upon by all, and univer- sal benefit recognized as the effect: there is a conception of ideal conduct under idea! conditions. And though Mr. Sidgwick, in the quotation above made from him, implies that ethics is concerned with man as lue is, rather than with man as he should be; yet, in elsewhere speaking of ethics as dealing with conduct as it should be, rather than with conduct as it is, he postulates ideal conduct and indirectly the ideal man. On his first page, speaking of ethics along with jurispru- defice and politics, he says that they are dis- tinguished “by the characteristic that they attempt to determine not the actual but the ideal—what ought to exist, not what does exist.” It requires only that these various concep- tions of an ideal conduct and of an ideal hu- manity should be made consistent and defi- nite, to bring them into agreement with the conception above set forth. At present such conceptions are habitually vague. The ideal man having been conceived in terms of the current morality, is thereupon erected into a moral standard by which the goodness of ac- tions may be judged; and the reasoning be- comes circular. To make the ideal man serve as a standard, he has to be defined in terms of the conditions which his nature ful- fils—in terms of those objective requirements which must be met before conduct can be right; and the common defect of these con- ceptions of the ideal man is that they sup- pose him out of relation to such conditions. All the above references to him, direct or indirect, imply that the ideal man is sup- posed to live and act under existing social conditions. The tacit inquiry is, not what his actions would be under circumstances altogether changed, but what they would be under present circumstances. And this in- quiry is futile for two reasons. The co-ex- istence of a perfect man and an imperfect society is impossible; and could the two co- yond the exist, the resulting conduct would not fur- nish the ethical standard sought. In the first place, given the laws of life as they are, and a man of ideal nature cannot be pro- duced in a society consisting of men having natures remote from the ideal. As well might we expect a child of English type to be born among negroes, as expect that among the organically immoral, one who is organically moral will arise. Unless it be denied that character results from inherited structure, it must be admitted that since, in any Society, each individual descends from a stock which, traced back a few generations, ramifies, everywhere through the society, and participates in its average nature, there must, notwithstanding marked individual diversities, be preserved such community as prevents any one from Teaching an ideal form while the rest remain far below it. In the Second place, ideal conduct, such as ethical theory is concerned with, is not pos- sible for the ideal man in the midst of men otherwise constituted. An absolutely just or perfectly sympathetic person could not live and act according to his nature in a tribe of cannibals. Among people who are treacherous and utterly without scruple, en- tire truthfulness and openness must bring ruin. If all around recognize only the law of the strongest, one whose nature will not allow him to inflict pain on others, must go to the wall. There requires a certain con- gruity betwcen the conduct of each member of a society and others' conduct. A mode of action entirely alien to the prevailing modes of action cannot be successfully persisted in —must eventuate in death of self, or poster. ity, or both. Hence it is manifest that we must consider the ideal man as existing in the ideal social state. On the evolution-hypothesis, the two presuppose one another; and only when they Co-exist can there exist that ideal conduct which absolute ethics has to formulate, and which relative ethics has to take as the stan- dard by which to estimate divergences from right, or degrees of wrong. CHAPTER XVI. THE SCOPE OF ETHICS. § 107. At the outset it was shown that as the conduct with which ethics deals is a part of conduct at large, conduct at large must be understood before this part can be under- stood. duct, not human only but sub-human, and not only as existing but as evolving, we saw that ethics has for its subject-matter the most highly-evolved conduct as displayed by the most highly-evolved being, man—is a spe- cification of those traits which his conduct assumes on reaching its limit of evolution. Conceived thus as comprehending the laws of right living at large, ethics has a wider field than is commonly assigned to it. Be- After taking a general view of con- conduct commonly approved or - 566 THE DATA OF ETHICS. t reprobated as right or wrong, it includes all conduct which furthers or hinders, in either direct or indirect ways, the welfare of self or Others. As foregoing chapters in various places imply, the entire field of ethics includes the two great divisions, personal and social. There is a class of actions directed to per- sonal ends, which are to be judged in their relations to personal well-being, considered apart from the well-being of others: though they secondarily affect fellow-men, these primarily affect the agent himself, and must be classed as intrinsically right or wrong ac- cording to their beneficial or detrimental ef- fects on him. There are actions of another class which affect fellow-men immediately and remotely, and which, though their results to self are not to be ignored, must be judged as good or bad mainly by their results to others. Actions of this last class fall into two groups. Those of the one group achieve ends in ways that do or do not unduly inter- fere with the pursuit of ends by others—ac- tions which, because of this diſference, we call respectively unjust or just. Those form- ing the other group are of a kind which influence the states of others without directly interfering with the relations between their labors and the results, in one way or the other—actions which we speak of as benefi- cent or maleficent. And the conduct, which we regard as beneficent is itself subdivisible according as it shows us a self-repression to avoid giving pain, or an expenditure of ef- fort to give pleasure—negative beneficence and positive beneficence. Each of these divisions and subdivisions has to be considered first as a part of absolute ethics and then as a part of relative ethics. Having seen what its injunctions must be for the ideal man under the implied ideal conditions, we shall be prepared to see how such injunctions are to be most nearly ful- filled by actual men under existing condi- tions. § 108. For reasons already pointed out, a code of perfect personal conduct can never be made definite. Many forms of life, di- verging from one another in considerable degrees, may be so carried on in society as entirely to fulfil the conditions to harmoni: ous co-operation. And if various types of men adapted to various types of activities may thus lead lives that are severally com- plete after their kinds, no specific statement of the activities universally required for per- sonal well-being is possible. I}ut though the particular requirements to be fulfilled for perfect individual well-being must vary along with variations in the ma- terial conditions of each society, certain gen- eral requirements have to be fulfilled by the individuals of all societies An average bal- ance between waste and nutrition has uni- versally to be preserved. Normal vitality implies a relation between activity and rest falling within moderate limits of variation. Continuance of the society depends on Satis- faction of those primarily personal necds which result in marriage and parenthood. Perfection of individual life hence implies certain modes of action which are approxi- mately alike in all cases, and which thereford become part of the subject-matter of ethics. That it is possible to reduce even this re- stricted part to scientific definiteness, can scarcely be said. But ethical requirements may here be to such extent affiliated upon physical necessities as to give them a par- tially scientific authority. It is clear that between the expenditure of bodily substance in vital activities and the taking in of mate- rials from which this substance may be re- newed, there is a direct relation. It is clear, too, that there is a direct relation between the wasting of tissue by effort and the need for those cessations of effort during which repair may overtake waste. Nor is it less clear that between the rate of mortality and the rate of multiplication in any society there is a relation such that the last must reach a certain level before it can balance the first, and prevent disappearance of the society. And it may be inferred that pursuits of other leading ends are, in like manner, determined by cortain natural necessities, and from these derive their ethical sanctions. That it will ever be practicable to lay down precise rules for private conduct in conformity with such requirements may be doubted. But the function of absolute ethics in relation to private conduct will have been discharged when it has produced the warrant for its re- quirements as generally expressed, when it has shown the imperativeness of obedience to them, and when it has thus taught the need for deliberately considering whether the conduct fulfils them as well as may be. Under the ethics of personal conduct con- sidered in relation to existing conditions, have to come all questions concerning the degree in which immediate personal welfare has to be postponed, either to ultimate per- sonal welfare or to the welfare of others. As now carried on, life hourly sets the claims of present self against the claims of future self, and hourly brings individual in- terests face to face with the interests of other individuals, taken singly or as associated. In many of such cases the decisions can be nothing more than compromises; and ethical science, here necessarily empirical, can do no more than aid in making compromises that are the least objectionable. To arrive at the best compromise in any case implies correct conceptions of the alternative results of this or that course. And, consequently, in so far as the absolute othics of individual conduct can be made definite, it must help us to decide between conflicting personal re- quirements and also between the needs for asserting self and the needs for subordinat- ing self. § 109. From that division of ethics which deals with the right regulation of private conduct, considered apart from the effects directly produced on others, we pass now to that division of ethics which, considering exclusively the cffect of conduct on others. THE DATA OF ETHICS. 53? w treats of the right regulation of it with a view to such effects. The first set of regulations coming under this head are those concerning what we dis- tinguish as justice. Individual life is pos- sible only on condition that each organ is paid for its action by an equivalent of blood, while the organism as a whole obtains from the environment assimilable matters that compensate for its efforts; and the mutual dependence of parts in the social organism necessitates that, alike for its total life and the lives of its units, there similarly shall be maintained a due proportion between returns and labors: the natural relation between work and welfare shall be preserved intact. Justice, which formulates the range of con- duct and limitations to conduet hence aris- º ing, is at once the most important division of ethics and the division which admits of the greatest definiteness. That principle of equivalence which meets us when we seek its roots in the laws of individual life in- volves the idea of measure; and on passing to social life, the same principle introduces us to the conception of equity or equalness, in the relations of citizens to one another: the elements of the questions arising are quantitative, and hence the solutions assume a more scientific form. Though, having to recognize differences among individuals due to age, sex, or other cause, we cannot regard the members of a society as absolutely equal, and therefore cannot deal with problems growing out of their relations with that pre- cision which absolute equality might make possible, yet, considering them as approxi- mately equal in virtue of their common human nature, and dealing with questions of equity on this supposition, we may reach conclusions of a sufficiently definite kind. This division of ethics, considered under its absolute form, has to define the equitable relations among perfect individuals who limit one another's spheres of action by co- existing, and who achieve their ends by co- operation. It has to do much more than this. Beyond justice between man and man, justice between each man and the aggregate of men has to be dealt with by it. The re- lations between the individual and the state, considered as representing all individuals, have to be deduced—an important and a relatively difficult matter. What is the evnical warrant for governmental authority? To what ends may it be legitimately exer. cised? How far may it rightly be carried? Up to what point is, the citizen bound to recognize the collective decisions of other citizens, and beyond what point may he properly refuse to obey them? These relations, private and public, con- sidered as maintained under ideal conditions, having been formulated, there come to be dealt with the analogous relations under real conditions—absolute justice being the stand- ard, relative justice has to be determined by considering how near an approach may, under present circumstances, be made to it. As already implied in various places, it is impossible during stages of transition which necessitate ever-changing compromises to fulfil the dictates of absolute equity; and nothing beyond empirical judgments can be formed of the extent to which they may be, at any given time, fulfilled. While war con- tinues and injustice is done between socie- ties, there cannot be anything like complete justice within each society. Militant organi- zation no less than militant action is irrecon- cilable with pure equity; and the inequity implied by it inevitably ramifies throughout all social relations. But there is at every stage in social evolution a certain range of variation within which it is possible to ap- proach nearer to or diverge further from the requirements of absolute equity. Hence these requirements have ever to be kept in view, that relative equity may be ascer- tained. § 110. Of the two subdivisions into which beneficence falls, the negative and the posi- tive, neither can be specialized. Under ideal’ conditions the first of them has but a nominal existence; and the second of them passes largely into a transfigured form admitting of but general definition. In the conduct of the ideal among ideal men, that self-regulation which has for its motive to avoid giving pain practically dis- appears. No one having feelings which prompt acts that disagreeably affect others, there can exist no code of restraints refer- ring to this division of conduct. But though negative beneficence is only a nominal part of absolute ethics, it is an actual and considerable part of relative ethics. For while men's natures remain im- perfectly adapted to social life, there must continue in them impulses which, causing in some cases the actions we name unjust, cause in other cases the actions we name un- kind—unkind now in deed and now in word; and in respect of these modes of beliavior, which, though not aggressive, give pain, there arise numerous and complicated prob- lems. Pain is sometimes given to others simply by maintaining an equitable claim; pain is at other times given by refusing a re- quest; and again at other times by maintain- ing an opinion. In these and numerous cases suggested by them there have to be an- swered the questions whether, to avoid in- flicting pain. personal feelings should be sacrificed, and how far sacrificed. Again, in cases of another class, pain is given not by a passive course, but by an active course. How far shall a person who has misbehaved be grieved by showing aversion to him? Shall one whose action is to be reprobated have the reprobation expressed to him or shall nothing be said? Is it right to annoy by condemning a prejudice which another displays? These and kindred queries have to be answered after taking into account the immediate pain given, the possible benefit caused by giving it, and the possible evil caused by not giving it. In solving proto- lems of this class, the only help absolute ethics gives is by enforcing the considera- 568 TIIE DATA. OF ETHICS. tion that inflicting more pain than is neces- sitated by proper self-regard, or by desire for another's benefit, or by the maintenance of a general principle, is unwarranted. Of positive beneficence under its absolute form nothing more specific can be said than that it must become coextensive with what- ever sphere remains for it; aiding to com. plete the life of each as a recipient of ser- vices and to exalt the life of each as a ren- derer of services. As with a developed humanity the desire for it by every one will so increase, and the sphere for exercise of it so decrease, as to involvo an altruistic competition, analogous to the existing ego- istic competition, it may be that abschute ethics will eventually include what we before called a higher equity, prescribing the mu- tual limitations of altruistic activities. Under its relative form, positive benefi- cence presents numerous problems, alike im. portant and difficult, admitting only of em- pirical solutions. How far is self-sacrifice for another's benefit to be carried in each case?—A question which must be answered differently according to the character of the other, the needs of tº other, and the vari- ous claims of Self and belongings which have to be met. To what extent under giver. circumstances shall private welfare be sub- ordinate to public welfare?—a question to be answered after considering the import- ance of the end and the seriousness of the gacrifice. What benefit and what detriment will result from gratuitous aid yielded to another?—a question in each case implying an estimate of probabilities. Is there any unfair treatment of sundry others, involved by more than fair treatment of this one other? Up to what limit may help be given to the existing generation of the inferior, without entailing mischief on future genera. tions of the superior? Fvidently to these and many kindred questions included in this division of relative ethics, approximately true answers only can be given. But though liere absolute ethics, by the standard it supplies, does not greatly aid relative ethics, yet, as in other cases, it aids somewhat by keeping before consciousness an ideal conciliation of the various claims involved, and by suggesting the search for such compromise among them as shall not disregard any, but shall, Satisfy all to the greatest extent practicable. CONTENTs, PACE I.—Conduct in General.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 475 II.-The Evolution of Conduct. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 477 III.-Good and Bad Conduet. ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 481 IV.—Ways of Judging Conduct............... 489 W.—The Physical View. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 495 VTr—The Biological View. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 499 VII.-The Psyehological:View...... . . . . . . . . . . . . 507 VIII.-The Sociological Vicw. . . . . . . tº a sº e º e - is is a ... 517 FA&? IX. —Criticisms and Explanations............. 52% X.—The Relativity of Pains and Pleasures... 531 XI.-Egoism versus Altruism... .............. 5 XII.-Altruism versus lºgoism.......... .....--. §89. XIII.-Trial and Compromise............... ... .. 545 XIV.-Conciliation.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55% XV.-Absolute Ethics and Relative Ethics ... § XVI.—The Scope of Ethics......... . . . . . 56: • * * * * * * * * * * * PROGRESS: ITS LAWS AND CAUSE. |BY HERBERT SPENCER. PROGRESS AND ITS LAWS. C O N T E N T S : Progress: Its Laws and Cause, *- * - sº - sº 233 The Physiology of Laughter. * - sº - - º - 253 The Origin and Function of Music, - - - gº. - sºn 258 The Development of Hypotheses, – - cº tºº * *s - 267 The Social Organism, s - - * sº sº sº * 269 The Use of Anthropomorphism, - -7 rº mºn sº - - 283 PROGRESS; ITS LAW AND CAUSE; WITH OTHER DISQUISITIONS, VIZ.: THE PHYSIOLOGY OF LAUGHTER—ORIGIN AND FUNCTION oF MUSIC– THE SOCIAL ORGANISM-USE AND BEAUTY –THE TJSE OF ANTHROPOMORPHISM. BY HERBERT I. PROGRESS : ITS LAW AND CAUSE. THE current conception of progress is somewhat shifting and indefinite. Some- times it comprehends little more than simple growth–as of a nation in the number of its members and the extent of territory over which it has spread. Sornetimes it has ref- erence to quantity of material products—as when the advance of agriculture and manu- factures is the topic. Sometimes the superiot quality of these products is contemplated : and sometimes the new or improved appli- ances by which they are produced. When, SPENCER. much the reality of progress as its accom, paniments—not so much the substance as the shadow. That progress in intelligence seen during the growth of the child into the man, or the savage into the philosopher, is com- monly regarded as consisting in the greater number of facts known and laws under- stood : whereas the actual progress consists in those internal modifications of which this increased knowledge is the expression. Social progress is supposed to consist in the produce of a greater quantity and variety of the articles required for satisfying men's Wants; in the increasing security of person and property; in widening freedom of again, we speak of moral or intellectual prog- ress, we refer to the state of the individual or people exhibiting it; while, when the progress of knowledge, of science, of art, is commented upon, we have in view certain action : whereas, rightly understood, social - progress consists in those changes of struc-- ture in the social organism which have entailed these consequences. The current -- conception is a teleological one. The phe- abstract results of human thought and action, nomena are contemplated solely as bearing - Not only, however, is the current conception on human happiness. Only those changes -- of progress more or less vague, but it is in are held to constitute progress which directly - great measure erroneous. It takes in not so or indirectly tend to heighten human happi- - 234 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. ness. And they are thought to constitute progress simply because they tend to height- en human happiness. But rightly to under- Stand progress, we lilust inquire what is the nature of these changes, considered apart from our interests. Ceasing, for example, to regard, the successive geological modifica- tions that have taken place in the earth, as modifications that have gradually fitted it for ihº habitation ºf man, and as therefore a geological progress, we must seek to deter. mine the character common to these modifi- cations—the law to which they all conform. And similarly in every other case. Leaving out of sight concomitants and beneficial con- sequences, let us ask what progress is in itself. In respect to that progress which individ- ual organisms display in the course of their evolution, this question has been answered by the Germans. The investigations of Wolff, Goethe, and Won Baer have estab- lished the truth that the series of changes gone through during the development of a Seed into a tree, or an ovum into au animal, constitute an advance from homogeneity of structure to hetcrogeneity of structure. In its primary stage, every germ consists of a substance that is uniform throughout, both in texture and chemical composition. The first step is the appearance of a difference between two parts of this substance ; or, as the phenomenon is called in physiolog.cal, language, a differentiation. Each of these differentiated divisions presently begins itself to exhibit some contrast of patts , and by and by these secondary differentiations be- come as definite as the original one. This process is continuously repeated—is simul- taneously going on in all parts of the grow- ing embryo ; and by endless such differen- talions there is finally produced that complex combination of tissues and organs constitut- ing the adult animal or plant. This is the history of all organisms whatever. It is set- tled beyond dispute that organic progress consists in a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. - Now, we propose in the first place to imow, that this law of organic progress is the law of all progress. Whether it be in the development of the earth, in the develop- ment of life upon its surface, in the develop- ment of society, of government, of manufac- tures, of commerce, of language, literature, science, art, this same evolution of the simple into the complex, through successive dif- ferentiations, holds throughout. From the earliest traceable cosmical changes down to the latest results of civilization, we shall find that the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, is that in which prog- ress essentially consists. With the view of showing that if the nebular hypothesis be true, the genesis, of the solar system supplies one illustration of this law, let us assuine that the matter of which the sun and planets consist was once $n a diffused form ; and that from the grav- itation of its atoms there resulted a gradual concentration. By the hypothesis, the Solar system in its nascent state existed as an ill- definitely extended and nearly homogeneous medium—a medium almost homogeneous in density, in temperature, and in other physi- cal attributes. The first advance toward consolidation resulted in a differentiation be tween the occupied space which the nebulous mass still filled, and the unoccupied space which it previously"filled. “There simultane- ously resulted a contrast in density and a contrast in temperature, between the interior and the exterior of this mass. And at the same time there arose throughout it rotator movenients, whose velocities varied accord- ing to their distances from its centre. These differentiations increased in number and de- gree until there was evolved the organized group of sun, planets, and Satellites, which we now know---a group which presents numerous contrasts of structure and action among its members. There are the immense contrasts between the sun and planets, in bulk and in weight ; as well as the subordi- nate contrasts between one planet and another, and between the planets and their satellites. There is the similarly marked contrast between the Sun as almost station- alry, and the planets as moving round him with great velocity ; while there are the sec- ondary contrasts between the velocities and periods of the several planets, and between their simple revolutions and the double ones of their satellites, which have to move round their primaries while moving round the sun. There is the yet further strong contrast be- tween the suil and the planets in respect of ièmperature ; and there is reason to suppose that the planets and satellites differ from €ich other 1n their proper heat, as well as in the heat they receive from time sun. When we bear in mind that, in addition to these various contrasts, the planets and Satel- lites also differ in respect to their distances from each other and their primary—in re- spect to the inclinations of their orbits, the inclinations of their axes, their times of rota- tion on their axes, their specific gravities, and their physical constitutions—we see what a high degree of heterogeneity the solar Systein exhibits, when compared with the almost complete homogeneity of the nebu. lous mass Gul of which it is supposed to have originated. Passing from this hypothetical illustration, which must be taken for what it is worth, without prejudice to the general argument, let us descend to a more certain order of evi. dence. It is now generally agreed among geologists that the carth was at first a mass of molten matter; and that it is still fluid and incandescent at the distance of a few miles beneath its surface. Originally, then, it was homogeneous in consistence, and, in viitue of the circulation that takes place in heated fluids, must have been comparatively homo- geneous in temperature ; and it must have been surrounded by an atmosphere consisting PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 235 partly of the elements of air and water, and lar ly of those various other elements which assume a gaseous form at high temperatures. That slow cooling by radiation which is still going on at an inappreciable rate, and which, though originally far more rapid than now, necessarily required an immense time to pro- duce any decided change, must ultimately have resulted in the solidification of the por- tion most able to part with its heat—namely, the surface. In the thin crust thus formed we have the first marked differentiation. A still further cooling, a consequent thickening of this crust, and an accompanying deposi- tion of all solidifiable elements contained in the atmosphere, must finally lave been fol- lowed by the cundensation of the water pre- viously existing as vapor. A second marked differentiation unust thus have arisen : and as the condensation must have taken place on the coolest parts of the surface—namely, about the poles—there must thus have re- sulted the first geographical distinction of parts. To these illustrations of growing heterogeneity, which, though deduced from the known laws of matter, may be regarded as more or less ilypothetical, geology adds an extensive series that have been inductively established. Its investigations show that the earth has been continually becoming inore heterogeneous in virtue of the multiplication of the strata which form its crust; further, that it has been becoming more heterogene- ous in respect of the composition of these strata, the latter of which, being made from the detritus of the older ones, are many of them rendered highly complex by the mix- ture of materials they contain ; and that this heterogeneity has been vastly increased by the action of the earth's still molten nucleus upon its envelope, whence have resulted not only a great variety of igneous rocks, but the tilting up of sedimentary strata at all angles, the formation of faults and metallic veins, the production of endless dislocations and irregularities. Yet again, geologists teach us that the earth's surface has becn growing more varied in elevation—that the most ancient mountain systems are the Small. est, and the Andes and Himalayas the most modern ; while in all probability there have been corresponding changes in the bed of the ocean. As a consequence of these ceaseless differentiations, we now find that no consid- erable portion of the earth's exposed surface is like any other portion, either in contour, in geologic structure, or in chemical competi- tion ; and that in most parts it changes from mile to mile in all these characteristics. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that there has been simultaneously going on a gradual differentiation of climates. As fast as the earth Cooled and its crust solidified, there arose appreciable differences in tem- perature between those parts of its surface most exposed to the sun and those less ex. posed. Gradually, as the cooling progressed, these differences became more pronounced ; until there finally resulted those marked con- trasts between regions of perpetual ice and #. snow, regions where winter and summer alternately reign for periods varying accoid- ing to the latitude, and regions where sum- mer follows Summer with scarcely an appro. ciable variation. At the same time the suc- cessive elevations and subsidences of differ- ent portions of the earth's crust, tending as they have done to the present itſ egular dis- tribution of land and sea, have entailed vali- ous modifications of climate beyond those dependent on latitude; while a yet further series of such modifications have been pro- duced by increasing differences of elevation in the land, which have in sundry places brought arctic, temperate, and tropical cli- mates to within a few miles of cach other. And the general result of these changes is, that not only has every extensive region its own meteorologic conditions, but that every locality in cach region differs more or less from others in those conditions, as in its structure, its contour, its soil. Thus, be- tween our existing earth, the phenomena of whose varied crust neither geographers, geol- ogists, mineralogists, nor meteorologists have yet enumerated, and the molten globe out of which it was evolved, the contrast in hetero- geneity is sufficiently striking. When from the carth itself we turn to the plants and animals that have lived, or still live, upon its surface, we find ourselves in some difficulty from lack of facts. That every existing organism has been developed out of the simple into the complex, is indeed the first established truth of all ; and that every organism that has existed was similarly developed is an inference which no physiol- ogist will hesitate to draw. But when we pass from individual forms of life to life in general, and inquire whether the same law is scen in the ensemble of its manifestations— whether modern plants and animals are of more heterogeneous structure than ancient oncs, and whether the earth’s present Flora and Tauna are more heterogeneous than the Flora and Fauna of the past—we find the evidence so fragmentary that every conclu- sion is open to dispute. Two thirds of the earth's surface being covered by water ; a great part of the exposed land being iriacces- sible to, or untravelled by, the geologist ; the greater part of the remainder having been scarcely more than glanced at ; and even the most familiar portions, as England, having been so imperfectly explored that a new series of strata has been added within these four years—it is manifestly impossible for us to say with any certainty what creatures liave, and what have not, existed at any particular period. Considering the perishable nature of many of the lower organic forms, the metamorphosis of many sedimentary strata, and the gaps that occur among the rest, we shall see further reason for distrust- ing our deductions. On the one hand, the repeated discovery of vertebrate remains in strata previously supposed to contain none —of leptiles where only fish were thought to exist—of mammals where it was believed there were no creatures higher than reptiles 236 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. —renders it daily more manifest how small is the value of negative evidence. On the other hand, the worthlessness of the assumption that we have discovered the earliest, or anything like the earliest, organic remains, is becoming equally clear. That the oldest known sedimentary rocks have been greatly changed by igneous action, and that still older ones have been totally trans- fºrmed by it, is becoming undeniable. And the fact that sedimentary strata earlier than any we know have been melted up, being admitted, it must also be admitted that we cannot say how far back in time this destruc- tion of sedimentary strata has been going on. Thus it is manifest that the title, Pa- la:Oeoic, as applied to the earliest known fos- siliferous strata, involves a petitio principi; ; and that, for aught we know to the con. trary, only the last few chapters of the earth's biological history may have come down to us. On neither side, therefore, is the evidence conclusive. Nevertheless we cannot but think that, Scanty as they are, the facts, taken altogether, tend to show both that the more heterogeneous organisins have been evolved in the later geologic periods, and that life in general has been more heterogeneously manifested as time had advanced. Let us cite, in illustration, the pne case of the vertebratt. The earliest known vertebrate remains aie those of fishes ; and fishes are the most homogeneous of the ver- tebrata, Later and more heterogeneous are reptiles. Later still, and more heterogeneous still, are mammals and birds. If it be said, as it may fairly be said, that the Palaeozoic deposits, not being estuary deposits, are not likely to contain the remains of tcrrestrial vertebrata, which may nevertheless have ex- isted at that era, we reply that we are merely pointingto the leading facts, such as they are. But to avoid auy such criticism, let us take the IIlammalian subdivision only. The earli- est known remains of mammals are those of small marsupials, which are the lowest of the mammalian type ; while, conversely, the highest of the mammalian type—man—is the most recent. The evidence that the verte- brate fauna, as a whole, has become more heterogeneous, is considerably stronger. To the argument that the vertebrate fauna of the Palaeozoic period, consisting, so far as we know, entirely of fishes, was less heterogene- ous than the modern vertebrate fauna, which includes reptiles, birds, and Imammals, of multitudinous genera, it may be replied, as before, that estuary deposits of the Palaeozoic period, could we find them, might contain other orders of vertebrata. But no such reply can be made to the argument that whereas the marine vertebrata of the Palaeo- zoic period consisted entirely of cartilaginous fishes, the marine vertebrata of later periods include numerous genera of Osseous fishes; and that, therefore, the later marine Vertez brate faunās are more heterogeneous thaſ' the oldest known one. Nor, again, can any such reply be made to the fact that there are far more numerous orders and genera of mam- º * s tº º & * & & J. malian remains in the tertiary formations than in the secondary formations. Did we wish merely to make out the best case, we might dwell upon the opinion of Dr. Carpen- ter, who says that “the general facts of Pa- ladntology appear to sanction the belief that the same plan may be traced out in what may be called the general life of the globe, as in the individual life of every one of the forms of organized beings which now people it.” Or we might quote, as decisive, the judgincrit of Professor Owen, who holds that the earlic.r examples of each group of creatures sever- ally departed less widely from archetypal generality than the later ones—were severally less unlike the fundamental form common to the group as a whole ; that is to say—consti- tuted a less heterogeneous group of creat- ures; and who further upholds the doctrine of a biological progression. But in defer- ence to an authority for whom we have the highest respect, who considers that the evi- dence at present obtained does not justify a verdict either way, we are content to leave the question open. Whether an advance from the homogene- ous to the heterogeneous is or is not displayed in the biological history of the globe, it is clearly enough displayed in the progress of the latest and most heterogeneous creature— man. It is alike true that, during the period in which the earth has been peopled, the human organism has grown more heterogene- ous among the civilized divisions of the species; and that the species, as a whole, has been growing more heterogeneous in virtue of the multiplication of races and the differentiation of these races from each other. In proof of the first of these positions we may cite the fact that, in the relative development of the limbs, the civilized man departs more widely from the general type of the placcntal mammalia than do the lower human races. While often possessing well-developed body and arnis, the Papuan has extremely small legs : thus reminding us of the quadrumana, in which there is no great contrast in size between the hind and fore limbs. But in the European, the greater length and mass- iveness of the legs has become very marked —the fore and hind limbs are relatively more heterogeneous. Again, the greater ratio which the cranial bones bear to the facial bones illustrates the same truth. Among the vertebrata in general, progress is marked by an increasing heterogeneity in the vertebral column, and more especially in the verte- brae constituting the skull : the higher forms being distinguished by the relatively larger size of the bones which cover the brain, and the relatively smaller size of those which form the jaw, etc. Now, this char- acteristic, which is stronger in man than in any other creature, is stronger in the Euro- pean than in the savage. Moreover, judging from the greater extent and variety of faculty he exhibits, we may infer that the civilized man has also a more complex or heterogene- ous nervous system than the uncivilized PROGRESS. Its LAW AND CAUSE. 11:an : and indeed the fact is in part visible in 1 lic increased ratio which his cerebrum bears to the subjacent ganglia. If further clucidation be needed, we may find it in every Lursery. The infant Euro- pean has sundry marked points of resem- blance to the lower human races; as in the flatness of the alae of the nose, the depression of its bridge, the divergence and forward opening of the nostrils, the form of the lips, the absence of a frontal sinus, the width be- tween the eyes, the smallness of the legs. Now, as the developmental process by which these traits are tufrned into those of the adult European, is a continuation of that change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous displayed during tire previous evolution of the embryo, which every physiologist will admit ; it follows that the parallel develop- mental process by which the like traits of the jarbarous races have been turned into those of the civilized races, has also been a con- tinuation of the change from the homogene- ous to the heterogeneous. The truth of the second position—that Imankind, as a whole, have become more heterogeneous—is so obvi- ous as scarcely to need illustration. Every work on Ethnology, by its divisions and sub- divisions of races, bears testimony to it. Even were we to admit the hypothesis that mankind originated from several separate stocks, it would still remain true, that as, from each of these stocks, there have sprung many now widely different tribes, which are proved by philological evidence to have had a common origin, the race as a whole is far less homogeneous than it once was. Add to which, that we have in the Anglo-Ameri- cans an example of a new variety arising within these few generations; and that, if we may trust to the description of observers, we are likely soon to have another such ex- ample in Australia. On passing from humanity under its indi- vidual form, to humanity as socially em- bodied, we find the general law still more 'ariously exemplified. The change from the hºmogeneous to the heterogeneous is dis- played equally in the progress of civilization as a whole, and in the progress of every tribe or nation ; and is still going on with increas- ing rapidity. As we see in existing barbarous tribes, society in its first and lowest form is a homogeneous aggregation of individuals having like powers and like functions: the only marked difference of function being that which accompanies difference of sex. Lvery man is warrior, hunter, fisherman, tool-maker, builder ; every woman performs the satile dridgeries; every family is self- sufficing, and save for purposes of aggression und defence, might as well live apart from the rest. Very early, however, in tie pro- cess of social evolution, we find an incipient differentiation between the governing and the governed. Some kind of chieftainship seems coeval with the first advance from the state of separate wandering families to that of a nomadic tribe. The authority of the strongest makes itself felt among a body of savages as in a herd of animals or a posse of schoolboys. At first, however, it is indefi- nite, uncertain ; is shared by others of scarcely inferior power ; and is unaccompanied by any difference in occupation or style of lix- ing: the first ruler kills his own game, makes his own weapons, builds his own hut, and economically considered, does not differ from others of his tribe. Gradually, as the tribe progresses, the contrast between the govern- ing and the governed grows more decided. Supreme power becorues hereditary in one family ; the head of that family, ceasing to provide for his own wants, is served by others ; and he begins to assume the sole office of ruling. At the same time there has been arising a co-ordinate species of government—that of religion. As all ancient records and tradi- tions prove, the earliest rulers are regarded as divine personages. The maxims and commands they uttered during their lives are held sacred after their deaths, and are en- forced by their divinely-descended succes. sors; who in their turns are promoted to the pantheon of the race, there to be wor- shipped and propitiated along with their pred- ecessors : the most ancient of whom is the supreme god, and the rest subordinate grids. For a long time these connate forms of government—civil and religious—continue closely associated. For many generations the king continues to be the chief priest, and the priesthood to be members of the royal race. For many ages religious law continues to contain more or less of civil regulation, and civil law to possess more or less of relig- ious sanction ; and even among the most ad. vanced nations these two controlling agen. cies are by no means completely differen- tiated from each other. - Having a common root with these, and gradually divergir.g. from them, we find yet another controlling agency—that of manners or ceremonial usages. All titles of honor are originally the names of the god-king ; afterward of God and the king ; still later of persons of high rank ; and finally come, some of them, to be used between man and man. All forms of complimentary ad- dress were at first the expressions of submis- sion from prisoners to their conqueror, or from subjects to their ruler, either human or divine—expressions that were afterward used to propitiate subordinate authorities, and slowly descended into ordinary intel- course. All modes of salutation were once obeisances made before the monarch and used in worship of him after his death. Pres- ently others of the god-descended race were similarly saluted ; and by degrees some of the salutations have become the due of all. Thus, no sooner does the originally horno- geneous social mass differentiate into the gov- #. the governing parts, than this last #hibits an incipient differentiation into re- ligious and secular—Church and State : while at the same time there begins to be differentiated from both, that less definite 23S PROG QESS: IT'S LAW AND CAUSE. species of government which rules our daily intercourse—a species of government which, as we may see in heralds’ colleges, in h. (.ks of the peerage, in masters of ceremºnies, is not without a certain embodiment of its own. Iºach of these is itself subject to successive differentiations. In the course of ages there Miscs, as among ourselves, a highly com- \lex political organization of monarch, min- Asters, lords and commons, with their subor- 6inate administrative departments, courts of justice, revenue offices, etc., supplemented in the provinces by municipal governments, County governments, parish or union govern- ments—all of them more or less elaborated. By its side there grows up a highly complex religious organization, with its various glades of officials, from archbishops down to sex- tons, its colleges, convocations, ecclesiastical courts, etc. ; to all which must be added the ever-multiplying independent sects, each with its general and local authoritics. And at the same time there is developed a highly Complex aggregation of customs, mannéis, and ternporary fashions, enforced by society at large, and Serving to control those minor transactions between man and man which are not regulated by civil and 1eligious law. Moreover it is to be observed that this ever- increasing heterogeneity in the governmental 8 ppliances of each nation has been accom- panied by an increasing heterogeneity in the governmental appliances of different nations; ałl of which are more or less unlike in their political systems and legislation, in their Creeds and religious institutions, in their cus- toms and ceremonial usages. Simultaneously there has been going on a Second differentiation of a more familiar kind ; that, namely, by which the mass of the community has been segregated into dis. tinct classes and orders of workers. While the governing part has undergone the com- plex development above detailed, the gov- erned part has undergone an equally com- plex development, which has resultcd in that minute division of labor characterizing ad- vanced nations. It is needless to trace out this progress from its first stages, up through the caste divisions of the East and the incor- porated guilds of Europe, to the elaborate producing and distributing organization ex- isting among ourselves. Political economists have lºng since described the evolution which, beginning with a tribe whose mem- bels severally perform the same actions each for himself, ends with a civilized community whºse members severally perform different actions for each other; and they have further pointed out the changes through which the solitary producer of any one coln- modity is transformed into a combination of producers Who, united under a master, take separate parts in the manufacture of such commodity. Iłut there are yet other and higher phases of this advance from the ho- mugeneous to the heterogeneous in the indug- trial organization of sºciet. . - Long after considerable progress has been made.in the division of labor among different classes of workers, there is still little or no division of labor among the widely separated pat is of the community; the nation continues comparatively hornogeneous in the respect that in each district the same occupations are pursued. But when roads and other means of transit becotne numerous and good, the different districts begin to assume differ. ent functions, and to become mutually de- pendent. The Calico manufacture locates itself in this county, the woollen-cloth man. ufacture in that ; silks are produced here, lace thero ; stockings in one place, shoes in another ; pottery, hardware, cutlery, come to have their special towns; and ultimately every locality becomes more or less distin- guished from the lest by the leading occupa- tion carried on in it. Nay, more : this subdi- visiou of functions shows itself not only among the different parts of the same nation, but atmºng different nations. That exchange of commodities which free-trade promises so greatly to increase will ultimately have the effect of specializing, in a greater or less de- gree, the industry of each people. So that beginning with a barbarous tribe, almost if not quite homogeneous in the functions of its members, the progress has been, and still is, toward an economic aggregation of the whole humau race ; growing ever more licterogeneous in respect of the separate functions assumed by separate nations, the separate functious assumed by the local sections of each nation, the separate func- tions assumed by the many kinds of makers and traders in each town, and the separate functions assumed by the workers united in producing each commodity. Not only is the law thus clearly exempli- fied in the evolution of the social organism, but it is excmplified with equal clearness in the evolution of all products of human thought and action, whether concrete or ab- stract, real or ideal. Let us take Language as our first illustration. The lowest form of language is the ox- clamation, by which an entile iſlea is vaguely conveyed through a single sound ; as among the lower animals. That human language ever consisted solely of exclamations, and so was strictly homogeneous in respect cf its parts of speech, we have no evidence. But that language can be traced down to a form in which nouns and verbs are its only ele- ments, is an established fact. In the gradual multiplication of parts of speech out of these primary ones—in the differentiation of verbs into active and passive, of nouns into ab- stract and concrete—in the rise of distinc- tions of mood, tense, person, of number and case—in the formation of auxiliary verbs, of adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, prepositions, articies—in the divergence of those orders, genera, species, and varieties of parts of speech by which civilized races express mi- nute modifications Cf meaning—we see a change from the homogeneous to the hetero- geneous. And it may be remarked, in pass- ing, that it is more especially in virtue of having carried this subdivision of function PROGRESS: ITs LAW AND CAUSE. 289 to a greater extent and completeness, that the English language is superior to all others. Another aspect under which we may trace the development of language is the differen- tiation of words of aiied meanings. Phi- lology early disclosed the truth that in all languages words may be grouped into fami- lies having a common ancestry. An aborig- inal name applied indiscriminately to each of an extensive and ill-defined class of things of actions, presently undergoes modifications by which the chief divisions of the class are expressed. These several names springing from the primitive root, themselves become the parents of other names still further mod- ified. And by the aid of those systematic modes which presently arise, of making de- rivations and forming compound terms ex- pressing still smaller distinctions, there is finally developed a tribe of words so hetero- geneous in sound and meaning that to the uninitiated it seems incredible that they should have had a common origin. Mean- while from other roots there are being evolved other such tribes, until there results a lan. guage of Some sixty thousand or more unlike words, signifying as many unlike objects, qualitics, acts. - - Yet ancther way in which language in general advances from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, is in the Inultiplication of languages. Whether, as Max Müller and Dunsen think, all languages have grown from one stock, or whether, as some plmilolgists tly, they have grown from two or more stocks, it is clear that since large families of languages, as the Indo-Europcan, are cf one palentage, they have become distinct through a process of continuous divergence. The same diffusion over the earth's surface which has led to the differentiation of the race, has simultaneously led to a differentiation of their speech ; a truth which we see further il- lustrated in each nation by the peculiarities of dialect found in several districts. Thus the progress of language conforms to the general law, alike in the evolution of languages, in the evolution of families of words, and in the evolution of parts of speech. On passing from spoken to written lan- guage, we come upon several classes of facts, all having , similar implications. Written Hanguage is connate with painting and sculp- ture ; and at first all three ale appendages of a chitecture, and have a direct connection with the primary form of all government— the theocratic. Merely noting by the way the fact that sundry wild races, as for t x- ample the Australians and the tribes of South Africa, are given to depicting perschages and events upon the walls of caves, which ale probably regarded as sacred places, let us pass to the case of the Egyptians. Among them, as also among the Assyrians, we find mural paintings used to decorate the temple of the gud and the palace of the king (which were, indeed, Cliiginally identical); and as such they were govel nºmental at I liances in the same sense that state-pageants and relig- ious feasts were. Furthe 1. they were gov- Ing ; ernmental appliances in virtue of represent, ing the worship of the god, the triumphs of the god-king, the submission of his ſubjects, and the punishment of the rebellious, And yet again they were governmental, ag being ihe products of an art reverenced by the people as a sacred mystery. From the habit- ual use of this pictorial representation the re naturally grew up the but slightly-modified practice of picture-writing—a practice which was found still extant among the Mexicans at the time they were discovered. By abbre- viations analogous to those still going on in our own written and spoken language, the most familiar of these pictured figures were successively simplified ; and ultimately there grew up a system of symbols, most of which had but a distant resemblance to the things for which they stood. The inference that the hieroglyphics of the Egyptians were thus produced is confirmed by the fact that the picture-writing of the Mexicans was found to have given birth to a like family of ideo- graphic forms ; and among them, as amcIg the Egyptians, these had been partially dif- ferentiated into the kuriological or imitative, and the tropical, or symbolic : which were, however, used together in the same record. In Egypt, written language underwent a further differentiation : whence resulted the hieratic and the epistolographic or emchoria! :- both of which are derived from the original hieroglyphic. At the same time we find that for the expression of proper names which could not be otherwise convey ca, phonetic symbols were employed ; and though it is alleged that the Egyptians never actually achieved complete alphabetic writing, yet it can scarcely be doubted that these phonetic symbols occasionally used in aid of their ideo, graphic ones, were the germs out of which alphabetic writing grew. Once having be- come separate from hieroglyphics, alphabetic writing itself underwent numerous differen- tiations — multiplied alphabets were pro- (lnced ; between most of which, however, In re or less connection can still be traced. ... nd in each civilized nation there has now grown up, for the representation of one set of sounds, several sets of written signs used for disſinct purposes. Finally, through a yet more important differentiation came print- which, uniform in kind as it was at first, has since become multiform. While written language was passing through its earlier stages of development, the mural decoration which formed its root was being differentiated into painting and sculpture. The gods, kings, men, and ani- mals represented were originally marked by indented outlines and colored. In most cases these outlines were of such depth, and the object they circumscribed so far rounded and marked out in its leading parts, as to form a species of work intermediate between in- taglio and bas-relief. In other cases we See an advance upon this : the raised spaces hetween the figures being chiselled off, and the figures themselves appropriately tinted, a painted bas-relief was produced. The 1e. 340 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. stored Assyrian architecture at Sydenham exhibits this style of art carried to greater perfection—the persons and things repre- gented, though still barbarously colored, arg carved out with more truth and in greater detail : and in the winged lions and bulls used for the angles of gateways, we may see a considerable advance toward a completely sculptured figure ; which, nevertheless, is still colored, and still forms part of the build- ing. But while in Assyria the production of a statue proper seems to have been little, if at all, attempted, we may trace in Egyp- tian art the gradual separation of the sculp- tured figure from the wall. A walk through the collection in the British Museum will clearly show this ; while it will at the same time afford an opportunity of observing the evident traces which the independent statues bear of their derivation from bas-relief : see- ing that nearly all of them not only display that union of the limbs with the body which is the characteristic of bas-relief, but have the back of the statue united from head to foot with a block which stands in place cf the original wall. Greece repeated the lead- ing stages of this progress. As in Egypt and Assyria, these twin arts were at first united with each other and with their parent, architecture, and were the aids of religion and government. On the friezes of Greek temples we see Colored bas-reliefs represent- ing Sacrifices, battles, processions, games— all in Some sort religious. On the pediments We See painted sculptures more or less united with the tympanum, and having for subjects the triumphs of gods or heroes. Even when we come to statues that are definitely sep- arated from the buildings to which they per- tain, we still find them colored ; and only in the later periods of Greek civilization does the differentiation of sculpture from painting appear to have become complete. In Christian art we may clearly trace a parallel regenesis. All carly paintings arid sculptures throughout Europe were religious in subject—-represented Christs, crucifixions, virgins, holy families, apostles, saints. They formed integral parts of church architecturc, and were among the means of exciting wor- ship ; as in Roman Catholic countries they still are. Moreover, the early sculptures of Christ on the cross, of virgins, of saints, were colored : anſl it needs but to call to mind the painted madonnas and crucifixes still abundant in continental churches and highways, to perceive the significant fact that painting and sculpture continue in closest connection with each other where they continue in closest connection with their parent. Even when Christian sculpture was pretty clearly differentiated from painting it was still religious and governmental in its subjects—was used for tombs in churches and statues of kings : while, at the same time, painting, where not purely ecclesiastical, was applied to the decoration of palaces, and besides representing royal personages, was almost wholly devoted to sacred legends. Only in quite recent times have painting and sculpture become entirely secular arts. Only Within these few centuries has painting been divided into historical, landscape, marine, architectural, genre, animal, still-life, etc., and Sculpture grown heterogencous in 18- spect of the variety of real and ideal subjects with which it occupies itself. Strange as it seems, then, we find it no less true, that all forms of written language, of painting, and of Sculpture, have a common root in the politico-religious decorations of ancient temples and palaces. Little resem- blance as they now have, the bust that stands on the console, the landscape that hangs against the wall, and the copy of the Times lying upon the table, are remotely alcin ; not only in 11ature, but by extraction. The brazen face of the knocker which the post- man has just lifted, is related not only to the woodcuts of the Illustrated London News which he is delivering, but to the characters of the billet-doua, which accompanies it. Be- tween the painted window, the prayer-book on which its light falls, and the adjacent tnºnument there is consangunity. The effi- gies on our coins, the signs over shops, the figures that fill every ledger, the coats-of- arms outside the carriage panel, and the pla- cards inside the omnibus, are, in common with dolls, blue-books, paper-hangings, line- ally descended from the rude sculpture-paint- ings in which the Egyptians represented the triumphs and worship of their god-kings, Perhaps no example can be given which more vividly illustrates the multiplicity and heterogeneity of the products that in course of time may arise by successive differentia- tions from a common stock. Before passing to other classes of facts, it should be observed that the evolution of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous is dis- played not only in the separation of painting and sculpture from architecture and from each other, and in the greater variety of Sub- jects they embody, but it is further shown in the structure of each work. A modern pic- ture or statue is of far more heterogeneous nature than an ancient one. An Egyptian sculpture-fresco represents all its figures as on one plane—that is, at the same distance from the eye ; and so is less heterogeneous than tº painting that represents them as at various distances from the eye. It exhibits all objects as exposed to the same degree of light ; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which exhibits different objects and different parts of each object as in different degrees of light. It uses scarcely any but the primary colors, anti these in their full intensity ; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which, intro- ducing the primary colors but sparingly, employs an endless variety of intermediale tints, each of heterogeneous composition, and differing from the rest not only in quality but in intensity. Moreover, we see in these earliest works a great uniformity of concep- tion. The same arrangement of figures is perpetually reproduced—the same actions, attitudes, faces, dresses. In Egypt the modes of representation were so fixed that it PROGRESS: ITs LAW AND CAUSE. T. 241 was sacrilege to introduce a novelty; and indeed it could have been only in conse- quence of a fixed/mode of representation that a system of hieroglyphics became possi- ble. The Assyrian bas-rel efs display pal al- lel characters. Deities, kings, attendants, winged figures and animals, are severally depicted in like positions, holding like iln- plements, doing like things, and with like ex- pression or non-expression of face. If a palm-grgve is introducci, all the trees are of the same height, have the same number of leaves, and are equidistant. When water is imitated, each wave is a counter part of the rest ; and the fish, almost always of one kind, are evenly distributed over the surface. The beards of the kings, the gods, and the winged figures, are everywhere similar : as are the manes of the lions, and equally SO those of the horses. Hair is represented throughout by one form of cutſ. The king's beard is quite alchitecturally built up of compound tiers of uniform culls, alternating with twisted tiers placed in a transverse direction, and arranged with perfect legular- ity ; and the terminal tuſts of the bulls' tails are represented in exactly the same manner. Without tracing out analogous facts in early Christian art, in whicli, though less striking, they are still visible, the advance in lietero- geneity will be sufficiently manifest on re- mt inhering that in the pictures of our own day the cºmpºsition is endlessly varied ; the attitudes, ſaces, txpressions unlike ; the Sub- ordinate objects different in size, form, posi- tion, textute ; and more or, less of contrast even in the sinallest details. Or, if we corn- pare an Egyptian statue, seated bult upright on a block, with hands on knees, fingers out- spread and parallel, eyes looking straight forward, and the two sides perfectly sym- metrical in every particular, with a statue of the advanced Greek or the model in school, which is as symmetrical in 1 espect of the position of the head, the body, the limbs, the arrangement of the hair, dress, appendages, and in its relations to neighboring objects, we shall sce the change fictm the liontgene- ous to the heterogeneous clearly manifested. In the co-ordinate origin and gradual dif- ferentiation of poetry, in usic, and dancing, we haye, another series of illustrations. Rlythm in speech, 1 hythm in sound, and 1 hythm in Inotion, were in the beginning parts of the same thing, and have only in j)rocess of time become separate things. ‘Among various existing baibarous tribes we find them still united. The dances of sav- figus at G accompanied by some kind of Ino- gºton; tıs chant, the clapping of hands, the Mr. king of lude instruments: there ate meas. uſed movements, measured words, and meas- tired tones ; and the whole ceremony, usually :aving reference to war or sacrifice, is of ‘...,ve, ninental cluaracter. Jn the early 1ec- irds of the histulic laces we similarly find hese three forms Cf met iical action united in eligious festivals. In the Hebrew writings re read that the iriumphal Gde composed by Moses on the defeat of the Egyptians was sung to an accompaniment of dančing and timbrels. The Israelites danced and sung “at the inauguration of the golden calf. And as it is generally agreed that this repre- sentation of the Deity was borrowed from the mysteries of Apis, it is probable that the dancing was copied from that of the Egyptians on those occasions.” The 1e was an annual dance in Shiloh on the sacred fustival ; and Dosvid danced before the ark. Again, in Greece the like relation is everywhere seen : the original type being there, as probably in other cases, a simultaneous chanting and mimetic representation of the life and adven- tures of the god. The Spartan dances were accompaniel by hymns and songs ; and in general the Greeks had “no festivals or relig- ious assemblies but what were accompanied with songs and dances”—both of them being forms of worship used before altars. Among the Romans, too, there were sacred dances: the Salian and Lupercalian being named as of that kind. And even in Chris- tian countries, as at Limoges, in compara- lively recent times, the people have danced in the choir in honor of a saint. The incipi- ent separation of these once united arts from each other and from religion, Was early vis- ible in Greece. Probably diverging from dances partly religious, partly warlike, as the Cory bantian, came the ºvar dances proper, of which there were various kinds ; and from these resulted secular dauces. Meanwhile music and poetry, though still united, came to have an existence separate frºm dancing. The aboliginal Greek poems. religious in subject, were not recited, but chanted ; and though at first the chant of the poet was accompanied by the dance of the chorus, it ultimately grew into independence. Later still, when the poem had been differ- cntiated into epic and lyric—wlicn it became the custom to sing the lyric and recite the epic—poetry proper was borrº. As during the same period musical instrumentſ were being multiplied, we may presume that music came to have an existence apart from words. And both of them were beginning to assume other forms besides the religious. Facts having like implications might be cited from the histories of later times and peoples ; as the practices of our own early n instrels, who sang to the harp heroic narratives versified by themselves to music of their own compo- sition ; thus uniting the now separate offices of poct, composer, vocalist, anti instrumen- talist But, without further illustration, thq common origin and gradual differentiation of dancing, poetry, and music will be suffi- ciently manifest. The advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is displayed not only in the separation of these arts from each other and from religion, but also in the multiplied differentiations which each of them after. wald undergoes. Not to dwell upon the numberless kinds of dancing that have, in 242 PROGRESS: +rvº.º. AW AND CAUSE. 1. i ≤ 1 a course of time, come into use ; and not to occupy space in detailing the progress of poetry, as seen in the development of the Various forms of metre, of rhyme, and of general organization, let us confine our at- tention to music as a type of the group. As argued by Dr. Burney, and as implied by the customs of still extant barbarous races, the first musical instruments were, without doubt, percussive—sticks, calabashes, tom- toms-–and were used simply to mark the time of the dance ; and in this constant rep- etition of the same sound we see music in its most homogeneous form. The Egyptians had a lyre with three strings. The early lyre of the Greeks had four, constituting their tetrachord. In course of some centuries lyres of seven and eight strings were employed. And, by the expiration of a thousand years, they had ad- vanced to their “great system” of the double octave. Through all which changes there of course arose a greater heterogeneity of mel. ody. Simlataneously there came into use the different modes—Dorian, Ionian, Phrygian, AEolian, and Lydian—answering to our keys; and of these were there ultimately fifteen. As yet, however, there was but little hetero- geneity in the time of their music. Instrumental music during this period being merely the accompaniment of vocal music, and vocal music being completely Subordinated to words, the singer being also the poet, chanting his own compositions and making the lengths of his notes agree with the feet of his verses, there unavoidably arose a tiresome uniformity of measure, which, as Dr. Burney says, “no resources of Imelody could disguise.” Lacking the complex rhythm obtained by our equal bars aud unequal notes, the only rhythm was that produced by the quantity of the syllables, and was of necessity comparatively monoto- nous. And further, it may be observed that the chant thus lesulting, being like recita- tive, was much less clearly differentiated from ordinary speech than is our modern Song. Nevertheless, in virtue of the extended range of notes in use, the variety of Inodes, the occasional variations of time consequent on changes of metre, and the multiplication of instruments; music hail, toward the close of Greek civilization, attained to consider- able heterogeneity—not indeed as compared with our music, but as compared with that which preceded it. As yet, however, there existed nothing but melody : harmony was unknown. It was not until Christian church- music had reached some development that music in parts was evolve. l ; and then it came into existence through a very unob- trusive differentiation. Difficult as it may be to conceive di prior; how the advance from melody to harmony could take place without a sudden leap, it is none the less true that it did so. The circumstance which prepared the way for it was the employment of two choirs singing alternately the same air. Afterward it became the practice—very pos- sibly first suggested by a mistake—for the second choir to commence before the first had ceased ; thus producing a fugue. With the simple airs then in use, a par. tially harmonious fugue might not improb- ably thus result : and a very partially ha:- IIlonious fugue satisfied the cars of that age, as we know from still preserved examples. The idea having once been given, the coin. posing of airs productive of fugal harmony would naturally grow up ; as in some way it did grow up out of this alternate choir, singing. And from the fugue to concerted music of two, three, four, and more parts, the transition was easy. Without pointing out in detail the increasing complexity that resulted from from introducing notes of vari- ous lengths, from the multiplication of keys. from the use of accidentals, from varieties of time, and so forth, it needs but to contrast music as it is with music as it was, to See how immense is the increase of heterogene- 1ty. We see this if, looking at music in its ensemble, we enumerate its many different genera and species—if we consider the divi- sions into vocal, instrumental, and mixed ; and their subdivisions into music for differ- ent voices and different instruments—if we observe the many forms of sacred music, from the simple hymn, the chant, the canon, motet, anthem, etc., up to the oratorio ; and the still more numerous forms of secular music, from the ballad up to the serenata, from the instrumental solo up to the sym. phony. Again, the same truth is seen on compar- ing ally one sample of aboliginal music with a sample of modern music—even an ordinary song for the piano ; which we find to be relatively highly heterogeneous, not only in respect of the varicties in the pitch and in the length of the notes, the number of differ- ent notes sounding at the same instant in company with the voice, and the variations of strength with which they are sounded and sung, but in respcct of the changes of key, the changes of time, the changes of timbre of the voice, and the many other modifications of expression. While between the old ruo- notonous dance-chant and a grand opera of our own day, with its cndless orchestral complexities and vocal combinations. the contrast-in heterogeneity is so extreme that jt scems scarcely credible that the one should lmave becn the ancestor of the other. Wei e they necded, many ful ther illustra- tions might be cited. Going back to the early tinue when the deeds of the god-king, chanted and mimetically represcritcd in dances; 1 ound his altar, were further nariated in picture-writings on the walls of temples and palaces, and so constituted a rude litera- ture, we might trace the development of lit- erature through phases in which, as in the Hebrew Scriptures, it presents in one work theology, cosmogony, history, biography, civil law, ethics, poetry ; through other phases in which as in the Iliad, the religious, martial, historical, the epic, dramatic, and łyric elcments are similarly commiugled ; PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 343 down to its present heterogeneous develop- ment, in which its divisions and subdivisions are so numerous and varied as to defy com- plete classification. Or we Inight trace out the evolution of science ; Leginning with the crit in which it was not yet diſforcinţiated from art, and was, in union with a t. the handmaid of religion ; I assing ill, ough the era in which the sciences wel e so few and Iudimentary as to be simultaneously culti- vated by the same pliilosophers; and ending with the era in which the gencia and species are so numerous that few can ( numerate them, and no one can adequately grasp evon out; genus. Or we might do the like with architecture, with the drama, with di ess. But doubtless the 1cader is a!; cady weary of illustrations ; and our promise has becil amply fulfilled. We believe we have shown beyond question, that that which t lic German physiologists have found to be the law of organic development is the law of all devel- opment. The advance from the simple to the complex, through a process of sºccessive differentiations, is secrl alike in the earliest changes of the universe to which we can reason our way back ; and in the earliest charges which we can inductively establish ; it is seen in the geologic and climatic evolu- tion of the earth, and of every single organ. ism on its surface ; it is seen in the evolution of humanity, whether contemplated in the civilized individual or in the aggregation of races ; it is seen in the evolution of society in respect alike of its political, its religious, and its economical organization ; and it is seen in the evolution of all those endless con- crete and abstract products of human activ- ity which constitute the environment of our daily life. Froin the remotest past which science can fathom, up to the novelties of yesterday, that in which progress essentially consists, is the t, ansfol mation of the lit.::1,- geneous into the lactervgencous. And now. from this uniformity of proced- ule, Inay we not infer some fundamcntal necessity whence it results? May we not 1ationally seek for some all-pervading prin- ciple which determines this all-pel wading process of things? Does not the universality of the law imply a universal cause # That we can fathom such cause, noume- nally considered, is not to be supposed. To do this would be to solve that ultimate mys- tery which must ever transcend human intel ligence. Iłut it still may be possible for us to educe the law of all progress, above estab- lished, from the condition of an empirical generalization, to the condition of a rational generalization. Just as it was possible to interpret Kepler's laws as necessary conse- quences of the law of gravitation ; so it may he possible to interpjet this law of progi ess, in its multiform manifestations, as the neces- sary consequence of some similarly universal principle. As gravitation was assignable as the cause of each of the groups of Iºhenomena which Kepler formulated ; so may some equally simple attribute of things be assign- able as the cause of each of the groups of phenomena formulated in the foregoing pages. We may be able to affiliate all these 'anied and complex evolutions of the homo- geneous into the licterogeneous, upon certain simple facts of immediate experience, which, in viitue of endless repetition, we regard as necessary. - - The probability of a common cause, and the possibility of formulating it, being gianted, it will be well, before going farther, to consider what must be the general char- acteristics of such cause, and in what direc- tion we ought to look for it. We can with certainty predict that it has a high degree of genciality ; seeing that it is common to such influitely varied phenomena: just in propor- tion to the universality of its application must be the abstractness of its character. We need not expect to see in it an obvious solution of this or that form of progress ; because it equally 1 eſcis to forms of progress lcaling little apparent resemblance to them : its association with multiform orders of facts involves its dissociation from any particular c ider of facts. Being that which determines progress (, f ºvery kind — astronomic, geo- lºgic, Crganic, eti.nologic, social, econcrimic, at tistic, cte.—it Inust be concerned with some fundamental attribute possessed in common by these ; and must be expressible in telms of this fundamental attribute. The only obvious respect in which all kinds of progress are alike, is, that they are modes of ckſtrºge ; and hence, in some characteristic of changes in general, the desired solution will probably be found. We may suspect d £7'ior that in some law of change lies the ex- plant.tion of this universal transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous. Thus much premiscq, we pass at once to the statemcnt of the law, which is this : Every actice force produce Smore than one change— every cause produces more than one effect. Before this law can be duly comprehended, a few examples must be looked at. When one body is struck against another, that which we usually legard as the effect is a clange of position or motion in one or both, bodies. But a moment’s thought shows us that this is a caleless and very incomplete view of the matter. Besides the visible mechanical result, sound is produced ; or, to speak accurately, a vibration in one or both bodies, and in the surrounding air ; and under some circumstances we call this the effect. Moreover, the air has not only been made to vibrate, but has had sundry currents caused in it by the transit of the bodies. Further, there is a disarrangement of the par- ticies of the two bodies in the neighborhood of their point of . collision, amounting it some cases to a visible condensation. Yet more, this condensation is accompanied by the disengagement of heat. In some cases a spark—that is, light—results, from the in- candescence of a portion struck off ; and sometimes this incandescence is associated with chemical combination. Thus, by the original mechanical force ex- 244 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. pended in the collision, at least five, and often more, different kinds of changes have been produced. Take, again, the lighting of a candle. Primarily this is a chemical change consequent on a rise of temperature. The process of corribination having once ineen set going by extraneous heat, the e is a con- tinued formation of carbonic acid, water, cic. —in itself a result more complex than the ex- traneous heat that first caused it. But ac- companying this process of combination there is a production of heat ; the e is a pro- duction of light; there is an ascending cºl- umn of hot gases generated ; there are cur- rents established in the surrounding air. Mureover, the decomposition of one force into many forces does not end here : each of the several changes produced becomes the parent of further changes. The carbonic acid given off will by and by combine wiſh SG1:10 base ; or under the influence of sunshine give up its carbon to the leaf of a plant. The water will modify the hygrometric state of the air around ; or, if the current of liſt gaSCs curl- taining it come against a cold body, will be condensed : altering the temperature, and perhaps the chemical state, of the surface it covers. The heat given out melts the sub- jacent tallow, and expands whatever it waſ ms. The light, falling on various sub- stances, calls forth from them reactions by which it is modified ; and so divers colors are produced. Similarly even with these sec jndary actions, which may be traced out into ever-multiplying ramifications, until they become too minute to be appreciated. And thus it is with all changes whatever. No case can be named in which an active force does not evolve forces of several kinds, and each of these, other groups of forces. Uni- versally the eſfect is more complex than the CºllSè. Doubtless the reader already foresees the course of our argument. This multiplication ëf Iesults, which is displayet! in every event of to-day, has been going on from the begin- ning ; and is true of the grandest plenomena of the universe as of the most insignificant. From the law that every active foice pro- duces more than one change, it is an inevi- tible corollary that through all time there has been an ever-growing complication of things. : Starting with the ultimate fact that every cause, produces more than one effect, we may readily see that throughout creation there must have gone on, and iflust' still go on, a never-ceasing transformation of tild homogeneous into the heterogenenus. But let us trace out this truth in detail. * # A correlative truth which ought also to be taken into account (that the state of homogeneity is one of unstable equilibrium), but which it would greatly en- cumber the argument to exemplify in connection with the above, will be found developed in the essay on “Transcendental Physiolºgy.” - - + The idea that the Nehillar Hypothesis has been disproved because what were thought to be existing negulae have been resolved into clusters of stars, is almost beneath notice. A priori it was highly im- probabie, if not impossible. I hat nebulous masses shoul. I still remain uncondie:\sed, while others have be in condensed millions of years ugo. Without committing ourselves to , it as more than a speculation, though a highly probable one, let us again commence With the evolution of the solar system out of a nebu- lous Inedium. # Froin the mutual attraction of the atoms of a diffused mass whose form is unsymmettical, thcle results not only Con- densation but rotation : gravitation simul- taneously generates both the centripetal and the centifugal forces. While the condensa- tion and the rate of rotation are progressively increasing, the approach of the atoms neces- sarily generates a progressively increasing. temperature. As this teimperature lises, light begins to be evolved ; and ultimately there lesults a 1 evolving sphere of fluid matter radiating intense heat and light—a Sun. There are good reasons for believing that, in consequence of the high tangential veloc- ity, and consequent centrifugal force, ac- quired by the outer parts of the condensing nebulous mass, there must be a periodical detachment of Iotating rings ; and that, frºm the breaking up of these nebulous rings, there must alise masses which in the course of thcir condensation repeat the actions of the parent mass, and so produce planets and their satellites—an inference strongly sup- ported by the still. cztant rings of Saturn. Should it hereafter be satisfactorily shown that planets and satelliſes were thus gener- ated, a striking illustration will be afforded of the highly heterogeneous effects produced loy the primary homogeneous cause ; but it will serve our present purpose to point to the fact that from the mutual attraction of the particles of an irregular nebulous mass there 1csult condensation, rotation, heat, and light. It follows as a corollary from the nebular hypothesis, that the earth must at first have becn incandescent ; and whether the nebular hypothesis be true or not, this original in- Candescence of the carth is now inductively established—or, if not established, at least rendered so highly probable that it is a gen- erally admitted geological doctrine. Let us look first at the astronomical attributes of this cnce molten globe. From its rotation there result the oblateness of its form, the alternations of day and night, and (under the influence of the moon) the tides, aqueous and atmosphelic. From the inclination of its axis there result the precession of the equi- noxcs and the many differences of the seasons, both simultaneous and successive, that per- vade its surface. Thus the nultiplication of effects is obvious. Several of the diſferenti- ations due to the gradual cooling of the earth have been all cady noticed—as the formation of a crust, the solidification of sublimed ele- ments, the precipitation of water, etc.—and we here again refer to them merely to point out that they arc simultaneous effects of the one cause, diminishing heat. Let us now, however, observe the multi- plied changes afterwald arising from the cºntinuance of this one cause. The cooling of the earth involves its contraction. Hence the solid crust first formed is presently too large for the shrinking nucleus; and as it PROGRESS: IT3 LAW AND CAUSE. 245 cannot support itself, inevitably follows the nucleus. But a spheroidal envelope cannot sink clown into contact with a smaller inter- mal spheroid witlout disruption ; it must run into wrinkles as the rind of an apple does when the bulk of its interior decreases from evaporation. As the cooling progresses it:ld the envelope thickens, the ridges conse- quent Gn thcse contractions must become greater, rising ultimately into hills and mountains ; an:l the later systems of moun- tains thus produced must not only be higher, as we find them to be, but . they must be longer, as we also finil them to be. Thus, leaving out of view other modifying forces, we see what immense heterogencity of sur- face has an isen from the one cause, loss of heat—a hetei ogeneity which the telescope shows us to be parallel ch the face of the moon, wheie aqueous and atmospheric agen- Cies have been absent. - - But we have yet to notice another kind of heterogeneity of surface similally and simul- taneously caused. While the eartlı's crust was still thin, the ridges produced by its contraction must Lot only have been small, but the spaces between these lidges must have rested with great evenness upon the sub- jacent liquid spheroid ; and the water in those arctic and antarctic regiºns in which it first cºndensed must have been evenly distrib- uted. But as fast as the citlst grew thicker and gained corresponding strength, the lines of fracture from time to time caused in it must have occurred at gleater distances apart ; the intºrint diate sui, faces must llave followed the contracting uucleus with less uniformity ; and there must have resulted larger areas of land and water. If any one after wrapping up an orange in wet tissue paper, and obscrving not only how small are the wrinkles but how evenly the intervening spaces lie upon the sulface of the orange, . will then wrap it up in thick cartridge-paper, and note both the greater height of the lidges and the much larger spaces throughout which the paper does not touch the orange, he will realize the fact, that as the earth's solid cn- velope grew thicker, the areas ºf elevation and depression must have become greater. In place of islands more or less homogenc- ously scattered over an all-embracing sea, there must have gradually arisen heterogene- ous arrangements of continent and ocean, such as we now know. Once more, this double change in the ex- tent and in the elevation of the lands, in- wolved yet another species of heterogeneity, that of coast-lite. A tolerably even surface raiscq out of the ocean must have a simple, regular sea-margin ; but a surface varied by table-lands and intersected by mountain- chains must, when raised cut of the ocean, have an outline extremely irregular both in its leading features and in its details. Thus endless is the accumulation of geological and geographical results slowly brought about by this one cause—the contraction Cf the earth. - - -- - - - When we pass from the agency which ge- ologists term igneous, to aqueous and at- Inospheric agencies, we see the like ever- growing complications of effects. The de- nuding actions of air and water have, from the beginning, been modifying every exposed surface; everywhere causing many different changes. Oxidation, heat, wind, frost, rain, glaciers, rivers, tides, waves, have been un- ceasingly producing disintegration ; varying in kind and amount according to local cir- cumstances. Acting upon a tract of granite, they here work scarctly an appreciable cfcct ; there cause exfoliations of the surface and a resulting heap of débris and boulders; and elsewhere, after decomposing the feld- spar into a white clay, carry away this and the accompanying quartz alid mica, and de- posit them in separate lot d's, fluviatile and marine. When the exposed land consists of several unlike formations, Scqimentary and, igneous, the denudation produces changes proportionably more heterogeneous. The formations being disintegrable in different degrees, there follows an increased irregular- ity of surface. Theare as drained by different rivers being differently constituted, thcse 1ivers carry down to the sca different combi- 1:ations of ingredients ; and so sundry ncw strata of distinct composition are formed. And here indeed we may sce very simply illustrated, the truth, which we shall presently have to trace out in more involved casts, that in proportion to the heterogeneity of the oil- ject or objects on which any force expends itself, is the heterogeneity of the results. A continent of complex structure, exposing In any strata irregularly distributcd, raised to various levels, tilted up at all angles, must, under the same denuding agencies, give ori- gin to immensely multiplieſl results; cach district must be differently modified ; each river must carry down a different kind of tributed by the eutangled currents, tidal and other, which wash the contorted shores; and this multiplication of results must manifestly be greatest where the complexity of the Sur- face is greatest. - It is out of the question here to trace in de- tail the genesis of those endless complications described by geology and physical geog, raphy : else we might show how the gencial truth, that every active force produces more than one change, is exemplified in the highly involved flow of the tides, in the ocean cur- rents, in the winds, in the distribution of railm, ill line distributium of heat, ºud SU furth. detritus; each deposit must be differently dis- But not to dwell upon these, let us, for the fuller elucidation of this truth in relation to the inorganic world, consider what would be the consequences of some extensive cosmical revolution—say the subsidence of Central America. The immediate results of the disturbance would themselves be sufficiently coinplex. Besides the numberless dislocations of strala, the ejections of igneous matter, the propaga- tion of earthquake vibrations thousands of miles around, the loud explosions, and the escape of gases, there would be the rush of 246 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. the Atlantic aud. Pacific Oceans to supply the vacant space, the subsequent recoil of enormous waves, which would traverse both these oceans and produce myriads of changes along thcir shores, the corresponding atmos- phelic waves complicated by the currents sur- rounding each volcanic vent, and the electrical discharges with which such disturbances are accompanied. But these temporary effects would be insignificant compared with the per- manent ones. The complex currents of the Atlantic and Pacific would be altered in di- rection and amount. The distribution of heat achieved by these ocean currents would be different from what it is. The artange- ment of the isothermal lines, not even on the neighboring continents, but even throughout Europe, would be changed. The tides would flow differently from what they do now. There would be more or less modification of the winds in their periods, strengths, direc- tions, qualities. Rain would fall scarcely anywhere at the same times and in the same quantities as at present. In short, the me- teorological conditions thousands of miles off, on all sides, would be more or less revo- lutionized. Thus, without taking into account the infinitude of modifications which these changes of climate would produce upon the flora and fauna, both of land and Sea, the reader will see in e iimmense heterogeneity of the results wrought out by one force, when that force expends itself upon a previously complicated area ; and he will readily draw the corollary that from the beginning the com- plication has advanced at an increasing rate. Before going on to show how organic prog- ress also depends upon the universal law that every force produces more than one change, we have to notice the manifestation of this law in yet another species of inor- ganic progress—namely, chemical. The same geneial causes that have wrought out the heterogeneity of the earth, physically considered, have simultaneously wrought out its clienuical heterogeneity. Without dwell- ing upon the general fact that the forces which have been increasing the variety anul complexity of geological formations, have, at the Saime time, been bringing into contact elements not previously exposed to each other under conditions favorable to union, and so have been adding to the number of chemical compounds, let us pass to the unore important complications that have resulted from the cooling of the earth. There is every reason to believe that at an extreme heat the elements cannot combine. Eyen under such heat as can be artificially produced, some very strong affinities yield, as for instance, that of oxygen for hydro- gen ; and the great majority of chemical compounds are decomposed at much lower temperatures. . But without insisting upon the highly probable inference, that when the earth was in its first state of incandescence there were no chemical combinations at all, it will suffice our purpose to point to the un questionable fact that the compounds that car exist at the highest temperatures, and which must, therefore, have been the first that were formed as the earth cooled, are those of the simplest constitutions. The protoxides—in. cluding under that head the alkalics, earths, otc.—are, as a class, the most stable cem- pounds we know : most of them resisting de- composition by any heat we can generate. These, consisting severally of one aturn of each component clement, are combinations of the simplest-order—are but one degree less homogeneous than the elements themselves. More heterogeneous than these, less stable, and therefore later in the earth's history, are the deutoxides, tritoxides, peroxides, etc. : in which two, three, four or mote atoms of oxy- gen are united with one atom of metal or other element. Higher than these in lietet ogeneity are the hydrates ; in which an oxide of hy- drogen, united with an oxide of some other Clement, forms a substance whose atoms sev- crally contain at least four u}timate atoms of three different kinds. Yet more hetero. geneous and less stable still are the salts; which present us with compound atoms each made up of five, six, seven, eight, ten, twelve, or mo; e atonis, of three, if not moie kinds. Then there are the hydrated salts, of a yet greater heterogeneity, which undergo partial decomposition at much lower temperatures. After them crime the further complicated supersalts and double Salts, having a stability again decreased ; and so throughout. With- out entering into qualifications for which we lack space, we believe no chemist will deny it to be a general law of these inorganic combinations that, other things equal, the stability decreases as the complexity in- CreaseS. - And then when we pass to the compounds of organic chemistry, we find this general law still further exemplified : we find much greater complexity and much less stability. An atºm of albumen, for instance, consists of 482 ultimate atoms of five different kinds. Fibrine, still more intricate in constitution, Čontains in each atom, 298 atorils of caibon, 40 of nitrogen, 2 of sulphur, 228 of hydro- gen, and 92 of oxygen–in all, 660 atoms; or, IIlore strictly speaking—equivalents. And these two Substances are so unstable as to decompose at quite ordinary temperatures : as that to which the outside of a joint of roast meat is exposed. Thus it is manifest that the present chemical heterogeneity of the earth's surface has arisen by degrees, as the decrease of heat has permitted ; and that it has shown itself in three forms—first, in the multiplication of chemical compounds; sec. ond, in the greater number of different ele- ments contained in the mote modern of these compounds; and third, in the higher and more varied multiples in which these more numerous elements combiue. To Say that this advance in chemical hete- rogeneity is due to the one cause, diminution of the earth’s temperature, would be to say too much ; for it is clear that aqueous and at- mospheric agencies have been concerned; and, ful ther, that the affinities cf the ele- PROGRESS. Its LAw AND CAUSE. 247 ments themselves are implied. The cause has all aloug been a composite one : the cooling of the earth having been simply the most general of the concurrent causes, or assem- blage of conditions. And here, indeed, it may be remarked that it, the several classes of facts already dealt with (excepting, per- haps, the first) and still more in those with which we shall presently deal, the causes are more or less compound ; as indeed are nearly all causes with which we are aſ:- quainted. Scarcely any change can with logical accuracy be wholly ascribed to one agency, to the Ineglect of the permanent or temporary conditions under which only this agency produces the change. But as it does not materially affect our argument, we pre- fer for simplicity’s sake, to use throughout the popular mode of expression. Perhaps it will be further objected, that to assign loss of heat as the cause of any changes, is to attribute these changes not to a force, but to the uhsence of a force. And this is true. Strictly speaking, the changes should be attributed to those forces which come into action when the antagonist force is withdrawn. But though there is an inac- curacy in saying that the freezing of water is due to the loss of its heat, no practical error arises from it ; nor will a pa, allel taxity of expression vitiate our statements lespec t- ing the multiplication of cffects. Indeed, the objection serves but to draw attentinn to the fact, that not only does the exertion of a force produce more than one change, but the Withdrawal of a force produces more than One change. And this suggests that perhaps the most correct statement of our general principle would be its most abstract state- ment—-every change is followcol by more than one other change. - Returning to the thread of our czposition, we have next to trace out, in organic progress, this same all-pervading principle. And here, where the evolution of the homo- geneous into the heterogeneous was first ob- served, the production of many changes by one cause is least Casy to demonstratc. The development of a see d into a plant, or an ovum into an animal, is so gº adual, while the foices which deter mine it are so involved, and at the same time si unobtrusive, that it is difficult to detect the Inultiplication of effects which is elsewhere so Gbvious. Never- theless, guided by intfitect evidence, we may pretty safely reach the conclusion that here too the law inclus. Observe, first, low numerous are the cffects which any marked change works upon an adult organism—a human being, for in- stance. An alat ming suund or sight, besides. the impressiºns 'ou the oigans of sense and . the nerves, may produce a stal 1, a scicam, a distortion of the face, a trembling conse- quent upon a gº liet al muscular relaxation, a burst of leispii aliou, an excited action of the healt, a lush of blood to the brain, fol- lowed possibly by arrest of the heart's action and by syncope ; and if the system be feeble, an indisposition. With its long train of com- plicated symptoms may set in. of queen-bees are fed. Similarly in cases of disease. A minute portion of the small-pox virus introduced into the system will, in a severe case, cause, during the first stage, rigors, heat of skill, accelerated pulse, ful red tougue, loss of appetite, thirst, epi. gastric uneasiness, vomiting, headache, pains in the back and limbs, muscular weakness, convulsions, delirium, etc. ; in the second stage, cutaneous et uption, itching, tingliug, sore, throat, swelled fauces, salivation, cotigh, hoarseness, dyspnoea, etc., and in the third stage, oedematous inflammations, pneumonia, pleurisy, diarrhoea, inflammation of the brain, ophthalmia, erysipelas, etc.; each of which enumerated symptoms is itself more or less complex. Medicilies, special foods, better air, might in like manner be instanced as producing multiplied lesults. - : Now it necds only to consider that the many changcs thus wrought by one force upon an adult organism, will be in pait par- alleled in an cmbryo organism, to uriderstand how here also, the evolution of the homo- geneous into the heterogeneous may be due to the production of many cffects by one cause. The external heat arid other agencies which determine the first complications of the germ, may, by acting upcn these, super- induce further complications; upon these still higher and more numerous ones; and sº on continually : each organ as it is developed serving, by its actions and reactions upon the rest, to initiate new complexities. Tha first pulsations of the foetal heart must simul, taneously aid the unfolding of every part, The growth of each tissue, by taking from the blood special proportions of cluments, must modify the constitution of the blood : and so must modify the nutrition of all the other tis: ues. The heart’s action, implying as it does a certain waste, necessitates an addi, tion to the blood of effete matteis, which must influence the rest of the system, and perhaps, as some think, cause the formation of excretory organs. The nervous connec- tions established among the viscera must further multiply their mutual influcoccs: and so continually. - • Still stronger becomes the probability of this view when we call to mind the fact, that the same germ may be evolved into different forms according to circumstances. Thus, during its earlier stages, every embryo is sexless—becomes either inale or female as the balance of forces acting upon it deter- mines. Again, it is a well-established fact . that the larva of a working-bee will develop into a queen-bee, if, before it is too late, its food be changed to that on which the larvae Even more remark- able is the case of certain entozoa. The ovum of a tape-worm, getting into its natural habitat, the intestine, unfolds into the well- known form of its parent; but if carried, as it frequently is, into other parts of the sys- tem, it becomes a sac-like creature, called by . naturalists the Hehinococcus—a creature so ex- tremely different from the tape-worm in as- pect and structure that only after careful 248. PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. investigations has it been proved to have the same origin. All which instances imply that each advance in embryonic coinplication re- Sults from the acti ºn of incident forces upon tue complication previously existing. Indeed, we may finil di prior; reason to think that the evolution proceeds after this mnant, ar. For since it is now known that in ) get in, anim Il or vegetable, c intains the slightest rulumºnt, trace, or indication of the ful are organism—now that the micro-cºp 3 has shown us tilat the first process set up in every fertilize l germ is a process of re- pealed spontanenus fissions, ending in the production of a mass of cells, not one of which exhibits any special character : there seems no alternative but to suppose that the partial organization at any moment subsist- ing in a growing embryo, is transformed by the agencies acting upºn it into the succeed- ing pnase of organization, and this into the next, until, through ever increasing com- plexities, the ultimate form is reached. Thus, though the subuilty of the forces an I the slowness of the results prevent us from directly showing that the stages of increas- ing heterogeneity through which every em. bryo passes, severally arise from the produc- tion of Imany changes by one force, yet, ºn- directly, we have strong evideuce that they do so. - - We have marked how multitudinous are the effects which one cause may generate in an adtilt organism ; that a like multiplication of effects must happen in the unfolding organ- ism); we have observed in Sundry illustrative cases ; further, it has been pointed out that the ability which like germs have to origi- nate unlike forms, implies that the successi VC transformati jns result from the new changes superinduce I on previous changes ; and we have seen that structureless as every germl originally is, the development of an organ- 'ism out of it is otherwise incomprehensible. Not indeed, that we can thus really explain the production of any plant or animal. We are still in the dark respecting these myste- rious propel ties in virtue of which the germ, when subject to fit influences, undergoes the special changes that begin the series of trans- formations. All we aim to show is that, given a germ possessing these mysterious properties, the evolution of an orgańistm from it probably depends upon that multi- plication of effects which we have seen to be the cause of progress in general, so far as We have yet traced it. - When, leaving the development of single plants and animals, we pass to that of the earth's flora and fauna, the course of our argument again becomes clear and simple. Though, as was admitted in the first part of this article, the fragmentary facts palaeon- tology has accumulated, do not clearly War- rant us in saying that, in the lapse of geo- logic time, there have been evolved Inore heterogeneous organisms, and more hetero-. geneous assemblages of organisms, yet We shall now see that there must ever have been a tendency toward these results. We shall find that the production of many effects by , one cause, which, as already shown, has been all along increasing the physical hetero- geneity of the earth, has further involved an increasing heterogeneity in its flota and fauna, individually and collectively. An 11- lust lation will make this clear. Suppose that by a series of uphévals, ("C- curring, as they are now known to do, at long intervals, the East Indian A1 chipelago were ‘to be, step bys step, 3 aised into a cºntinent, and a chain of mountains formed along the axis of elevation. By the first of these up- heavals, the placts and animals in liabiling Borneo, Sumatra, New Guinca, and the lesi, would be subjected to slightly modified sets of conditions. The climate in general would be altered in temperature, in humidity, and in its periodical variations; while the local differences would be multiplied. These modifications would affect, pet haps inappre- ciably, the entire flora and fauna of the re- gion. The change of le: cl would produce additional modifications: varying in diffir- ent species, and also in differeut members of the same species, according to their distance from the axis of elevation. Plante, growing only on the sea-shore in special localities, might become extinct. Others, living only in swamps of a certain humidity, wºuld, if the ſ survived at all, probably undergo visi. ble changes of appearance. While stiiſ great. er alterations would occur in the plants grad- ually spreading over the lands newly laised above the sea. The animals and inst Çts liv- ing on these modified plants; would them- selves be in some degree modified by change of food, as well as by change of climate ; and the modification would be more marked where, from the dwindling or disappearance of one kind of plant, an allied kind was eaten. In the lapse of the Iliany geneiations arising before the next upheaval, the sensible or insensible alterations thus produced in each species would become organized—there would be a more or less complete adaptation to the new cunditions. The next upheaval would superinduce further organic changes, implying wider divergences from the primary forms, and so repeatedly. - But nºw let it be observed that the revolu- tion thus lesuiting would not be a substitu- tion of a thousand more or less modified species for the thousand original species : but in place of the thousand original species there would arise several thcusand species, or varieties, or changed forms. Each species being distributed over an area of some extent, and tending continually to colonize the new area exposed, its different members would be subject to different sets of changes, Plants and animals spreading toward the equator would not be affected in the same way with others spreading from it. Those spreading toward the new shores would undergo changes unlike the changes undergone by those spreading into the mountains. Thus, each original race of organisms would become the root from which diverged several races differing more or less from it and frcm each PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 249 - other ; and while some of these might subse- *1ſlentiy disappear, probably mol c than one would survive in the next geologic period : the very dispersion itself increasing tho chances of survival. Not only would there le certain modifications thus caused by change of physical conditions and food, but also in Some cases other modifications caused by change ºf habit. The fauna of each island, peopling, step by step, the newly- raised tracts, would eventually colue in cun- tact With the faunas of other islands ; and Some members of these other faunas would be unlike any creatures before seen. Her- bivores meeting with new beasts of prey, would, in some cases, be led into modes of defence or escape differing from those pre- viously used ; and simultaneously the beasts of prey would modify their modes of pursuit and attack. We know that when circum- stances demand it, such changes of habit da take place in animals; and we know tilat if the new habits become the dominant ones, they must eventually in some degree alter the Organization. Observe, now, however, a further conse- quence. There must arise not simply a tend- ency towald the diffel entiation of each race of organisms into several 1 accs; but also a tendency to the occasional plc duction of a somewhat higher o1.gal;ism. Takon in the mass these divergent varieties which have been caused by fresh physical conditions and habits of life will exhibit changes quite in- definite in kind and degree ; , and . ( hanges that do not neccssarily constitute an advance. l” obably in most cases 1 lie modified type wiłł be neither mºre nor less heteſ (geneous than the (niginal Unc. In some cases the habits of liſe adopted being simpler than bcſ, le, a ress heterogenetus structure will result : there will be a retrogradation. But it mºust now and then occur, that some divisit n of a species, falling into circumstances which give it ratlier more complex (xpt liences, and demand actions scrimewhat mole inv ſ 11 ed, will have certain of its organs ful ther diffel- entiated in proportionately small degre Cs— will become slightly more heterogeneous. Thus, in the natural coulse of things, there will from time to time arise an increased heterogencity both of the ealth's floia and ſauna, and of individual Iaces included in them. Omitting detailed explanations, and allowing for the qualifications which cannot here he specified, we think it is clear that geological mutations have all along tendcq to eomplicate 1 he folns of life, whº ther re- garded scºpal ately or collectively. The same causes which have led to the evolution of the earth’s clust from the simple into the Com- piex, have simultaneously led to a palallel evolution of the life upon its sulface. In this case, as in previous Unes, we Sé e that the it ansformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous is consequent upon the uni- versal principle, that every active force pro- duces more than one change. The deduction here diawn from the estab- lished truths of geology and the general laws of life, gains immensely in weight on finding it to be in harmºny with an induction drawn from direct experience. Just that diver- gcnce of many laces 11 om one race, which we inferred must have been continually oc- curling during geologic time, we know to Ilave ºccurred during the prehistolic and historic periods, in man and domestic ani- mals. And just that multiplication of effects which we concluded must have produced the first, we see has produced the last. Single causcs, as familie, pressure of population, war, have periodically led to further disper- sions of mankind and of dependent ci Cat- ures : cach such dispelsion initiating new modifications, new varieties of type. Whether all the human I aces be or be not derived from one stock, philology makes it clear that whole groups of races now easily distinguish- able from each other were originally one lace —that the diffusion of one race into differ- ent climates and conditions of existence has produced many modified forms of it. Similarly with domestic animals. Though in some cases—as that of dogs—community ( f origin will perhaps be disputed, yet in other cases—as that of the sheep or the cattle of our own country—it will nut be ques- tioned that local differences of climate, focq, and tic atment, have transformed one original breed into numerous breeds now become Six far distinct as to produce unstable hybrids. A[oreover, through the complications of cffects flowing from single causes, we here find, what we before inferred, not only an increase of general heterogeneity, but also of, special heterogeneity. While Gf the divergent divisions and subdivisions of the human race, many have undergone changes not constitu- ting an advance ; while in some the type may have degraded ; in others it has become de- cidedly more heterogeneous. The civilized Eui () pean departs mule widely from the Ver- tel) ate archetype 1han does the Savage. T.lus, buth the law and the cause of prog- ress, which, from lack of evidence, can be but hypothetically substantiated in respect of the earlier forms of life on our globe, can be actually substantiated in respect of the latest forms. If the advance of man toward greater heterogeneity is traceable to the production of many effects by one cause, still more clearly inay the advance of society toward greater heterogeneity be so explained. Con- sider the growth of an industrial organiza- tion. When, as must occasionally happen, some individual of a tribe displays untisu- al aptitude for making an artiele of gen- eral use—a weapon, for instance—which was before made by each mail for liimself, there arises a tendency toward the differentiation of that individual inli, a ſnaker of such Weapon. His companions—warriors and hunters all of them—severally fecl the importance of having the best weapons that can be made ; and are therefore certain to offer strong inducements to this skilled individual to make weapons for them. He, on the other hand, having Ilot only an unusual faculty, but an unusual 250 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. liking, for making such weapons (the talent and the desire for any occupation being com- monly associated), is predisposed to fulfil these commissions on the offer of an adequat: reward ; especially as his love of distinction is also gratified. This first specialization of function, ouce commenced, ten is ever to be- come more decide: i. On the side of the wea- pon-in lºver continued practice gives increased skiii—increased superiority to his products : on the sile of his clients, cessation of practice entails decreased skill. Thus the influeñces that deterinin this division of labor grow stronger in both ways; and the incipient heterogeneity is, on the average of cases, likely to become permanent for that genera- tion, if no longer. Observe now, however, that this process not only differentiates the social mass into two parts, the one in nopolizing, or alm st monopolizing, the performance of a certain function, an I the other having lost the habit, and in some measure the power, of perform- ing that function ; but it tends to imitate other differentiations. The aivance we have describe I implies the introduction of barter —the maker of weapons has, on each occa- Sion, to b : pail in such other articles as he agrees to tuk in exchange. But he will not hitºtu vily talk : in exchang : one kind of article, but in any kinds. He does n}t want in uls only, or skins, or fishing gear, but he Wall LS all these ; an 1 on each occasion will bargain for the particular things he most needs. What follows 2 If among the mem- © bers of the tribe there exist any slight differences of skill in the manufacture of these various things, as there are almost sure to do, the weapon-maker will take from each Oile the thing which that one excels in mak- ing : he will exchange for mats with him WildSe mats are superior, and will bargain for the fishing gear of whoever has the best. But he who has bartered away his muts or his fishing gear must make other mats or fishing gear for himself ; and in so doing must, i.1 Some degree, further develop his aptitude. Thus it results that the small specialities of faculty possessed by various members of the tribe will tend to grow more decided. If such transactions are from time to time repeated, these specializations may become appre- Ciable. And whether or not there ensue dis- tinct differentiations of other individuals into makers of particular articles, it is clear that incipient differentiations take place through- out the tribe : the one original cause produces not only the first dual effect, but a number of secondary dual effects, like in kind, but minor in degree. This process, of which traces may be seen among groups of school- boys, cannot well produce any lasting “ffects in an unsettled tribe ; but where ...ere grows up a fixed and multiplying community, these differentiations become permanent, and in- crease with each generation. A larger pop- ulation, involving a greater demand for every commodity, intensifies the functional activity of each specialized person or class; and this 1enders the Specialization more definite where it already exists, and establishes it where it is nascent. By increasing the press- ure on the means of subsistence, a larger population again augments these results; seting that each person is foiced more and In ore to confine liimself to that which he can (lo best, and by which he call gain most. This industrial progress, by aiding future production, opens the way for a ful ther growth of population, which leacts as be- fore : in all which the multiplication of effects is manifest. Presently, under these Same Stimuli, new occupations arise. Com- peting workers, ever aiming to produce in- proved articles, occasionally discover lete, processes or raw materials. In weapons ind cutting tools, the substitution of blºnze for stone entails upon him who first makes it a great increase of demand—so great an in- crease that he presently finds all his time occupied in rºaking the bronze for the articles he sells, and is obliged to depute the fashion. ing of these to others : and, eventually, the making of bronze, thus gradually diffel en- tiated from a pre-existing occupation, be- comes an occupation by itself. i But now mark the 1amified changes which follow this change. Bronze soon replaces stone, not only in the articles it was first used for, but in many others—in a ms, tools, and utensils of various kinds ; and so affects the manufacture of these things. Further, it affects the processes which these utensils. subserve, and the resulting pic.ſlucts—modi- fies buildings, carvings, dress, personal dec- orations. Yet again, it sets going sundry manufactures which were before impossible, fi om lack of a material fit for the requisite tools. Anil all these cluanges react ( n the peo- ple—increase their manipulative skill, their intelligence, their comfort—refine their hab- its and tastes. Thus the evolution of a ho- mogeneous Society into a hetel ( gene Cus cné is clearly consequent on the general principle that many ffects are produced by ºne cause. Our limits will not allow us to follow out this process in its higher complications : tise :night we show how the localization of special industries in special parts ºf a kingdºm, as well as the minute subdivision of labor in the making of each cominodity, are similarly dele, mumed. Or, turning to a somewhat dif- ferent order of illustrations, we might dwell ºn tile lilullitudimous changcs—material, in- tellectilal, moral—caused by printing ; or the furth ºr extensive series of changes wrought fly g, in powder. Iłut leaving the intel mediate phases of social development, let us take a few illustrations from its most 1 ccent and its passing phases. To trace the effects of steam-power, in its manifold applications to mining, navigation, and manufactures of all kinds, would carry us into unmanageable detail. Let us confine ourselves to the latest embodiment of steam-powcr—the locomotive engine. This, as the proximate cause of our rail. way system, has changed the face of the country, the course of trade, and the habits of the people. Consider, first, the compli- PROGRESS: IT'S LAW AND CAUSE. 251 cated sets of changes that precede the making of every railway—the provisional arrange- ments, the meetings, the registration, the trial section, the parliamentary survey, the litho- graphed plans, the books of reference, the local deposits and notices, the application to Parliament, the passing Standing Orders Committee, the first, second, and third read- ings; each of which brief heads indicates a multiplicity of transactions, and the devel- opment of sundry occupations—as those of engineers, surveyors, lithographers, pallia- n:tºatar'ſ agents, share-brokers; and the Cre- audn (, f sundry others—as those of traffic- takers, reference-takers. Consider, next, the yet more marked changes implied in rail- way construction—the cuttings, embankings, tunnellings, diversions of roads; the build- ing of bridges and stations; the laying down of ballast, sleepers, and jails; the making of engines, tenders, carriages and wagons : which processes, acting upon numet Ous trades, increase the importation of timber. the quarrying of stone, the manufacture of iron, the mining of coal, tile burning of bricks : institute a variety of special manu- factures weekly advertised in the Railway Tºmºes ; and, finally, open the way to sundry nºw occupations, as those of drivers, stukers, cloaners, plate-layers, ct c., cle. And then cºnsider the changcs, mole numerous and involved still, which 1ailways in action pro- duce on the community at large. The organ- ization of every business is more or less mod- ified : case of cºmmunication makes it better to do directly what was before done by proxy ; agencies are established wheic plovicusly they would not have paid ; goods are obtained from remote wholesaic houses instead of near retail ones, and commodities are used which distance once rendered inaccessible. Again, the rapidity and small cost of carriage tend to specialize no c ilian ever 1he industries of different districts—to confine each manufac- ture to the parts in which, from local advan- tages, it can be best carried on. Further, the diminished cost of carriage, facilitating distribution, coualizes priſ ºs, and also, on the average, lowers prices : 1 laus blinging divers atticles within the IIleans of those be- fore unable io l uy il, In, and so increasing their comforts and improving their habits. At the same time the practice of travelling is immensely crtended. Classes who never befºre thought of it. take annual trips to the sea ; visit the 1r distant 1 elations; make touis ; and so we are benefited in body, feel- ings, and intellect. Moreover, the more prompt transmission of letters and of news pi oduces further changes—makes the pulse of the nation faster. Yet mole, there arises a wide dissomination of cheap literature 1hrough railway boſkstalls, and of adver- tisements in railway carriages: both of them, aiding ulterior progress. And all the innumerable changes here briefly indicated ale consequent on the inven- tion of the locomotive engine. The social organism has been rendeled mºre hetero- geneous in vii tue of the many new occupa- tions introduced, and the many old Gilts further specialized ; prices in every place have been altered ; each trader has, mole or less, modified his way of doing business.; and almost every person has been affected in his actions, thoughts, emotions. Illustrations to the samc ffect might be indefinitely accumulatod. Thal every infin- ence blought to be ar upon socitly works multiplied effects, and that increase of hete: 1c gentity is due to this multiplication of effects, may be sec n in the history of every trade, every custom, every belief. But it is needless to give additional evidence of this. The only further fact demanding notice is, that we here see still mole clearly than ever, the truth before pointed out, that in propor- tion as the area on which any force expends itself becomes heterogeneous, the results are in a yet higher degi ce multiplied in number and kind. While among the primitive tribes to whom it was first, known, CaOutchouc caused but a few changes, among out selves the changes have been so many and varied that the history of them occupies a volume.* Upon the small homogeneous community inhabiting one of the Hebrides the electric telegraph would produce, , were it used, scarcely any results; but in England the results it produces are multitudinous. The comparatively simple organization under which our ancestors lived five centuries ago, could have undergone but few modifications from an event like the 1ecent one at Canton ; but now the legislative decision respecting it sets up many hundreds of complex modifica- tions, each of which will be the parent of numerous future oues. Space permitting, we couid willingly have pursued the argument in relation to all the subtler results of civilization. As before. we showed that the law of prºgress to which the organic and in organic worials conform, is also conformed to by language, Sculptute, music, etc.; so might we hei e show that the cause which we have 'h,therto found to de- termine progress holds in these cases also. We Inight demonstrate in detail how, in sci- ence, an advance of one division presently advances other divisions—how astronomy has been immensely forwarded by discoveries in optics, while other optical discoveries have initiated microscopic anatomy, and greatly aided the growth of physiology—how chem- istry has indirectly incleased our knowledge of electricity, magnetism, biology, geology— how electricity has reacted on chemistry, and magnetism, developed our views of light and heat, and disclosed sundry laws of nervous action. + - In literature the same truth might be ex- hibited in the manifold effects of the primi- tive mystery-play, not only as originating the modern drama, but as affecting through it other kinds of poetry and fiction ; or in the still multiplying forms of periodical litera- ture that have descended frum the first news- * ** Personal Narrative of the Origin of the Caout- * Shong, or India-Rubber Manufacture in England.” By Thomas Hancock. 252 PROGRESS, ITs LAW AND CAUSE. paper, and which have severally acted and reacted on other forms of literature and on each other. The influence which a new school of painting—as that Uf the pre-Raff tel- ites—exercises upon other schools; the hints which all kinds of pictorial art are deriving from photography : the complex results of new Critical doctrines, as those of Mr. Rus- kin, might Severally be dwelt upon as dis- playing the like multiplication of effects. But it would needlessly tax the reader's pa- tience to pursue, in their many ramifications, these various changes: here become so in- volved and subtle as to be followed with some difficulty. Without further evidence, we venture to think our case is made out. The imperfec- tions of statement which brevity has necessi- tated do not, we b-lieve, militate against the propositions lail down. The qualifications here and thet e demandell would not, if made, affect the inferences. Though in one in- stance, where sufficient evidence is not at- tainable, we have been unable to show that the law of progress applies, yet there is high probability that the same generalization lıolds which holds throughout the rest of creation. Though, in tracing the genesis of progress, we have frequently spoken of com- plex causes as if they were simple ones, it still remains true that such causes are far less complex than their results. Detailed criti- cisills cannot affect our main position. End- less facts go to show that every kind of prog- ress is from the homogeneous to the hetero- geneous, and that it is so because each change is followed by many changes. And it is significant that where the facts are most ac- Cessible and abundant, there are these truths most manifest. - However, to avoid committing ourselves to Inore than is yet proved, we must be content with Saying that such are the law and the cause of all progress that is known to us. Should the nebular hypothesis ever be es- tablished, then it will become manifest that the universe at large, like every organism, Was Once homogeneous ; that as a whole, and in every detail, it has unceasingly advanced toward greater heterogeneity; and that its heterogeneity is still increasing. It will be Seen that as in each event of to-day, so from the beginning, the decomposition of every ex- pended force into several forces has been per- petually producing a higher complication ; that the increase of heterogeneity so brought about is still going on, and must continue to go on ; and that thus progress is not an ac- Gident, not a thing within human control, but a beneficent necessity. - A few words must be added on the onto- logical bearings of our argument. Probably not a few will conclude that here is an at- tempted Sºlution of the great questions with Which philosophy in all ages has perplexed itself. Let nute thus deceive themselves. Only such as know not the scope and the limits of Science can fall into so grave an error. The foregoing generalizations apply, not to the genesis of things in themselves but essential to their genesis as manifested to the human consciousness. After all that has been said, the ultimate mystery remains just as it was. The explanation of that which is explicable does but bring out into greater clearness the inexplicahleness of that which remains be- hind. IIowever we may succeed in I educing the equation to its lowest terms, we are not timereiov enabled to determine the unknown quantity : on the contrary, it only becomes more manifest that the unknown quantity can never be found. - Little as it seems to do so, featless inquiry tends continually to give a firmer basis to all true religion. The timid sectalian, alarmed at the progress of knowledge, obliged to abandon one by one the superstitions of his ancestors, and daily finding his chel is he d be liefs more and more shaken, st cietly fears that all things may some day be ( xplained, and has a corresponding dead of science ; thus evincing the profoundest of all infidelity —the fear lest the trulli be bad. On the other hand, the sincere man of science, content to follow wherever the evidence leads him, he- coines by each new inquiry more profoundly convinced that the universe is an insoluble problem. Alike in the external and the inter nal worlds, he sees himself in the midst of perpetual changes, of which he can discover neither the beginning nor the end. If, tracing back the evolution of things, he al- lows himself to cntertain the hypothesis that all matter once cxisted in a diffused form, he finds it utterly impossible to conceive how this came to be so ; and equally, if she pecu- lates on the future, he can assign no limit to the grand succession of phenomena ever un- folding themselves before him. On the other hand, if he looks inward, he perceives that both terminations of the thread of conscious- ness are beyond his grasp : he caunot remem- ber When or low consciousness Commenced, and he cannot examine the consciousness that at any moment exists ; for only a state of consciousness that is already past can be come the object of thought, and never one which is passing. - When, again, he turns from the succession of phenomena, CXternal or internal, to their nature, he is equally at fault. Though he may succeed in resolving all prop- erties of objects into manifestations of force, he is not thereby enabled to realize what force is ; but finds, on the contrary, that the more he thinks about it the more he is baffled. Similarly, though analysis of mental actions may finally bring him tipwn to sensations as the original materials out of which all thought is woven, he is none the forwarder; for he cannot in the least comprehend sen- sation—cannot even conceive how sensation is possible. Inward and outwald things he thus discovers to be alike inscrutable in their ultimate genesis and nature. He sees. that the materialist and spiritualist controversy is a mere war of words; the disputants being equally absurd—each believing he under- stands that which it is impossible for any man to understand. In all directions his in- PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. - 2 3 3. * vestigations eventually bring him face to face with the unknowable; and he ºver more clearly perceives it to be the unknowable. He learns at once the greatness and the little- ness of human intellect–its power in dealing with all that comes within the range of ex- perience ; its impotence in dealing with alſ that transcends experience. He feels, witi, a vividness which nu others can, the utter in- Comprehensibleness of the simplest fact, con- sidered in itself. He alone truly sees that absolute knowledge is impossible. He alone knows that under all things there lies an im- penetrable mystery. T1. TTIE PHYSIOLOGY OF LAUGHTER. WHY do we smile when a child puts on a man's hat ? or what induces us to laugh on reading that the corpulent Gibbon was un- able to rise from his knees after making a tender declaration ? The usual reply to such questions is, that laughter results fiom a perception of incongruity. Even were there not on this reply the obvious criticism that laughter often occurs from extreme pleasure or from mel c vivacity, there would still re- main the real problem, How comes a sense of the incongruous to be followed by these peculiar bºdily actions º Some have alleged that laughter is due to the pleasure of a rela- tive self-elevation, which we feel on seeing the lunmiliation of others. But this theory, whatever portion of truth it may contain, is, in the first place, open to the fatal objection that there are various humiliations to others which produce in us anything but laughter ; and, in the second place, it does not apply to the many instances in which no one's dig- nity is implicated : as when we laugh at a good pun. Moreover, like the other, it is merely a generalization of cel tain conditions to laughter, and not au CXplanation of 1he odd movements which occur under these conditions. Why, when greatly delighted, or impressed with certain unexpected con- trasts of ideas, should there be a conti action of particular facial muscles, and particular muscles of the Chest and abdomen 7 Such answer to this question as may be possible, can be rendered only by physiology. Every child has made the attempt to hold the ſoot still while it is tickled, and has failed ; and probably there is scarcely any one who has not vainly tried to avoid wink- ing when a hand has been suddenly passed before the eyes. These examples of muscu. lar movements which occur independently of the will, or in spite of it, illustiate whââ physiologists call reflex actiºn ; as likewis: do sneezing and coughing. To this class of cases, in which involuntary motions are ac- companied by sensations, has to be added another class of cases, in which involuntary motions are unaccoupanied by sensations: instance the pulsations of the heart ; the contractions of the stomach during digestion. Further, the great mass of secruingly volun- tary acts in such creatures as insecus, worms, mollusks, are considered by physiologists to be as purely autºmatic as is the dilatation or closure of the iris under variations in quian- tity of light ; and similarly exemplify the law, that an impression on the cºnd of all afferent nerve is conveyed to some ganglionic centre, and is thence usually riflected along an ºfferent nerve to one or more Illuscles which it causes to conti act. In a modified form this principle holds with voluntary acts. Nervous excitation al- ways tends to beget muscular motion ; and when it rises to a certain inter;3;{y, alway: does beget it. . Not only in reflex actions, whether with or without sensation, do we see that special nerves, winen raised to a state of tension, discharge themselves on special muscles with which they are in-, directly connected ; but those external ac- tions through which we read the feelings of others, show us that under any considerable tension the nervous system in general dis- charges itself on the muscular system in geu- eral : either with or without the guidance of the will. The shivering produced by cold implies irregular muscular contrac- tions, which, though at first only pºlitly involuntary, become, when the cold is ex- \rcine, almost wholly involuntary. When you have severely burncol your finger, it is very difficult to preserve a dignified com- posure : contortion of face or movement of limb is pretty sure to follow. If a man re- ceives good news with neither change of feature nor bodily motion, it is inferred that lie is not much pleased, or that he has ex- traordinary self-control—either inference im- plying that joy almost universally produces contraction of the muscles; and so aiters the expression. or attitude, or both. And when we hear of the feats of strength which men have performed when their lives were at stake —when we read lºw, in the chergy of despair, even paralytic patients have legained for a time the use of their limbs—we sce still more clearly the relations between nervous and muscular cycitements. It becomes manifest both that emotions and sensations tend to generate bodily movements, and that the movements are vehement in propultion as the emotions or sensations are intense.” This, however, is not the sole direction in which nervous excitement expends itself. Wiscera as well as muscles may receive the discharge. That the heart and blood-vessels (which, indeed, being all contractile, may in a restricted sense be classed with the muscu- lar system) are quickly affected by pleasures and pains, we have daily proved to us. Every Sensation of any acuteness accelerates the pulse ; and how sensitive the healt is to emotions is testified by the familiar expres- 8ions which use heart and feeling as convel t- ible terms. Similarly with the digestive organs. Without detailing the various ways in which these may be influenced by Cur mental states, it suffices to mention the * For numerous illustrations see essay on “The Origin and Function of Music.” - • - 254 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. marked benefits derived by dyspeptics, as weil as other invalids, from cheerful Society, welcome news, change of scene, to show how pleasurable feeling stimulates the vis- vera in general into greater activity. There is still another direction in which any excited portion of the nervous systein may discharge itself ; and a direction in which it usually does discharge itself when the excitement is not strong. It may pass on the stimulus ty some other portion of the nervous system. This is wilat CCCurs in quiet thinking and feeling. The successive states which constitute consciousness result frºm this. Sensations excite ideas and eino- tions ; these in their turns alouse other ideas and emotions ; and so, continuously. That is to say, the tension existing in particular nel ves, or groups of nerves, when they yield us certain sensations, ideas or emotions, gen- erates an equivalent tension in some other nerves, or groups of nerves, with which there is a connection : the flow...of energy, passing on, the one idea or feeling (lies in producing the tiext. Thus, then, while we are totally unable to comprehend how the excitement of certain nerves should generate feeling—while in the production of consciousness by physical agents acting on physical structure, we come to an absolute mystery never to be solved— it is yet quite possible for us to know by ob- servation what are the successive forms which this absolute mystery may take. We see that there are three channels along which net ves in a state of tension may discharge themselves; or rather, I should say, three classes of channels. They may pass on the excitement to other nerves that have no di- rect connections with the bodily members and may so cause other feelings and ideas; or they may pass on the excitement to one or more motor nerves, and so cause muscu lar contractions; or they may pass on the excitement to nerves which supply the vis- cera, and may so stimulate one or more of these. - For simplicity’s sake, I have described these as alternative routes, one or other of which any current of nerve-force must take ; thetely, as it Inay be thought, implying that such current will be exclusively con- fined to some one of them. But this is by mo means the case. Rarely, if ever, does it hap- pen that a state of nervous tension, present to consciousness as a feeling, expends itself in one direction only. Very generally it may be observed to expend itself in two ; and it is probable that the discharge is never abso- lutely absent from any one of the three. There is, huwever, valiety in the proportions in which the discharge is divided among these different channels under different cir- cumstances. In a man whose fear impels him 13 un, the mental tension generated is only in part transformed into a muscular stimulus : there is a surplus Which causes a rapid cur- rent of ideas. An agreeable state of feeling produced, Say by praise, is not wholly used lip in arousing the Succeeding phase of the feeling, and the new ideas appropriate to it; but a certain portion overflows into the vis- ceral nervous system, increasing the action of the heart, and probably facilitating diges- tion. And here we come upon a class of con- siderations and facts which open the way to a solution of our special problem. - For starting with the unquestionable truth, that at any moment the existing quan- tity of liberated nerve-force, which in an in- scrutable way produces in us the state we call feeling, must expend itself in some di- rection—must generate an equivalent mani- festation of force somewhere—it clearly fol- lows that, if of the several channels it may take, one is wholly or partially closed, more must be taken by the others; or that if two are closed, the discharge along the remaining one must be more intense ; and that, con- versely, should anything determine an un- usual efflux in one direction, there will be a diminished efflux in other directions. Daily experience illustrates these conclu- sions. It is commonly remarked that the sup- pression of external signs of feeling makes feeling more intense. The deepest grief is silent grief. Why? Because the nervous excitement not discharged in muscular action discharges itself in other nervous excitements —arouses more numerous and more remote associations of melancholy ideas, and so in- creases the mass of feelings. People who conceal their anger are habitually found to be more I evengeful than those who explode in loud speech and vehement action. Why? Because, as before, the emotion is reflected back, accumulates, and intensifies. Simi- larly, men who, as proved by their powers of representation, have the keenest apprecia- tion of the comic, are usually able to do and say the most ludicrous things with perfect gravity, On the other hand, all are familiar with the truth that bodily activity deadens emo- tion. Under great irritation we get 1elief by walking about rapidly. Extreme effort in the bootless attempt to achieve a desired end greatly diminishes the intensity of the desire. Those who are forced to exert themseives after misfortunes do not suffer neal ly so much as those who remain quiescent. If any one wishes to check intellectual excite- ment, he cannot choose a more efficient method than running till he is exhausted. Moreover, these cases, in which the "pro- duction of feeling and thought is hindered by determining the nervous energy toward bodily movements liave their counterparts in the cases in which bodily movements are hindered by extra absorption of nervous energy in sudden thoughts and feelings. If, when walking along, there flashes on You an idea that creates great surprise, hºpe, or alarm, you stop ; or if sitting cross legged, swinging your pendent foot, the movement is at once arrested. From the visce: a, too, intense mental action abstracts energy., Joy, disappointment, anxiety, or any moral per- turbation rising to a great height will destroy appetite ; or if food has been taken. Will ar- PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. # rest digestion ; and cven a purely intellectual uctivity, when extreme, will do the like. Facts, then, fully bear out these d prior; inferences, that the nervous excitement at any moment present to consciousness as feeling must expend itself in some way or other ; that of the three classes of channels open to it, it must take one, two, or Imore, according to circumstances; that the closure or obstruction of one must increase the dis- charge through the others; and conversely, that if to answer some demand, the efflux of nervous energy in one direction is unusually greaf, there must be a corresponding de- crease of the efflux in other directions. Set- ting out from these premises, let us now see what interpretation is to be put on the phe- Jomena of laughter. That laughter is a display of muscular ex- citement, and so illustrates the general law that feeling passing a certain pitch habitually vents itself in bodily action, scarcely necds pointing out. It perhaps needs pointing out, however, that strong feeling of almost any kind produces this 1esult. It is not a sense of the judicrous, only, which does it ; nor are the various forms of joyous ennotion the soie additional causes. We have, besides the sardonic laughter and the hysterical laughter, which result from mental distress ; to which must be added certain sensations, as tickling, and, according to Mr. Bain, cold, and some kinds of acute pain. Strong feeling, mental or physical, being, then, the general cause of laughter, we have to note that the Inuscular actions constituting it are distinguished from most others by this, that they are purposeless. In general, bodily Inotions that are prompted by feelings are di- 1ected to special ends ; as when we try to es- cape a danger, or struggle to Secure a grati- fication. But the movements of chest and limbs which we make when laughing have no object. And now remail; that these quasi-convulsive contractions of the muscles having no object, but being results of an un- controlled discharge of encrgy, we may see whence arise their special characters—how it happens that certain classes of muscles. are affectcd first, and then certain other classes. For an overflow of nerve force, undirected by any motive, will manifestly take first, the most habitual routes; and if these do not suffice, will next overflow into the less habitual ones. Well, it is through the organs of speech that feeling passes into movement with the greatest frequency. The jaws, tongue, and lips are used not only to express strong irritation or gratification ; but that very moderate flow of mental energy which accompanies ordinary conversation, finds its chief vent through this channel. Hence it happens that certain muscles round the mouth, small and easy to move, are the first to contract under pleasurable emotion. after those of articulation, are most con- stantly set in action (or extra action, we should say) by feelings of all kinds, are those of res- piration. Uſider pleasurable or painful sen- The class of muscles which, next sations we breathe more rapidly : possibly as a consequence of the increased demand for oxygenated blood. The sensations that accom- pany exertion also bring on hard-breathing ; which here more evidently 1 esponds to the physiological needs. And emotions,too, agree- able and disagreeable, both, at first, excite respiration ; though the last subsequentiy de- press it. That is to say, of the bodily muscles, the respiratory are more constantly implicated than any others in those various acts which our feelings impel us to ; and, hence, when the c occurs an undirected discharge of nervous encrgy into the muscular system, it happens that, if the quantity be considerable, it con- vulses not only certain of the articulatory and vocal muscles, but also those which ex- pel air from the lungs. Should the feeling to be expended be still greater in amount—too great to find vent in these classes of muscles — another class tomes into play. The upper limbs are set in motion. Children frequently clap their hands in glee ; by some adults the hands are rubbed together; and others, untier still greater intensity of delight, slap their knees and sway their bodies backward and for- ward. Last of all, when the other cilannels for the escape of the surplus nerve for ce have heen filled to overflowing, a yet further and less-used group of muscles is spasmºdi. cally affected : the head is thrown back aud the spine bent inward—there is a slight degi Le of what medical men call opisthotout)s. Thus, then, without contending that ille phenomena of laughter in all their details are to be so accounted for, we see that in their ensemble they conform to these general principles: that feeling excites to muscular. action ; that when the inuscular action is un- guided by a purpose, the muscles first affected are those which feeling IIlost habit- ually stimulates; and that as the feeling to be expended increases in quantity, it excites an increasing number of muscles, in a suc- cession determined by the relative frequency with which they respond to the regulated dictates of feeling. There still, however, remains the question with which we set out. The explanation here given applies only to the laughter pro- duced by acute pleasure of pain : it dºes not apply to the laughter that follows certain per- ceptions of incongruity. It is an insufficient explanation that in these cases laughter is t lesult of the pleasure we take in escaping from the restraint of grave feelings. That this is a part cause is true. Doubtless very often, as Mr. Bain says, “it is the coercel form of seriousness and solemnity without the reality that gives us that stiff positi oil from which a contact with triviality er vul- garity relieves us, to our uproarious deligilt.” And in so far as mirth is caused by the gush of agreeable feeling that follows the cessation of Imental strain, it further illus- trates the general principle above set forth. But no explanation is thus afforded of the luit [h which ensues when the short silence between the andante and allegro in one of 256 PROGRESS: ITs LAW AND CAUSE. Beethoven's symphonies, is broken by a loud Sneeze. In this, and hosts of like cases, the Inental tension is not coerced but spontaneous —Luot disagreeable but agreeable ; and the corning impressions to which the attention is directed promise a graſification that few, if any, desire to escape. Hence, when the un- lucky Sneeze occurs, it cannot be that the laughter of the audience is due simply to the release from an irksome attitude of mind : Some other cause must be sought. This cause we shall arrive at by carrying our analysis a step farther. We have but to consider the quantity of feeling that exists under such circumstances, aud then to ask what are the conditions that determine the direction of its discharge, to at once reach a Solution. Take a case. You are sitting in a theatre, absorbed in the progress of an in- teresting drama. Some climax has been reached which has aroused your sympathies —say, a reconciliation between the hero and heroine, after long and painful misunder- stauding. The feelings excited by this scene are not of a kind from which you Seek re- lief ; but are, on the contrary, a grateful re- lief from the painful feelings with which you have witnessed the previous CŞtrangement. Moreover, the sentiments these fictitious per- Souages have for the moment inspired you with, are not such as would lead you to rc- joice in auy indignity offered to them ; but latlıcr, such as would make you resent the indignity. And now, while you are contem- plating the reconciliation with a pleasurable sympathy, there appears from behind the Seenes a tame kid, which, having stared round at the audience, walks up to the lovers and sniffs at them. You cannot help joining in the roar which greets this contretemps. Inexplicable as is this irresistible burst on the hypothesis of a pleasure in escaping from Inental lestraint, or on the hypothesis of a pleasure from relative increase of self impor- lance when witnessing the humiliation of others, it is readily explicable if we consider What, in such a case, must become of the feeling that existed at the moment the incon- gruity arose. A large mass of emotion had been produced ; or, to speak ill physiological language, a large portion of the nervous sys- tein was in a state of tension. Theré was also great expectation with respect to the further evolution of the scene—a quantity of vague, nascent thought and emotion, into which the existing quantity of thought and cmotion was about to pass. Had there becrl no interruption, the body of new ideas and feelings next excited would have sufficed to absorb the whole of the lib- erated nervous energy. Put now, this large amount of nervous energy, instead of being allowed to expend itself in producing an equivalent amount of the new thoughts and emotious which were nascent, is suddenly checked in its ſlow. The channels along which the discharge was about to take place are closed. The new channel opened—that afforded by the appearance and proceedings of the kid—is a small one ; the ideas and feeling suggested are not numerous and massive enough to carry off the nervous energy to be expended. The excess must therefore discharge itself in some other direc- tion ; and in the way already explained, there results an efflux through the motor nerves to various classes of the muscles, pro- ducing the half-convulsive actions we term laughter. ~This explanation is in harmony with the fact, that when, among several persons who witness the same ludicrous occurrence, there are some who do not laugh ; it is because there has arisen in them an emotion not par- ticipated in by the rest, and which is sufficient- ly massive to absorb all the nascent excite- ment. Among the spectators of an awkward tumble, those who preserve their gravity are those in whom there is excited a degree of sympathy with the sufferer, sufficiently great to serve as an outlet for the feeling which the occurrence had turned out of its previous. course. Sometimes anger carries off the arrested current, and so prevents laughter. An instance of this was lately furnished me by a friend who had been witnessing the feats at Franconi’s. A tremendous leap had just been made by an acrobat over a number of horses. The clown, seemingly envious of this success, made ostentatious preparation for doing the like ; and them, taking the pre- liminary run with immense energy, stopped short on 1eaching the first lorse, and pro- tended to wipe some dust from its haunches. In the majority of the spectators merriment was excited ; but in my friend, wound up by the expectation of the coming leap to a state of great nervous tension, the cffect of the balk was to produce indignation. Experi- ence thus proves what the theory implies— namely, that the discharge of arrested feel- ings into the muscular system takes place only in the absence of other adequate chan- nels—does not take place if there arise other feelings equal in amount to those arrested. Evidence still more conclusive is at hand. If we contrast the incongruities which pro- duce laughter with those which do not, we at once see that in the non-ludicrous ones the unexpected state of feeling aroused, though wholly different in kind, is not less in quan- tity or intensity. Among incongruities that may excite anything but a laugh, Mr. Bain instances : “A decrepit man under a heavy burdeu, five loaves and two fishes among a multitude, and all unfitness and gross dis- proportion ; an instrument out of tune, a fly in ointment, Snow in May, Archimedes studying geometry in a siege, and all discor- dant things; a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a breach of bargain, and falsehood in general, the Illultitude taking the law in their own hands, and everything of the nature of dis. order ; a corpse at a feast, parental crucity, filial ingratitude, and whatever is untialut al : the entire catalogue of the vanities given by Solomon are all incongruous, but they cause feelings of pain, anger, sadness, loathing, 1 ather than mirth.” Now, in these cases, where the totally unlike state of conscious- PROGRESS. Its LAW AND CAUSE. T 257 ness suddenly produced is not inferior in mass to the preceding one, the conditions to laughter are not fulfilled. As above shown, laughter natüçally results only when cºn. sciousness is unawales transferred from great things to small—only when there is what we call a descending incongluity. And now observe, finally, the fact, alike inferable d priori and illustrated in expeii ence, that an ascending incongruity not only fails to cause laughter, but works on the muscular system an effect of exactly the 1e- verse kind. When after something very in- significant there arises without anticipation something very great, the enjotion we call wonder results; and this emotion is accom- panied not by an excitement of the muscles, but by a relaxation of them. In childrcn and country people, that falling of the jaw " which occurs on witnessing something that is imposing and unexpected, exemplifies this Cffect. Persons who have been wonder- struck at the production of very striking i e- sults by a seemingly inadequate cause, are frequently described as unconsciously drop- ping the things they held in their hands. Such are just the effects to be anticipated. After an average state of consciousness, absorbing but a small quantity of nervous encrgy, is aroused without the slightest nºtice, a strong emotion of awe, terror, or admiration ; joined with the astonishment due to an apparent want of adequate caus- ation. This new state of consciousness de- nia.ds far more nervous energy than that which it has suddenly replaced ; and this in- cleased absurption of nervous energy in mental changes involves a temporary dimi- nution cf the outflow in other directions: whence the pendent jaw and the relaxing grasp. • * s = One further observation is worth making. Among the several sets , of channels into which surplus feeling Inight be discharged, was named the nervous system of the Viscera. The sudden overflow of an allested mental excitement which, as we have seen, lesults from a descending incongruity, Inust dou; t- less stimulate not only the muscular systein, as we see it does, but also the inleinal organs; the healt and stomach must Cºrue in for a share of the discharge. And thus there seems to be a good physiological basis for the popular notion that mirth-cleating ºxcitcument facilitates digestion. Though in doing so I go beyond the * tyundaries of the immediate topic, I may tily point cut that the method of inquiry } cre fºllowed is one which enables us to tnuel stand various phenomena besides those ºf laughter. To show the importance of pur- suing it, I will indicate the explanation it ºur lishes of another familiar class of facts. All know llow generally a large amount ºf motion disturbs the action of the intellecl. nd inter fores with the power of expression. , speech delivered with great facility to ..ables and chairs is by no means so easily elivered to an audience. Every schoolboy an testify that his trepidation, when stand ling before a master, has often disabled him from repeating a lesson which he had duly learned. In explanation of this we com- . monly say that the attention is distracted— that the prºper train of ideas is broken by the intrusion of ideas that are iri elevant. But the question is, in what manner does unusual emotion produce this effect ; and we are here supplied with a tºlerably obvious answer. The repetitiºn ºf a lesson, or set speech previously thought out, implies the flow of a very moderate amount of nervous excitement through a comparatively narrow channel. The thing to he done is simply to call up in succession certain previously- ai ranged ideas—a process in which no great amount of mental energy is expended. Hence, when there is a large quantity of emotion, which must be discharged in Some direction or other ; and when, as usually happens, tile restricted series of intellectual actions to be gone through does not suffice to carry it off, there result discharges along other channels besides the one prescribed : there are aroused various ideas foreign to the train of thought to be pursued ; and these tend to exclude from consciousness those which should occupy it. And now observe the meaning of those bodily actions spontaneously set up under these circumstances. The schoolboy saying: his kºsson, coinmonly has his fingers actively engaged—pel haps in twisting about a broken pen, or perhaps Squeezing the angle of his jacket ; and if told to keep his hands still he soon again falls into the same or a similar trick. Many anecdotes are current of public speakers having incurable automatic actions of this class : barristers who perpetually wound and unwound pieces of tape ; mem- bers of parliament ever putting on and tak- ing off their spectacles. So long as such movements are unconscious, they facilitate 1 he mental actions. At least this seems a fair inference from the fact that confusion frequently results from putting a stop to them : witness the ease narrated by Sir Walter Scott of his schoolfellow, who became unable to say his lesson after the removal of the waistcoat-button that he habitually fin- gered while in class. But why do they facili- tale the mental actions? Clearly because they draw off a portion of the surplus ner- vous excitement. If, as above explained, the quantity of mental energy generated is greater than can find vent along the narrow channel of thought that is open to it ; and if, in consequence, it is apt to produce con- fusion by rushing into other channels of thought ; then by allowing it all exit through the motor nerves into the muscular system. the pressure is diminished, and irrelevant ideas are less likely to intrude on conscious- lićSS. - - •. This further illustration will, I thiuk, justify the position that something may be achieved iny pursuing in other cases this method of psychological inquiry. A com- plete explanation of the phenomena requites us to trace out all the consequences of any $58 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. given state of consciousness; and we cannot do his without studying the effects, bodily and mental, as varying in quantity at each other' expense. We should probably learn much if we in every case asked, Where is ałł the nervous energy gone? III. TEE ORIGIN AND FUNCTION OF MUSIC. WWIIEN Carlo, standing chained to his kennel, sees his master in the distance, a slight motion of the tail indicates his but faint hope that he is about to be let out. A much more decided wagging of the tail, passing by and by into lateral undulations of the body, follows his master's nearer ap- proach. When hands are laid on his collar, and he knows that he is really to have an outing, his jumping and Wriggling are such that it is by no means easy to loose llis fast- enings. Anti when he finds himself actually free, his joy expends itself in bounds, in pirouettes, and iu scoutings hither add thither at the top of his speed. Puss, too, by erect- ing her tail, and by every time raising her bilck to meet the caressing hand of her mis- tress, similai ly expresses her gratification by certain muscular actions ; as likewise do the parrot by awkward dancing on his perch, and the canary by hopping and fluttering about his cage with unwonted rapidity. Under emotions of an opposite kind, animals equaily display muscular excitement. The enraged lion lashes his sides with his tail, knius his brows, protrudes his claws. The cat sets up her back ; the dog retracts his upper lip ; the horse throws back his ears. And in the struggles of creatures in pain, we see that the like relation holds between ex- citcment of the muscles and excitement of the nerves of sensation. In ourselves, distinguished from lower creatures as we are by feelings alike more powerful and more varied, parallel facts are at once more conspicuous ant! IIlore numerous. We may conveniently look at them in groups. We shall find that pleasurable sensations antl painful sensations, pleasurable Gmotions and painful emotions, all tenti to produce active demonstrations in propolition to their inten- sit v. - In children, and even in adults who are not restrained by regard for appearances, a highly agreeable taste is followed by a smacking of the lips. An infant will laugh and bound in its nurse’s arms at the sight Gf a brilliant color or the hearing of a new sound. People are apt to beat time with head or feet to music which particularly pleases them. In a sensitive person an agree- able perfume will projuce a smile ; and smiles will be seen on the faces of a crowd gazing at some splendid burst of fireworks. Even the pleasant sensatiºn of warmth felt on getting to the fireside out of a winter’s storm, will similarly express itself in the face. * .." Painful sensations, being mostly far more intense than pleasurable Oncs, cause muscu- e lar actions of a much more decided kind. A sudden twinge produces a convulsive start ºf the whole body. A pain less violent, but continuous, is accompanied by a knitting ºf the brows, a setting cf the teeth or biting ºf the lip and a contraction of the features gº n- erally. Under a persistent pain of a seveler kind, other muscular actions are added : the body is swayed to and fro; the hands clinch anything they can lay hold of ; and should the agony rise still higher the sufferer rolls about on the floor almost convulsed. Though more varied, the natural language of the pleasurable emotions comes within the same generalization. A smile, which is the commonest expression of gratified feeling, is a contraction of certain facial muscles; and when the smile broadens into a laugh, we see a more violent and more general muscular excitement produced by an intenser gratifi- cation. Rubbing together of the hands, and that other motion which Dickens somewhere describes as “washing with impalpable soap in invisible water,” have like implications. Children may often be seen to “jump for joy.” Even in adults of excitable temper- ament, an action approaching to it is some. times witnessed. And dancing has all the world through been regarded as natural to an elevated state of mind. Many of the special emotions show themselves in special Inuscular actions. The gratification result- ing from success raises the head and gives firmness to the gait. A hearty grasp of the hand is currently taken as indicative of friendship. Under a gush of affection the lmother clasps her child to her breast, feeling as though she could squeeze it to death. And so in sundry other cases. Even in that brightening of the eye with which good news is received we may trace the same truth ; for this appearance of greater brilliancy is due to an extra contraction of the muscle which raises the eyelid, and so allows more light to fall upon and ine reflected fi Gm the wet sur- face of the eyeball. The bodily indications of painful emotions are equally numerous, and still more vehe- ment. Discontent is shown by raised eye- .brows and wrinkled forehead ; disgust by a cull of the lip ; offence by a pout. The im- patient man beats a tattoo with his fingers on the table, swings his pendent leg with in- creasing rapidity, gives ileedless pokings to the fire, and presently 'paces with lasty strides about the room. In great grief there is wringing of the hands, and even teariug ºf the hair. An angry cluild stamps, or rolls on its back and kicks its lieuls in the air ; and in manhood, anger, first showing itself in frowns, in distended nostrils, in compressed lips, goes on to produce grinding of the tectlı, clinching of the fingers, blows of the fist on the table, and perhaps ends in a violent at- tack on the offending person, or in throwing about and breaking the furnitute. From that pursing of the Inouth indicative of slight displeasure, up to the frantic struggles of the maniac, we shall find that mental irri- tation tends to vent itself in bodily activity. * PROGRESS. Its LAW AND CAUSE. All feelings, then—sensations or emotions, pleasurable or painful—-have this common characteristic, that they are muscular stimuli. Not forgetting the few apparently excep- tional cases in which cmotions exceeding a certain intensity produce prostration, we may set it down as a general law that, alike in man and animals, there is a direct connec- tion betwcen feeling and motion, the last growing more vehement as 1he first grows more intense. Were it allow able here to treat the matter scientifically, we might trace this gencral law down to the principle known among plysiologists as that of ºſtew action.* Without doing this, hºwever, the above nu- merous instances justify the gº neralization, that mental excitement of all kinds ends in excitement of the muscles ; and that the two preserve a more or less constant ratio to Cach other. “But what has all this to do with “The Oligin and Function of Music 2''' asks the reader. Very much, as we shall presently see. All music is originally vocal. All vocal sounds are produced by the agency of cer. tain muscles. These muscles, in common ‘with those of the body at large, are excited to contraction by pleasurable and painful fecl- ings. And therefore it is that feelings dem- onstrate themselves in sounds as well as in movements. Therefore it is that Carlo barks as well as leaps wilen he is let out ; that puss puris as well as el cots her tail : that the canary chirps as well as flutters. There- fore it is that the angry lion roars while he lashes his sides, and the dog growls while he retracts his lip. Therefore it is that the maimed animal not only struggles but howls. And it is from this cause that in human beings bodily suffering expresses itself nºt only in contortions, but in shrieks and groans —that in anger, and fear, and grief the ges: ticulations are accompanica by shouts and screams—that delightful sensations are fol- lowed by exclamations—and that we hear screams of joy and shouts of exultation. . . We have here, then, a principle underlying all vocal phenomena; including those of vocal music, and by consequence those of music in general. The muscles that move lie chest, larynx, and vocal chords, contract- ing hke ºther must ſcs in proportion to the intensity of the feelings; every different ‘contraction of these muscles involving, as it does, a different adjust:uent of the vocal or- gans; every different adjusting nt of the vo: cal organs causing a change in the sound eſhitted ; it follows that variations of voice are the physiological Iesults of variations of feeling ; it follows that each inflection or modulation is the natural outcome of Some passing emotion or sensation ; and it follows that the explanation of all kinds of vocal ex- pression must be sought in this general re- jation between mental and muscular excite- ments. Let us, then, see Whether We cannot * Those who seekinformation on this point may find It in an interesting tract by Mr. Alexander Bain, on “Animal Instinct and Intelligence.” - - - thus account for the chief peculiarities in the utterance of the feelings; grouping these peculiarities under the heads of loud- ness, quality, or tºmbre, pitch, intervals, and rate of variation. -- •. - Between the lungs and the organs of voice there is much the same relation as between the belluws of an organ and its pipes. And as the loudness of the sound given out by an organ-pipe increases with the strength of the blast from the bellows; so, other things equal, the loudness of a vocal sound increases with the strength of the blast from the lungs. I3ut the expulsion of air from the lungs is effected by certain muscles of the chest and abdomen. The force with which these mus- cles contract is proportionate to the intensity of the feeling experienced. Hence, d priori, loud sounds will be the habitual results of strong feelings. That they are so we have daily proof. The pain which, if moderate, can be borne sliently, causes outcries if it becoºmas extreme. While a slight vexation makes a child whimper, a fit of passion calls forth a howl that disturbs the neighborhood. When the voices in an adjacent room become unusually audible, we infer anger, or sur- prise, or joy. Loudness of applause is sig- nificant of great approbation ; and with up- Ioarious mirth we associate the idea of high enjoyment. Commencing with the silence of apathy, we find that the ulterances grow louder as the sensations or emotions, whether . plcasurable or painful, grow stronger. That different qualities of voice accompany different mental states, and that under states of excitement the tones are more sonorous than usual, is another general fact admitting of a parallel explanation. The sounds of com- mon conversation have but little resonance ; those of strong feeling have much more. Under rising ill temper the voice acquires a metallic ring. In accordance with her con- stant mood, the ordinary speech of a virago has a piercing quality quite opposite to that softness indicative of placidity. A ringing laugh marks an especially joyous tempera- ment. Grief unburdening itself uses tones approaching in timbré to those of chanting : and in his most pathetic passages an eloquent speaker Simiially falls into tones more vibra- tory than those common to him. Now any one may readily convince himself that reso- nant vocal sounds can be produced only by a certain muscular effort additional to that or- dinalily needed. If after uttering a word in his speaking voice, the reader, without changing the pitch or the loudness, will sing this word, he will perceive that before he can sing it, he has to alter the adjustment of the vocal organs; to do which a certain force must be used ; and by putting his fingers on that external prominence marking the top of the larynx, he will have further evidence that to produce a sonorous lone the organs must be drawn out of their usual position. Thus, then, the fact that the tones of excited feeling are more vibratory than those of com- mon conversation, is another instance of the connection between mental excitement and 360 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. muscular excitement. The speaking voice, the recitative voice, and the singing voice, Severally exemplify oue general principle. That the pitch of the voice varies according to the action of the vocal muscles, scarcely needs saying. All know that the middle notes, in which they converse, are made with- out any appreciable effort ; and all know that to make either very high or very low notes 1equires a considerable effort. In either as- cending or descending from the pitch of or- dinary speech, we are conscious of an in- creasing muscular strain, which, at both ex- tremes of the register, becomes positively painful. Hence it follows from our general principle, that while indifference or calmness will use the medium tones, the tones used during excitement will be either above or be- low them ; and will rise higher and higher, or fall lower and lower, as the feelings grow stronger. This physiological deduction we also find to be in harmony with familiar facts. The habitual sufferer utters his cºmplaints in a voice raised considerably above the natural key ; and agonizing pain vents itself in either shrieks of groans—in very high or very low notes. Beginning at his talking pitch, the cry of the disãppointed urchin grows more shrill as it grows louder. The “ oh '' of astonishment or delight begins several notes below the middle voice, and descends still lower. Anger expresses itself in high tones, or else in “curses not loud but deep.” Deep tones, too, are always used in uttering strong reproaches. Such an ex- clamation as “Beware ſ” if made dramati- cally—that is, if made with a show of feeling —must be many notes lower than ordinary, Further, we have groans of disapprobation, groans of horror, groans of remorse, And extreme joy and fear are alike accompanied by shrill outcries. Nearly allied to the subject of pitch is that of intervals; and the explanation of them carries our argument a step faither. While Cairn speech is comparatively monotonous, emotion makes use of fifths, octaves, and even wider intervals. Listen to any one nar- rating or repeating something in which he has no interest, and his voice will not wan- der more than two or three notes above Cr below his medium note, and that by small steps; but when he comes to some exciting event he will be heard not only to use the higher and lower notes of his register, but to go from one to the other by larger leaps. Being unable in print to imitate these traits of feeling, we feel some difficulty in fully realizing them to the reader. But we may suggest a few remembrances which will per- haps call to mind a sufficiency of others. If two men living in the same place, and fre- quently seeing one another, meet, say at a public assembly, any phrase with which one inay be heard to accost the other—as “Hallo, are you here ?”—will have an ordinary into- nation. But if one of them, after long ab- sence, has unexpectedly returned, the expres: sign of surprise with which his friend may greet him—“ Hallo l how came you liere?” Mary's it attention. —will be uttered in much more strongly con- trasted tones. The two syllables of the word “halio” will be the one much higher and the other much lower than before ; and the rest of the sentence will similarly ascend and descend by longer steps. Again, if, supposing her to be in an ad- joining room, the mistress of the house calls “ Mary,” the two syllables of the name will be spuken in an ascending interval of a third. If Mary does not reply, the call will be re- pcated probably in a descending fifth ; im- plying the slightest shade of annoyance at Should Mary still make no answer, the increasing annoyance will show itself by the use of a descending oc- tave on the next repetition of the call, And Supp sing the silence to continue, the lady, if nut of a very even temper, will show her irritation at Mary’s seemingly intentional negligence by finally calling her in tones still more widely contrasted—the first syllable being higher and the last lower than be- fure. Now these and analogous facts, which the reader will readily accumulate, clearly con- form to the law laid down. For to make large intervals requires more muscular action than to make Small ones. But not only is the extent of vocal intervals thus explicable as due to the Ielation between nervous and mus- cular excitement, but also in some degree their direction, as ascending or descending. The middle notes being those which demand no appreciable effort of muscular adjust- ment, and the effort becoming greater as We either ascend or descend, it follows that a departure from the middle notes in either direction will mark increasing emotion ; while a return toward the middle notes will mark decreasing emotion. Hence it happens that an enthusiastic person uttering such a sentence as “It was the most splendid sight I ever saw '' will ascend to the first syllable of the word “splendid’’ marking the climax on the feeling produced by the recollection. Hence, again, it happens that, under some extreme vexation produced by another’s stu- pidity, an irascible man, exclaiming, “What a confounded fool the fellow is l’’ will begin Somewhat bullow his imiddle voice, and de- scending to the word “fool,” which he will utter in one of his deepest notes, will then ascend again. And it may be remarked, that the word “fool” will not only be deeper aud louder than the rest, but will also have more emphasis of articulation—another mode in which Inuscular excitement is shown. ' There is some danger, however, in giving instances like this ; seeing that as the mode of rendering will vary according to the in- tensity of the feeling which the reader feigns to himself, the right cadence may not be hit upon. With single words there is less diffi- culty. Thus the ‘’Indeed P’ with which a surprising fact is received, mostly begins on the middle note of the voice, and rises with the second syllable ; or, if disapprobation as well as astonishment is felt, the first syllable Will be below the middle note, and the PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 261 second lower still. Conversely, the word “Alas!” which marks not the rise of a par- oxySIII of grief, but its decline, is uttered in a cadence descending toward the middle note ; or, if the first syllable is in the lower part of the register, the second ascends tow- ard the middle note. In the “Heigh-ho ſ” expressive of mental and muscular prostra- tion, we may see the same truth ; and if the cadence appropriate to it be inverted, the ab- surdity of the effect cleai Iy shows how the meaning of intervals is dependent on the prin- ciple we have been illustrating. - The 1 emaining characteristic of emotional Speech which we have to notice is that of variability of pitch. It is scarcely possible here to convey adequate ideas of this more complex manifestation. We must be content with simply indicating some occasions on which it may be observed. On a meeting of friends, for instance—as when there arrives a party of much-wished-for visitors—the voices of all will be heard to undel go changes of pitch not only greater but much inore numerous than usual. If a speaker at a public meeting is interrupted by some 3Guabble among those he is addressing, his comparatively level tones will be in marked contrast with the rapidly, changing one (, f the disputants. And among children, whose ſcelings a c less under control than those of adults, this peculiarity is still more decided. During a scene of complaint and recrimin - tion between two x, itable little girls, the voices may be heard to run up and down the gamut Several times in each sentence. In such cases we once mºre recognize the same law : for muscular excitement is shown not only in strength of contraction but also in the Iapidity with which different muscular ad- justments succeed tach other. Thus we find all the leading vocal phenom- cna to have a physiological basis. They are so many manifestations of the general law that feeling is a stimulus to muscular action —a law conformed to throughout the whole economy, not of a man only, but of every sensitive creature—a law, therefore, which lies deep in the nature of animal organiza- tion. The expressiveness of these various modifications of voice is therefore innate. Each of us, from babyhood upward, has been spontaneously making them, when under the various sensations and emotions by which they are produced. Having been conscious of each feeling at the same time that we heard ourselves make the consequent sound, we have acquired an established association of ideas between such sound and the feeling which caused it. When the like sound is inade by another, we ascribe the like feeling to him ; and by a further consequence we not only ascribe to him that feeling, but have ta certain degree of it aroused in out selves: for to become conscious of the feeling which another is experiencing, is to have that feel- ing awakened in our own const lousness, which is the same thing as experiencing the feeling. Thus these various modifications of voice become not only u language through which we understand the emotions of others, but also the means of exciting our sympathy with such eiuotions. Have we not here, then, adequate data for a theory of music * These vocal peculiari- ties which indicate excited feeling, are those which especially distinguish 8ong from ordi- mary speech. Every one of the alterations of voice which we have found to be a physio- logical result of pain or pleasure, is carried to 8ts greatest eactreme in vocal music. For in- stance, we saw that, in virtue ºf the general relation between mental and Inu-cular excite- ment, one characteristic of passionate utter- ance is loudness. Well, its comparative loud- ness is one of the distinctive imarks of song as contrasted with the speech of daily life ; and further, the forte passages of an air are those intended to represent the climax of its emo- tion. We next saw that the tonesin which emo- tion expresses itself, are, in conförmity with this same law, of a more sonorous timbré than those of calm conversation. Here, too, song displays a still higher degree of the pecu. liarity ; for the singing tone is the most reso- nant we can make. Again, it was shown that, from a like cause, mental excitement vents itself in the higher and lower notes of the register, using the middle notes but seldom. And it scarcely needs saying that vocal music is still more distinguished by its com- parative neglect of the notes in which we talk, and its habitual use of those above of below them ; and, Inoreover, that its most pas- sionate effects are commonly produced at the two extremities of its scale, but especially the upper one. A yet further trait of strong feeling, simi- larly accounted for, was the employment of Jarger intervals than arc employed in com- mon couverse. This trait, also, every ballad and aria carries to an extent beyond that heard in the spontaneous utterances of emo- Ç tion : add to which, that the direction of these intervals, which, as diverging from or couverging toward the medium tones, we found to be playsiologically expressive of in- creasing or decreasing emotion, may be ob- served to have in music like meanings. Once more, it was pointed out that not only extreme but also rapid variations of pitch are charac- teristic of mental excitement ; and once more we see in the quick changes of every melody that song carries the characteristic as far, if not faither. Thus, in respect alike of loud- mess, timbre, pitch, intervals, and rate of vari- ation, song employs and exaggerates the natural language of the crimotions ; it arises Iroin a systematic combination of those vocal pg.culiarities which are the physiological offects of acute pleasure and pain. - Besides these chief characteristics of song as distinguished from common speech, there are sundry minor ones similarly explicalle, ” as due to the relation lyetween mental and inuscular excitement ; and before proceed- ing farther these should be briefly noticed. Thus, certain passions, and perhaps all pas- sions when pushed to an extreme, produce (probably through their influence over the ac- tion of the heart) an effect the reverse of that which has been described : they cause a - 262 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. physical prostration, one symptom of which is a general relaxation of the muscles, and a consequent trembling. We have the trem- bling of anger, of fear, of hope, of joy; and the vocal muscles being implicated with the rest, the voice too becomes tremulous. Now, in singing, this tremulousness of voice is very effectively used by some vocalists in highly pathetic passages; sometimes, indeed, because of its effectivelless, too much used by them—as by Tamberlik, for instance. Again, there is a mode of musical execu- tion known as the Staccato, appropriate to energetic passages—to passages expressive of exhilaration, of resolution, of confidence. The action of the vocal muscles which pro- duces this staccato style is analogous to the muscular action which produces the sharp, decisive, energetic movements of body indi- cating these states of mind ; and therefore it is that the staccato sty, e lias the meaning we ascribe to it. Conversely slurred intervals are expressive of gentler and less active feelings; and are so because they imply the smaller muscular vivacity due to a lower mental energy. The difference of effect re- sulting fluiu difference of time in music, is also attributable to the same law. All eady it has been pointed out that the more frequent changes of pitch which ordinarily lesult from passion are imitated and developed in song; and here we have to add, that the va- rious rates of such changes, appropriate to the different styles of music, are further traits having the same derivation. The slowest movements, largo and adagio, are used where such depressing emotions as grief, or such unexciting emotions as revere tice, are to be portrayed ; while the more rapid movements, andante, allegro, presto, represent succes- sively increasing degrees of mental vivacity, and do this hecause they innply that muscular activity which flows from this inental vi- vacity. Even the rhythm, which forms a remaining distinction between Song and speech, may not improbably have a kindred causo. Why the actions excited by strong feeling should tend to become 1 hythmical is not very obvious ; but that they do so there are divers evidences. There is the SWaying of the body to and fro under pain or grief, of the leg under impatience or agitalion. Dancing, too, is a rhythmical action natural to elevated emotion. That under excitement speech acquires a certain, 1 hythm, we may occasionally perceive in the highest effºrts of an orator. In poetry, which is it form of speech used for the better expression of emotional ideas, we have this rhythmical tendency developed. And when We bear in mind that dancing, poetry, and music are connate—are originally constituent parts of the same thing—it becomes clear that the measured movement common to them all im- plies a rhythmical action of the whole sys- tem, the vocal apparatus included ; and that so the rhythm of music is a more subtle and complex result of this relation between men- tal and muscular excitement. But it is time to end this analysis, which ified applications. possibly, we have already carried too far. It is not to be supposed that the Inore special pe- culiarities of musical expression are to be defi- nitely explained. Though probably they may all in some way conform to the principle that has been worked out, it is obviously imprae- ticable to trace that principle in its more rain- Nor is it needful to our argument that it should be so traced. The foregoing facts sufficiently prove that what we regard as the distinctive traits of song ale simply the traits of emotional speech inten- sified and systematized. In respect of its general characteristics, we think it has been 1made clear that vocal music, and by conse- quence all music, is an jºiealization of the natural language of passion. As far as it goes, the scanty cvidence ſur- nished by history confirms this conclusion. Note first the fact (not properly an historical one, but filly grouped with sºch) that the dance-Chants of savage tribes are very monoi- onous ; and in virtue of their mºnotony are much more nearly allied to ordinary speech than are the songs of civilized races. Join- ing with this the fact that there are still ex- tant among boatmen and others in the East, ancient chants of a like monotonous chal ac- ter, we may infer that vocal music originall diverged from emºtional speech in a grad- ual, unobtrusive mannt r ; and this is the in- f rence to which our argument points. Fur- ther evidence to the same effect is supplied by Greek history. The early poems of the Greeks—which, be it remembered, were sacred legends embodied in that rhythmical, metaphorical language which strong feeling excites——were not recited, but chanted : the tones and the cadences were made musi- cal by the same influences which made the speech poetical. - By those who have investigated the mat- ter, this chanting is believed to have been not what we call singing, but neariy allied to our recitative (far simpler, indeed, if we may judge from the fact that the early Greek lyre, which had but four strings, was played in unison with the voice, which was there- fore confined to four notes); and as such, much less remote from common speech than our own singing is. For recitative or musi- cal recitation, is in all respects intermediate between speech and song. Its average effects are not so loud as those of song. Its tones are less sonorcus in timbre than those of sºng. Commonly it diverges to a smaller extent from the middle notes—uses notes neither so high nor so low in pitch. . The intervals ha- bitual to it are neither so wide nor so varied. Its rate of variation is not so rapid. And at the same time that its primary Thythm is less decided, it has none of that secondary 1 hythm produced by recurrence of the same or parallel musical phrases, which is one of the marked characteristics of song. Thus, then, we may not only infer, fom the evi- dence furnished by existing barbarous tribes, that the vocal music of prehistoric times was emi,tional speech very slightly exaited, but we see that the earliest vocal music of which PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 263 we have any account differed much less from emotional speech than does the vocal music of our days. That lecitative — beyond which, by the way, the Cl.inese and Hindoos seem never to liave advanced—grew naturally out of the modulations and cadences of strong feeling, we have indeed still current evidence. There are oven now to be met with occasions on which strong feeling vents itself in this form. Whoever has been present when a meeting of Quakers was addressed by one of their preachels (whose practice it is to speak only under the influence of religious emotion), must have been struck by the quite unusual tones, like those of a subdued chant, in which the address was made. It is clear, too, that the intoning used in some churches is repre- sentative of this same mental state, and has been adopted on account of the instinctively felt congruity between it and the contrition, supplication, or reverence verbally expresscq. And if, as we have good reason to believe, recitative arose by degrees out of emotional speech, it becomes manifest that by a con- tinuance of the same process Song has arisen out of recitative. Just as, from the orations and legends of savages, expressed in the metaphorical, allegorical style natural to them, there sprung epic poetry, out of which lyric poetry was afterward developed ; so, fiom the exalted tones and cadences in which such orations and legends were delivered, came the chant or recitative music, from Whence lytical music has since grown up. And there has not only thus been a simultaneous and parallel genesis, but there is also a paral- lelism of 1 esults. For lyrical poetry differs from epic poetry just as lyrical music differs from lecitative : each still further intensifies the natural language of the emotions. Lyri- cal poetry is Inore inetaphorical, more hyper- bolic, more elliptical, and adds the rhythm of lines to the rhythm of fect ; just as lyrical music is louder, more Sonorous, Inore extreine in its intervals, and adds the I hythm of phrases to the rhythm of bars. And the known fact that out of cpic poetry the stronger passinns developed lytical poetry as their appropriate vehicle, strengthens the in- ference iliat they similarly developed lyrical music out of recitative Nor indeed are we without evidences of the transition. It nct ds but to listen to an opera to hear the leading gradations. Between the comparatively level 1 ccitative of ordinary dialogue, the more varied recitative with wider intervals and higher tones used in ex- citing scenes, the still more musical recitative which preludes an aii, and the air itself, the successive steps are but smail : and the fact that among airs themselves gradations of like nature may be tº aceti, further confirms the conclusion that the highest form of vocal music was arried at by degrees. Moreover, we have some clew to the influ- ences which have induced this development, and may roughly couceive the process of it. As the tones, intervals, and cadences of strong emotion were the eleinents out of which song was elaborated ; so, we may expect to find that still stronger emotion produced the elab- oration ; and we have evidence implying this. Instances in abundance may be cited, showing that musical composers are men of extremely acute sensibilities. The life of Mozart depicts him as one of intensely activo affections and highly impressionable temper- ament. Various anecdotes represent Bee- thoven as very susceptible and very passion- ate. Mendelssohn is described by those who knew him to have been full of fine feeling. And the almost incredible sensitiveness of Chopin has been illustrated in the memoirs of George Sand. An unusually emotional nature being thus the general characteristic of musical composers, we have in it just th9 agency required for the development of reci- tative and song. Intenser feeling producing intenser manifestations, any cause of excite- ment will call forth from such a nature tones and changes of voice more marked than those called forth from an ordinary nature— will generate just those exaggerations which we have found to distinguish the lower vocal music from emotional speech, and the higher vocal music from the lower. Thus it becomes credible that the four-toned recitative of the early Greek poets (like all poets, nearly allied to composers in the comparative intensity of their feelings), was really nothing more than the slightly exaggerated emotional speech natural to them, which grew by frcquent use into an organized form. And it is readily conceivable that the accumulated agency of subsequent poet musicians, inheriting and adding to the products of those who went before them, sufficed, in the course of the ten centuries which we know it took, to de- velop this four-toned recitative into a vocal music having a range of two octaves. Not only may we so understand how more sonorous tones, greater extremes of pitch, and wider intervals, were gradually intro- duced, but also how thcre arose a greater variety and complexity of musical expres- sion. For this same passionate, enthusiastic temperament, which naturally leads the musical composer to express the feelings pos- sessed by others as well as himself, in ex- tremer intervals and more marked cadences than they would use, also leads him to give musical utterance to feelings which they either do not experience, or experience in but slight degrees. In virtue of this general susceptibility which distinguishes him, he regards with emotion events, scenes, con- duct, character, which produce upon most men no appreciable effect. The emotions so generated, compounded as they are of the simpler emotions, are not expressible by in- tervals and cadences natural to these, but by combinations of such intervals and cadences; whence arise more involved musical phrases, conveying more complex, subtle, and un- usual feelings. And thus we may in some measure understand how it happens that music not only so strongly ( xcites our more familiar feelings, but also produces feelings we never haſ before ; arouses dormant Sen- timents of which we had not conceived the 264 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. possibility, and do not know the meaning; or, as Richter says, tells us of things we have not seen and shall not see. Indirect evidences of several kinds remain to be briefly pointed out. One of them is the difficulty, not to say impossibility, of other wise accounting for the expressiveness of music. Whence comes it that special combinations of notes should have special effects upon our emotions ?—that one should give us a feeling of exhilaration, another of melancholy, another of affection, arrother of reverence 2 Is it that these special combi- nations have intrinsic meanings apart from the human constitution ?—that a cel tuin number of aerial waves per second, followed by a certain other number, in the nature of things signify grief, while in the reverse order they signify joy ; and similarly with all other intervals, phrases, and cadences 2 Few will be so irrational as to think this. Is it, then. that the Imeanings of these special combinations are conventional only 7—that we learn their implications, as we do those of words, by observing how others under- stand them 2 This is an hypothesis not only devoid of evidence, but directly opposed to the experience of every one. How, then, are musical cffects to be explained ? If the theory above set forth be accepted, the diffi- culty disappears. If music, taking for its raw material the various modifications of voice which are the physiological results of excited feeling, intensifies, colubines, and complicates them—if it exaggerates the loud- ness, the resonance, the pitch, the intervals, and the variability, which, in virtue of an organic law, are the characteristics of passion- ate speech—if, by carrying out these farther, more consistently, more unitedly, and IIlore sustainedly, in produces an idealized lan- guage of Gmotion ; tilt n its power over us becomes comprehensible. But in the absence of this theory, the expressiveness of music appears to be inexplicable. Again, the preference we feel for certain qualities of sound presents a like difficulty, admitting only of a like solution. It is gen: erally agreed that the tones of the human voice are Imore pleasing than any others. Grant that music takes its rise from the mod- ulations of the human voice under emotion, and it becomes a natural consequence that the tones of that voice should appeal to our feelings more than any others; and so should be considered more beautiful than any othel S. But deny that music has this origin, and the cmly alternative is the untenable position that the vibratious proceeding from a vccalist’s throat are, objectively considered, of a higher order than those from a horn or a violin. Similarly with harsh and soft sounds. If the conclusiveness of the foregoing reason- ings be not admitted, it must be supposed that the vibrations causing the last are in- trinsically bette than those causing the first ; and that, in virtue of some pre-established harmony, the higher feelings and natures produce the one, and the lower the other. But if the foregoing reasonings be valid, it follows, as a matter of course, that we shall like the sounds that babitually accompany agreeable feelings, and dislike those that habitually accompany disagreeable feelings. Once more, the question, How is the ex- pressiveness of music to be otherwise ac- counted for ? may be supplemented by the questicn, IIow is the genesis of music to be otherwise accounted for 2 That music is a product of civilization is manifest ; for though savages have their dance-chants, these" are of a kind searcely to be dignified ly the title musical : at Inost, they supply but the vaguest rudiment of music, picbelly so called. And If music lias been by slow steps developed in the course of civilization, it must have been developed out of some- thing. If, then, its origin is not that above alleged, what is its origin Ż Thus we find that the negative evidence confirms the positive, and that, takcn to- gether, they furnish strong proof. . We have seen that there is a physiological relation, common to man and all animals, between feeling and muscu'ar action ; that as vocal sounds are produced by muscular action, there is a consequent physiological relation between feeling and vocal sounds ; that all the modifications of voice expressive of feel- ing are the direct results of this physiologi- cal relation : that music, adopting all the SP modifications, intensifies them more , and more as it ascends to its higher and higher forms, and becomes music simply in wit tue of thus intensifying them ; that, from the ancient epic poet chanting his verses, down to the modern musical composer, men of un- usually strong feelings, prone to express them in extreme forms, have been naturally tho agents of these successive intensifications; and that so there has little by little arisen a wide divergence between this idealized lan- guage of emotion and its natural language : to which direct evidence we have just added the indirect—that on no other tenable hypothesis can either the expressiveness or the genesis of music be explained. And now, what is the function of music? Has music any effect beyond the immediate pleasure it produces 2 Analogy suggests that it has. The enjoyments of a good din- ner do not cmd with themselves, but minister to bodily well-being. Though people do not marry with a view to maintain the race, yet the passions which impel them to marry secure its maintenance. Parental affectirºn is a feeling which, while it conduces to parental lappiness, insures the nurture of offspring. Men love to accumulate property, often without thought of the benefits it pro- duces ; but in pursuing the pleasure of acquisition they indirectly open the way to other pleasures. The wish for public ap- proval impels all of us to do many things which we should otherwise not do—to under- take great labors, face great dangers, and habitually rule ourselves in a way that smooths sucial intercourse : that is, in grati- fying our love of approbation we subserve divers ulterior purposes. And, generally, PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 265 our nature is such that in fulfilling each tic- sire, we in some way facilitate the fulfillment of the rest. But the love of music seems to exist for its own sake. The delights of melody and harmony do not obviously min- ister to the welfare either of the individual or of society. May we not suspect, how- ever, that this exception is apparent only 7 Is it nºt a rational inquiry, What are the in- direct lienefits which accrue from music, in addition to the direct pleasure it gives 7 But that it would take us too far out of our track, we should prelude this inquiry by illustrating at some length a certain general law of progress : the law that alike in occu- pations, sciences, arts, the divisions that had a common root, but by continual divergence have become distinct, and are now being Sep- arately developed, are not truly independent, but severally act and react on each other to their mutual advancement. Merely hinting thus much, however, by way of showing that there are many analogies to justify us, we go on to express the opinion that there exists a relationship of this kind between music and speech. - All speech is compounded of two clements, the words and the tones in which they are uttered—the signs of ideas and the signs of feelings. While certain articulations express the thought, certain vocal suunds express the more or less of pain or pleasure which the thought gives. Using the word cadence in an unusually extended sense, as compre- hending all modifications of voice, WC may say that cadence is the commentary of the emotions upon the propositions of the intellect. This duality of spoken language, though not formally recognized, is recognized in prac- tice by every ene ; and every one knows that very often inore weight attaches to the tones than to the words. Daily experience Sup- plies cases in which the same sentence of disapproval will be understood as meaning little or meaning much, according to the in: flections of voice which accompany it , and daily experience supplies still more striking cases in which words and tones are in direct contradiction--the first expressing consent, while the last express reluctance ; and the last being believed rather than the first. These two distinct but interwoven ele- ments of speech have been undergoing a wimultaneous development. We know that in the course of civilization words have been muitiplied, new parts of Specch have been in- troduced, sentences have grown mºre varied and complex ; and we may fairly infer that during the same time new modifications of voice have come into use, fresh intervais have been adopted, and Cadences have be- come more elaborate. For while, on the one hand, ii is absurd to suppose that, along with the undeveloped verbal forms of bai- barism, there existed a developed system of vocal inflections, it is, on the other hand, necessary to suppose that, along with the higher and more numerous verbal forms needed to convey the multiplied and compli- cated ideas of civilized life, there have grown nation to the tones in up those more involved changes of voice which express the feelings proper to such ideas. If intellectual language is a growth, so also, without doubt, is emotional language a growth. . . Now, the hypothesis which we have hin ed above is, that beyond the direct pleasure which it gives, music has the indi- rect effect of developing this language of the emotions. Having its root, as we have cri- deavored to show, in those tones, intervals, and calences of speech which express feel- ing—arising by the combination and intensi- fying of these, and coming finally to havo an embodiment of its own, music has all along been reacting upon specch, and in- creasing its power of rendering emotion. The use in recitative and song of inflections more expressive than ordinary ones, must from the beginning have tended to develop the ordinary ones. Familiarity with the more varied combinations of tones that occur in vocal music can scarcely have failed to give greater variety of combi- which we utter our impressions and dºsicºs. The complex musical phrases by which composers have conveyed complex emotions may rationally be supposed to have influenced us in making those involved cadences of conversation by which we convey our subtler thoughts and feelings. That the cultivation of music has no effect on the mind, few will be absurd enough to conteill. And if it has an effect, what more natural effect is there than this of develop- ing our perception of the meanings of inflec- tions, qualities, and modulations of voice ; and giving us a correspondingly increased power of using them 7 Just as mathematics, taking its start from the phenomena of phys- ics and astronomy, and presently coming to be a separate Science, has since reacled on physics and astronomy to their immense ad- vancement ; just as chemistry, first arising out of the processes of metailurgy and the industrial a ts, and gradually growing into an independent study, has now become an aid to all kinds of production ; just as phys- iology. originating out of medicine and once subordinate to it, but lattetly pursued for its own sake, is in our day coming to be the science on which the progress of medicine depends ; so music, having its root in emo- tional language, and gradually evolved from it, has ever been reacting upon and further advancing it. Whoever will examine the facts will find this hypothesis to be in har. mony with the method of civilization every- where displayed. .- : It will scarcely be expected that much di- rect evidence in support of this conclusion gan be given. The facts are of a kind which it is difficult to measure, and of which we have uo records. Soi le suggestive traits, however, may be noted. Mey we not sayr. for instance, that the Italians, among whºm modern music was carliest caitivated, and Who have more especially practised and ex-. celled in melody (the división of music with 266 TROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. which our argument is chiefly concerned)— may we not say that these Italians speak in u1 ≤ e varied and expressive inflections and calences than any other nation ? On the other hand, may we not say that, confined almost exclusively as they have hitherto been to their national airs, which have a marked family likeness, and therefore accustouned to but a limited range ºf musical expression, the Scotch are unusually Inonotonous in the intervals and modulations of their speech 2 And again, do we not find among different classes of the same nation, differences that have like implications? The gentleman and the clown stand in very decided contrast with respect to variety of intonation. List- en to the conversation of a servant-girl, and then to that of a refined, accomplished lady, and the more delicate and complex changes of voice used by the latter will be conspic- uous. Now, without going so far as to say that out of all the differences of culture to which the upper and lower classes are sub- jected, difference of musical culture is that to which alone this difference of speech is as- cribable ; yet we may fairly say that there seems a much more obvious connection of cause and effect between these than between any others. Thus, while the inductive evi- dence to which we can appeal is but scanty and vague, yet what there is favors our po- S. it l il. Probably most wiłł think that the function here assigned to music is one of very little int, ment. But ful ther reflection may lead them to a contrary conviction. In its bear- ings upon human happiness, we believe that this emotional language, which musical cul- ture develops and refines, is only second in iinportance to the language, of the intellect ; perhaps not even second to it. For these Inodifications of voice produced by feelings are the means of exciting like feelings in others. Joined with gestures and expres- sions of ſucc, they give - life to the otherwise dead words in which the intellect utters its ideas; and so enable the hearer not only to wnderstand the state of mind they accompany, but to partake of that state. In short, they are the chief media of sympathy. And if we consider how much both our general welfare and our immediate pleasures depend upon sympathy, we shall recognize the importance af whatever makes this sympathy greater: lf we bear in mind that by their fellow-feel. ing men are led to behave justly, kindly, and cºnsiderately to each other—that the differ- rince between the cruelty of the balbal Uus and the humanity of the civilized lesults from the increase of fellow-feeling ; if we bear in mind that this faculty which makes us sharers in the joys and sorrows of others, is the basis of all the higher affections—that in friendship, love, and all domestic pleas- ures it is an essential element ; if we bear in Iſlind how much our d1 cct gratifications lire intensified by sympathy ; Low. at the theatre, the conceit, the picture gallery, we lose half our enjoyment if we have no one to enjoy with us; if, in short, We bear in mind that for all happiness beyond what the un- friended recluse can have we are indebted to this same sympathy, we shall see that the agencies which communicate it call Scul cely be overrated in value. - . The tendency of civilization is more an Inore to repress the antagonistic elements of Gur characters and to develop the social ones— to curb our purely selfish desires and exercise our unselfish ones; to replace private gratifi- cations by gratifications resulting from, or in- volving, the happiness of others. And while, by this adaptation to the social state, the sympathetic side of our nature is being un- folded, there is simultaneously growing up a language of sympathetic intercourse—a lan- guage through which we communicate to others the mappiness we feel, and are made sharers in their happiness. This double process, of which the effects are already sufficiently appreciable, must go on to an extent of which we can as yet have no adequate conception. The habitual con- cealment of our feelings diminishing, as it must, in proportion as our feelings become such as do not demand concealment, we may conclude that the exhibition of thcm will be- come much more vivid than we now dare al- low it to be ; and this implies a more ex- pressive emotional language. At the same time, feelings of a higher and more complex kind, as yet experienced only by the culti- wated few, will become general ; and there will be a corresponding development of the emotional language into more involved forms. Just as there has silently grown up a language of ideas, which, rude as it at first was, now enables us to convey with precision the Inost subtle and complicated thoughts : so there is still silently growing, ap a lan- guage of feelings, which, notwithstanding its present imperfection, we may expect will ul- iimately enable men vividly and completely to impress on each other all the emotions which thcy experience from moment to mo- In 1011 t. Thus if, as we have endeavored to show, it is the function of music to facilitate the de- velopment of this cnnotional language. We may regard music as an aid to the achieve- ment of that higher happiness which it in- distinctly shadows forth. These vague feel- ings of unexperienced felicity which music arouses, those indefinite impressions of an unknown ideal life which it calls up, may be considered as a prophecy, to the fulfilment of which music is itself partly instrumental. The strange capacity which we have for being so uſfected by melody and harmony. may be taken to imply both that it is within the possibilities of our nature to realizG. those intenser delights they dimly suggest, and that they are in some way concerned in the realization of them. On this supposition the power and the meaning of music become comprehensible ; but otherwise they are a mystery. We will only add, that if the probability cf these corollaries be admitted, then music must take rank as the highest of the fine TROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 267 arts—as the one which more than any other ministers to human welfare. And thus, even leaving out of view the immediate gratifica- tions it is hourly giving, we cannot too much applaud that progress of musical cul- ture which is becoming one of the character- istics of our age. - - IV. THE DEVELOPMENT IIYPOTHESIS. IN a debate upon the development hypoth- esis, lately narrated to me by a friend, one of the disputants was dascribed as arguing, that as, in all our cxperience, we know no such phenomenon as transmutation of spe- cies, it is unplulosophical to assume that transmutation of species ever takes place. Had 1 been present, I think that, passing over his assertion, which is open to criti- cism, I should have replied that, as in all our experience we have never known a spe- cies created, it was, by his own showing, un- philosophical to assume that any species ever had been created. ." . Those who cavalierly reject the theory of evolution, as not adequately supported by facts, seem quite to forget that their own theory is supported by no facts at all. Like the majority of men who are born to a given belief, they demand the must rigorous progf of any adverse belief, but assume that their own needs noue. Here we find, scattered over the globe, vegetable and animal organ- isms numbering, of the one kind (according to Humboldt), some 320,000 species, and of the other, some 2,000,000 species (see Car- penter); and if to these we add the numbers of animal and vegetable species that have be- come extinct, we may safely estimate the number of species that have existed, and are existing, on the earth, at not less than ten millions. Well, which is the most rational theory about these ten millions of species? Is it most likely that there have been ten millions of special creations Ž Gr is it most likely that by contidual modifications, due to cºauge of circumstances, ten millions of varieties have been produced, as varieties are being produced stili ? Doubtless many will reply that they can more easily conceive ten millions of Special treations to have taken place, than they can conceive that ten millious of varieties have arisen by successive modifications. All such, however, will find, on inquiry, that they are under an illusion. This is one of the Imany cases in which men do not really believe, but rather believe they believe. It is not that they can truly conceive ten millions of special creations to have taken place, but that they think they can do so. Careful introspection will show them that they have never yet re- alized to themselves the creation of even one species. If they have formed a definite con- ception of the process, let them tell us how a new species is constructed, and how it makes its appearance. Is it thrown down from the clouds 2 or must we hold to the notion that it struggles up out of the ground 7 Do its limbs and viscera rush together from all the points of the compass? or must we receive the old Hebrew idea, that God takes clay and moulds a new creature ? If they say that a new creature is produced in none of these modes, which are too absurd to be believed"; then they are required to describe the Inode in which a new creature may be produced —a mode which does not seem absurd ; and such a mode they will find that they neither have conceived fior can conceive. Should the believers in special creations consider it unfair thus to call upon them to describe how special creations take place, I reply, that this is far less than they demand from the supporters of the development hy- pothesis. They are merely asked to point out a conceivable mode. On the other hand, they ask, nut simply for a conceivable mode, but for the actual mode. They do not say, Show us now this may take, place ; but they say, Show us how this does take place. So far from its being unreasonable to put the above question, it woull be reasonable to ask not only for a possible mode of special crea- tion, but for an ascertained mode; seeing that this is no greater a demand than they make upon their opponents. And here we may perceive how much more defensible the new doctrine is than the old one. Even could the supporters of the development hypothesis merely show that the origination of species by the process of modification is conceivable, they would be in a better position than their opponents. But they can do much more than this. They can show that the process of modification has ef- fected, and is effecting, decided changes in all organisms subject to modifying influences. Though, from the impossibility of getting at a sufficiency of facts, they are unable to trace the many phases through which any existing species has passed in arriving at its present form, or to identify the influences which caused the successive modifications, yet they can show that any existing species— animal or vegetable—when placed under conditions different from its previous ones, &mmediately begins to undergo certain changes of structure fitting it for the new conditions. They can show that in successive generations these changes coutinue, until ultimately the new conditions become the natural ones. They can show that in cultivated plants, in domesticated animals, and in the several races of men, such alterations have taken place. They can show that the degrees of difference so produced are often, as in dogs, greater than those on which distinctions of species are in other cases founded. They can show that it is a matter of dispute whether some cf these modified forms are varieties or separate species. They can show, too, that the changes daily taking place in ourselves—the facility that attends long practice, and the loss of aptitude that begins when practice ceases—the strengthen- ing of passions habitually gratified, and the weakening of those habitually curbed—the development of every faculty, bodily, moral, 268 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. Dº intellectual, according to the use made of it—are all explicable on this same principle. And thus they can show that throughout all oigacic nature there is at work a modifying influence of the kind they assign as the cause of these specific differences: an influence which, though slow in its action, does, in time, if the circumstapces demand it, pro- (ſuce marked changes—an influence which, to all appearance, would produce in the mill- ions of years, and under the great varieties of cºndition which geological l ecords imply, any amount of change. Which, then, is the mnst rational hypoth- esis —that of special creations, which has neither a fact to support it nor is even deſi- nitely conceivable ; or that ºf modificatiºn, which is not only definitely cunceivable, but is countenanced by the habitudes of every existing organism 2 That by any set ies of changes a protozoon should ever become a mammal, seeins to those who are not familiar with zoology, and who have not seen how clear becomes the relationship between the simplest and the most complex ful ms when intermediate forms are examined, a very grotesque notion. Habitually looking at things rather in their statical than in their dynamical aspect, they never realize the fact that, by small ificre- ments of modificatiºn, any amount of modi fication may in time be generated. That surprise which they feel on finding one whom they last saw as a boy, grown into a man, becomes incredulity when the degree of change is greater. dant instances are at hand of the mode in which we may pass to the Inost diverse forms, by insensible gradations. Aiguing the matter some time since with a learned brofessor, I illustrated my position thus: & ou admit that there is no apparent relation- ship between a circle and an hyperbola. The one is a finite curve ; the other is an infinite one. All patts of the one are alike ; of the other no two parts are alike. The one in- closes a space ; the other will not inc.,se a space though produced forever. Yet oppo- sile as are these curves in all their properties, they may be connected together by a series of inter mediate curves, no one of which dif- fers from the adjacent ories in any appre- ciable degree. Thus, if a cone be cut by a plane at right angles to its axis we get a circle. If, instead of being perfectly at right singles, the plane subtentis with the axis an angie of 89° 59', we have an ellipse, which no human eye, cven when aided by an accu- late pair of cºmpasses, can distinguish from a circle. minute, the ellipse bectºrne fil-t perceptibly eccenttic, 1};"n manife sily so, and by and by acquires so immensely elongated a for in as to bear 11) recºgnizable it semblance to a circle. By continuing this p. Ucess, the ellipse passes insensibly into a parabºla ; and ultimately, by still further diminishing the angle, into an hyperbola Now here we have four different species of curve—circle, allipse, parabola, and hyperbola–each hay- series of modifications so small Nevertheless, abun- Decreasing the angle minute by ing its peculiar properties and its separate equation, and the first and last of which are quite opposite in nature, connected together as members of one series, all producible by a single process of insensible modification. But the blindness of those who think it absurd to suppose that complex organic forms may have arisen by successive modifi- ‘ations out of simple ones, becomes astonish- ing when we remember that complex organic forms are daily beina thus produced. A tlee differs from a seed immeasurably in every respect—in hulk, in structure, in color, in form, in specific gravity, in chemical composition : differs so greatly that no visi- ble resemblance of any kind can be pointed out between them. Yet is the one changed in the course of a few years into the other : changed so gradually, that at no moment ct; tı it be said, Now the seed ceascs to be, and the tree exists. What can be more widely contrasted than a newly-born child and the small, semi-transparent, gelatingus spherule constituting the human ovum ? The infant is so coin plex in structure that a cyclºpædia is needed to describe its constit- uent parts. The germinal vesicle is so simple that it may be defined in a line. Nevertheless, a few Inonths suffice to develop the one out of the other ; and that, too, by a tlıat wore the embryo examined at successive minutrs, even a microscope would with difficulty dis- close any sensible changes. That the uned- ucated and the ill-educated should think the hypothesis that all races of beings, man in- clusivo, may in process of tinue have been evolved from the simplest monad, a ludicrous one, is not to be wondered at. But for the physiologist, who knows that every individ- ual being is so evolved—who knows further, that in their earliest condition the germs of all plants and animals whatever are so sim- lar, “that thcle is no appreciablé distinction among them which would enable it to be de- 1ermined whether a particular molecule is the gel m of a conferva or of an oak, of a zoophyte or of a man ;” *—for him to make a difficulty of the matter is inexcusable. Surely if a single cell may, when subjected to cel tain influences, become a man in the space of twenty years, there is nothing ab- surd in the hypothesis that under certain other influences a cell may in the course of millions of years give origin to the human race. The two processes are generically the same, and differ only in length and cºlm- plexity. • - ... We have, indced, in the part taken by many scientific men ju, this controversy of “Law versus Miracle,” a good illustration of the tenacious vitality of superstitions. Ask one of our leading geologists or physiolºgists whether he believes in the Mosaic account of the creation, and he will take the question as next to an insult. Either he rejects the mariative entirely, or understands it in some vague non-natural sense. Yet one part of it he unconsciously adopts, and that, too, liter- aily. For whence has he got this notion of PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 269 “special creations,” which he thinks so reasonable, and fights for so vigorously 7 Evidently he can trace it back to no other source than 1bis myth which he repudiates. He has not a single fact in nature to quote in ploof of it ; n., r is he prepared with any chain of abstract reascning lºy which it may be established. Catechise him, and he will the forced to confess that the notion was put into his mind in childhood as part of a story which he now thinks absurd. And why, after rejecting all the lest of this story, he should strenuously defend this last remnant of it as though he had received it on valid authority, he would be puzzled to say. W. THE SOCIAL ORGANISM. º SIR. JAMES MACINTOSH got great credit for the saying, that “constitutions are not made, but grow.” In our day the most significant thing about this saying is, that it was ever thought so significant. As from the surprise displayed by a man at some familiar fact, you Iſlay judge of his general culture ; so from the admiration which an age accords to a new thought, its average degree of enlight- ( ninent may be inferred. That this apoph- ił, egm of Macintosh should have been quoted and re-quoted as it has, shows how profound has been the ignorance of social science. A small ray of truth has seemed brilliant, as a distant rushlight looks like a star in the Sui- rounding darkness. Such a conception could not, indeed, fail to be startling when let fall in the midst of a system of thought to which it was utterly allen. Universally in Macintosh’s day, things were explained on the hypothesis of manu- facture rather than that of growth : as in- deed they are, by the majority, in our own day. It was held that the planets were sev- erally projected round the sun from the Creator’s hand, with exactly the velocity re- quired to balance the sun's attraction. The formation of the carth, the separation of Sea from land, the production of animals, were mechanical works from which God rested as a laborer rests. Man was supposed to be moulded after a manner somewhat akin to that in which a modeller makes a clay-figure. And of course, in harmony with such ideas, societies were tacitly assumed to be arranged thus or thus by direct interposition of Provi- dence ; or by the regulations of lawmakers; or by both. Yet that societies are not artificially put together is a truth so manifest that it seems wonderful men should have ever overlooked it. Perhaps nothing more clearly shows the small value of historical studies, as they have been commonly pursued. You need but to look at the changes going on around, or ob- serve social organization in its leading pecul- iarities, to see that these are neither super- natural nor are deter IIlined by the wills of individual men, as by implication historians commonly teach, but are consequent on general natural causes. The one case of the division of labor suffices to show this. It has not been by command of any ruler that some men have becomiz manufacturers while others have remained cultivators of the suil. In Lancashire, millions have devoted them- selves to the making of cotton fabrics ; in Yorkshire, another million lives by produc- ing woollens; and the pottery of Staffordshire, the cut ºry of Sheffield, the hardware of Birmingham, severally occupy their hundreds of thousands. These are large facts in the structure of English society ; but we can as- cribe them neither to miracle nor to legisla- tion. It is nºt by “the hero as king,’’ any more than by “collective wisdom,” that men have been segregated into producers, whole- sale distributors, and retail distributors. The whole of our industrial organization, from its main outlines down to its minutest details, has become what it is, not simply without legislative guidance, but, to a con- sitſerable extent, in spite of legislative hin- drances. It has arisen under the pressure of human wants and activities. While each citizen has been pursuing his individual wel- fare, and none taking thought about division of labor, or, indeed, conscious of the need for it, division of labor has yet been ever be- couning more complete. It has been doing this slowly and silently : scarcely any having obselved it until quite modern times. By steps so small, that year after year the ill- (lustrial arrangements have seemed to men just what they were before—by changes as insensible as those through which a seed passes into a tree—society has become the complex body of mutually-dependent work- ers which we now see. And this economit: organization, maik, is the all-essential or- ganization. Through the combination thus spontangously evolved, every citizen is Sup- plied with daily necessaries, while he yields some product or aid to others. That we are severally alive to-day, we owe to the regular working of this combination during the past week ; and could it be suddenly abolished, a great proportion of us would be dead before another week ended. If these most conspic- u0us and vital arrangements of our social structure have arisen without the devising of any one, but through the individual efforts of citizens to satisfy their own wants, we may be tolerably certain that the less impor- tant arrangements have similarly arisen. “But surely,” it will be said, “ the sºcial changes directly produced by law cannot be classed as spontaneous growths. When parliainents or kings order this or that thing to be done, and appoint officials to do it, the º *: W.'Mº tº: tºm- process is clearly artificial, and society, to , "... this extent becomes a manufacture ral her - than a growth.” No, not even these changes vºº "y are exceptions, if they be real and permanent changes. The true soul ces of such changes lie deeper than the acts of legislators. To take first the simpiest instance. We all know that the enactments of represcritative gov- ernments ultimately depend on the national will : they may for a time be out of harmony with it, but eventually they inust conform to 270 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. it. And to say that the national wiki finally determines them is to say that they result from the average of individual desires; or, f* other words, from the average of individ- stal natures. A law so initiated, therefore, 1eally grows out of the popular character. In the case of a government lepresenting a dominant class, the same thing lit.lds, though not so manifestly. For the very existchce of a class monopolizing all power is due to eertain sentiments in the commonally. But for the feeling of loyalty on the part of re- tainers, a feudal system could not exist. We see in the protest of the Highlanders against the abolition of heritable jurisdictions, that they preferred that kind of local Iule. And if to the popular nature must thus be as- www.ww.ºibed the growth of an irresponsible ruling class, then to the popular nature must be ~~cribed the social arrangements which that ...[ass creates in the pursuit of its own ends. Even where the government is despotic, the doctrine still holds. The character of the people is, as before, the original source of this political form ; and, as we have alyun- dant proof, other forms suddenly created will not act, but rapidly retrograde to the old form. Moreover, such regulations as a des. pºt makes, if really operative, are so because of their fitness to the social state. His acts being very much swayed by general opinion —by precedent, by the feeling of his nobles, his priesthood, his army—are in part imme- (liate lesults of the national character ; and when they are out of harmony with the national chal acter they are soon practically abrogated. - The failure of Crcmwell permanently to establish a new social condition, and the rapid revival of suppressed institutions and prac- tices after his death, show how power less is it monarch to change the type of the Society he governs. He may disturb, he may retard, or he inay aid the natural process Uf organ- jzation ; but the general course of this process is beyond his control. Nay, more than this is true. Those who regard the his- tories of societies as the histories of their great men, and think that these great men shape the fates of their societies, overlook the truth that such great men are the prod- ucts of their societies. Without certain an- tecedents, without a certain average national character, they could neither have been gen- erated nor could have had the culture which formed them. If their snciety is to some ex- tent remoulded by them, they were, both befo'e and after birth, moulded by their so- ciety—were the Jesults of all those influences which fostered the ancestral character they inherited, and gave their own early bias, their creed, morals, knowledge, aspirations. So that such social changes as are immedi- att ly traceable to individuals of unusual power are still remotely traceable to the so- cial causes which produced these individ- uals, an hence, from the highest point of view, such social changes also are parts of the general developmental process. Thus that which is so cbviously true of the industrial structure of society is true of its whole structure. The fact that “consti- tutions are not made, but glow,” is simply a fragment of the much larger fact, that under all its aspects and through all its ramifica- tions, Society is a growth and not a manu- facture. t" A perception that there exists some anal- Ogy between the body politic and a living in- dividual body was early reached, and from Á time to time reappeared in literature. Tut this perception was necessalily vague and more or less fanciful. In the albsence of physiological science, and especially of those b comprehensive generalizations which it has but recently reached, it was impossible to discern the real parallelisms. The central idea of Plato's model republic is the correspondence between the parts of a society and the faculties of the human mind. Classifying these faculties under the heads of reason, will, and passion, he classifies the members of his ideal society under what he regards as three analogous heads: council- lots, who are to exercise government ; mili- tary or exccutive, who are to fulfil their be- hosts; and the commonalty, bent on gain and selfish gratification. In othcr words, the ruler, the warrior, and the craftsman are, .# cording to him, the analogies of our re tleg-ſ, tive, volitional, and emotional powers. Now, even were there truth in the inplied assump- tion of a parallelism between the structure of a society and that of a man, this classification would be indefensible. It might moſ e truly he contended that, as the imilitary power obeys the commands of the government, it is the government which answers to the will ; while the military power is simply an agency set in motion by it. Or, again, it might be contended that, whereus the will is a product of predominant desires, to which the leason serves mercly as an eye, it is the craftsmen, who, according to the alleged analogy, ought to be the Inoving power of the warriols. Hobbes sought to establish a still more definite parallelism : liot, however, between a society and the human mind, but betweſ n aſ society and the human body. In the intro duction to the wolk in which he develops this conception, he says: “For by art is created that great LEVIA- THAN called a COMMONWEALTH, or STATE, in Latin CIVITAS, which is but an artificial man ; though of greater stature and strength than the natural, for whose protection and defence it was intended, and in which the sovereignity is an artificial Soul, as giving life and motion to the whole body ; the magis- trates and other officers of judicature and ex- ecution, artificial joints ; 7't ward and punish- ment, by which, fastened to the seat of the sovereignty, every joint and member is moved to perform his duty, are the nerves, that do the same in the body natural ; the wealth and riches of all the particular mem- bers are the strength ; salus populº, the pco- ple's safety, its business ; counsellors, by whom all things needful for it to know are sug- TROGRESS: ITS I, AW AND CAUSE. 271 Uz comparable to joints * gested unto it, are the memory; equity and laws, an artificial reason, and will ; concord, health ; sedition, sickness ; civil war, death.” And Holobes carries this comparison so far as actually to give a drawing of the Levi- athan—a vast lauman-shaped figure, whose body and limbs are made up of multitudes of men. Just noting that these different analogies asserted by Plato and Hobbes serve to.cancel each cther (being, as they are, so completely at variance), we may say that on the whole those of Hubbes are the more plausible. But they are full of Inconsisten- scies. If the sovereignty is the Soul of the body politic, how can it be that magistrates, who are kind of deputy-sovereigns, should be Or, again, how can the three mental functions, mcillory, 1 eason, and will, be severally analogous, the first to counsellors, who are a class of public offi- cers, and the other two to equity and laws, which are not classes of officers, but abstrac- tions ? Or, once more, if Imagistrates are thc artificial joints of society, how can leward and punishment be its nervcs? Its nel ves must surely be some class of persons. Re- ward and punishment must, in societies as in individuals, be conditions of the nerves, and not the nerves themselves. But the chief errors of these comparisons made by Plato and Hobbes lie Inuch deeper. Both thinkers assume that the organization of a society is comparabie, not simply to the organization of a living body in general, but to the organization of the human body in articular. There is no warraut whatever for assuming this. It is in no way implied by the evidence; and is simply one of those fancies which we commonly find mixed up with the truths of early speculation. Still more erroneous are the two conceptions in this, that they construe a society as an ar- tificial structure. Plato's model republic— his ideal of a healthful body politic—is to be consciously put together by mer), just as a watch might be ; and Plato manifestly thinks of societies in general as thus originated. Quite specifically does Hobbes express this view. “For by art,” he says, “is created that great LEVIATHAN called a CoMMON- weALTII.” And he even goes so far as to compare the supposed social contract, from which a society suddenly originates, to the creation of a man by the divine fiat. Thus they both fall into the extreme inconsistency of considering a community as similar in structure to a human being, and yet as pro- duced in the same way as an artificial me- chanism—in nature, an Organism ; in history, a machine. Notwithstanding errors, however, these speculations have considerable significance. That such analogies, crudely as they are thought out, should have been alleged by * Plato and Hobbes and many others, is a reason for suspecting that some analogy ex- ists. The untenableness of the particular comparisons above instanced is no ground for denying an essential parallelism ; for early ideas are usually but vague adumbra- tions of the truth. Lucking the great gen- cralizations of biology, it was, as we have said, impossible to trace out the real relations of social organizations to organizations of another order. We propose here to show what are the analogies which modern sci- ence discloses to us. Let us set out by succinctly stating the points of similarity and the points of differ- ence. Societies agree with individual organ- isms in four conspicuous peculiarities : 1. That, commencing as small aggrega- tions, they insensibly augment in Inass; some of them eventually reaching ten thou- sand times what they originally were. 2. That while at first so simple in struc- ture as to be considered structureless, they assume, in the course of their growth, a con tinually-increasing complexity of structure. 3. That though in their early, undeveloped states there exists in them scarcely any mu- tual dependence of parts, their parts grad- ually acquire a mutual dependence, which becomes at last so great that the activity and life of each part is made possible only by the activity and life of the rest. 4. That the life and development of a so- ciety is independent of, and far more pro- longed than, the life and development of any of 1s comp nent units : who are severally born, grow, work, reproduce, and die, while the body politic composed of them survives generation after generation, increasing in mass, completeness of structure, and func- tional activity. - These four parallelisms will appear the more significant the more we contemplate them. While the points specified are points in which societies agrew with individual or. ganisms, they are points in which individual organisms agree with each other, and dis- agree with all things else. In the course of its existence, every plant and animal increases in inass, in a way not paralleled by inor- ganic objects: even such inorganic objects as crystals, which arise by growth, show us no such definite relation between growth and existence as organisms do. The orderly progress from simplicity to complexity, dis- played by bodies politic in common with all living budies, is a characteristic which dis- tinguishes living bodies from 1me inanimate bodies amid which they move. That func- tional dependence of parts which is scal cely more manifest in animals or plants than na- tions, has no counterpart elsewhere. And in no aggregate except an organic or a social one is there a perpetual removal and replace- ment of parts, joined with a coutinued integ. lity of the whole. Moreover, societies and organisms are not only alike in these peculiarities, in which they are unlike all other things; but the highest societies, like the highest organisms, exhibit them in the greatest degree. We see that the lowest animals do not increase to anything like the sizes of the higher ones ; and, similal ly, we see that aboriginal Soci- eties are coinparatively limited in 1heir growths. In complexity, our large civilized 272 à & PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. sense of the word. the Protococci and with the Nostoceſe, which nations as much exceed primitive savage tribes, as a vertebrate animal does a zooplayte, Sºmple communities, like simple creatures, have so little mutual dependence of parts that subdivision or mutilation causes but lit- tie inconvenience ; but from complex com- m"inities, as from complex creatures, you cannot remove any considerable organ with- trut producing great disturbance or death of the rest. And in societies of low type, as in inferior animals, the life of the aggregate, often cut short by division or dissolution, ex- ceeds in length the lives of the component units, Very far Jess than in civilized commu- nities and Superior animals ; which outlive many generations of their component units, On the other hand, the leading differences between societies and individual organisms are these : 1. That societies have no specific external forms. This, however, is a point of contrast which loses much of its importance, when we remember that throughout the vegetal kingdom, as well as in some lower divisions of the animal kingdom, the forms are often very indefinite—definiteness being rather the exception than the rule ; and that they are manifestly in part determined by surround- ing physical circumstances, as the forms of societies are. If, tºo, it should eventually be sh') W 11, as we believe it will, that the form pf every species of organism has resulted from the average play of the external forces to which it has been subject during its evo- lution as a species, then, that the external forms of Societies should depend, as they do On Surrounding conditions, will be a further point of community. 2. That though the living tissue whereof an individual organism consists forms a con- tinuous mass, the living elements of a society do 110t form a continuous mass, but are more or less widely dispersed over some por- tion of the earth's surface. This, which at first sight appears to be a fundamental dis- tinction, is one which yet to a great extent disappears when we contemplate all the facts. For, in the lower divisious of the ani- \mal and vegetal kingdoms, there are types of brganization Inuch more neatly allied, in this respect, to the organization of a society, than might be supposed—types in which the living units essentially composing the mass are dispersed through, an inent substance, that can scarcely be called living in the full It is thus with some of exist as cells imbedded in a viscid matter. It 1 So, too, With the Thalassicolla!—hodies hat are made up of differentiated parts, dis- persed through an undifferentiated jelly. And throughout considerable portions of their bodies, some of the Acalephae exhibit more or less distinctly this type of structure. Indeed, it may be contended that this is the primitive form of all organization ; see- ing that, even in the highest creatures, as in ourselves, every tissue develops out of what physiologists call a blastema—an unorgan- ized though organizable substance, through them. which organic points are distributed. Now this is very much the case with a society. For we must remember that though the meſ: Who make up tº society are physically sepa- rate and even scattered, yet that the surface over which they are scattered is not one de- void of life, but is covered by life of a lower Crder which ministers to their life. The veg. etation which clothes a country makes pos. sible the animal life in that country ; and only through its animal and vegetal products Can such a country support a human society, Hence the members of the body politic are not to be regarded as separated by intervals of dead space, but as diffused through a space ºccupied by life of a lower order. In our conception of a social organism we must include all that lower organic existence on Winich human existence, and therefore social ( xistence, depends. And when we do this, we see that the citizens who make up a cºm- munity may be considered as highly vital-, jzed units surrounded by substances of lower vitality, from which they draw their nutri- ment : much as In 1he cascs above instanced. Thus, when examined, this apparent distinc- tion in great part disappears. - 3. That while the ultimate living elements of an individual organism, are mostly fixed in their 1 elative positions, those of the social organism are capable of moving from place to place, seems a marked disagreement. But here, too, the disagreement is much less than would be supposed. For while citizens are locomotive in their private capacities, they are fixed in their public capacities. As farmels, manufactulers, or tradeis, men carry on their business at the same spots, often throughout their whole lives; and if they go away occasionally, they leave behind others to discharge their functions in their absence. Each great centre of production, each manufacturing town or district, con- tinues always in the same place ; and many of the firms in such town or distlict are for generations carried on either by the descend- ants or successors of those who founded Just as in a living body, the cells that make up some important organ, severally perform their functions for a time and then disappear, leaving others, to supply their places; so, in each part of a society, the or- gan remains, though the persons who com- pose it change. Thus, in social life as in the life of an animal, the units as well as the larger agencies formed of them, are in the main stationary as respects the places where they discharge their duties and obtain their sustenance. And hence the power of indi- vidual locomotion does not practically affect the analogy. 4. The last and perhaps the most impor- tant distinction is, that while in the body of an animal, only a special tissue is endowed with feeling, in a society all the members are endowed with feeling. Even this distinc- tion, however, is by no means a cºmplete (ºne. For in some of the lowest animals, characterized by the absence of a nervous system, such sensitivencss as exists is pos- PIROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 273 sessed by all parts. It is only in the more organized forms that feeling is monopolized by one class of the vital elements. Moreover, we must remember that societies, too, are not without a certain differentiation of this kind. Thºugh the units of a community are all sen- sutive, yet they are so in unequal degrees. The classes engaged in agriculture and labo- lious occupations in general are much less susceptible, intellectually and emotionally, than the rest ; and especially less so than the classes of highest mental culture. Still, we have here a tolerably decided contrast be- tween bodies politic and individual bodies. And it is one which we should keep con- stantly in view. For it reminds us that while in individual bodies the welfare of all other parts is rightly subservient to the wel- fare of the nervous system, whose pleasur- able or painful activities make up the good Cr evil of life ; in bodies politic the same thing does not hold, or holds to but a very slight extent. It is well that the lives of all parts of an animal should be merged in the life of the whole ; because the whole has a corporate consciousness capable of happiness or misery. But it is not so with a society, since its living units do not and cannot lose individual consciousness, and since the com- munity as a whole has no corporate conscious- ness. Anu this is an everlasting reason why the welfare of citizens cannot rightiy be sacrificed to some supposed benefit of the state, but why, on the other hand, the state is to be maintained solely for the benefit of citizens. The corporate life must here be subservient to the lives of the parts, instead of the lives of the parts being subservient to the corporate life. Such, then, are the points of analogy and the points of difference. May we not say that the points of difference serve but to bring into clearer light the points of analogy? While comparison Inakes definite the obvious contrasts between organisms commonly so called, and the Social organism, it shows that oven these contrasts are not so decided as was to be expected. The indefiniteness of form, the discontinuity of the parts, the mobility of the parts, and the universal sensi- tiveness, are not only peculiarities of the social organism which have to be stated with considerable qualifications, but they are peculiarities to which the inferior classes of animals present approximations. Thus wo find but little to conflict with the all-impor- tant analogies. That societies slowly augment in mass; that they progress in complexity of structure ; that at the same time their parts become more mutually dependent ; that their living units are removed and replaced with- out destroying their integrity ; and further, that the extents to which they display these peculiarities are proportionate to their vital activities; are traits that societies have in common with organic bodies. And these traits in which they agree with organic bodies and disagree with all other things—these traits which in truth specially characterize organic bodies, entirely subordinate the luinor dislinctions: such distinctions being scarcely greater than those which separate one half of the organic kingdom from the other. The principles of organization are the same ; and the differences are simply differences of ap- plication. Here ending this general survey of the facts which justify the comparison of a society to a living body, let us look at them in detail. We shall find that the parallelism becomes the more marked the more closely it is traced. The lowest animal and vegetal forms— Protozoa and Protophyla–are chiefly in- habitants of the water. They are IIlinute bodies, most of which are made individually visible only by the microscope. All of them are extremely simple in structure ; and some of them, as the Rhizopods, almost structure- less. Multiplying, as they ordinarily do, by the spontaneous division of their bodies, they produce halves, which may either become quite separate and move away in different directions, or IIlay continue attached. By the repetition of this process of fission, aggre- gations of various sizes and kinds are formed. Among the Protophyta, we have some classes, as the Diatomaceæ and the yeast-plant, in which the individuals may be either separate or attached in groups of two, three, four, or more ; other classes in which a considerable number of individual cells are united into a thread (Conferva, Monilia); others in which they form a net-work (Hydrodictyom); others in which they form plates (Ulva); and others in which they form masses (Laminaria, Agaricus): all which vegetal forms, having Ilo distinction of root, stem, or leaf, are called Thallogens. Among the Protozoa we find parallel facts. Immense numbers of Ama-ba-like creatures, massed together in a framework of horny fibres, constitute Sponge. In the Foraminifera, we see Sinailer groups of such creatures arranged into more definite shapes. Not only do these almost structureless Protozoa unite into regular or irregular aggregations of various sizes, but among some of the more organized oues, as the Vorticellaº, there are also produced clus- ters of individuals, proceeding from a com- mon stock. But these little societies of Inonads, or cells, or whatever else we may call them, are societies only in the lowest sense : there is no subordination of parts among them—no organization. Each of the component units lives by and for itself, neither giving nor receiving aid. There is no mutual dependence, save that cousequent on mere mechanical union. Now do we not here discern analogies to the first stages of human societies 2 Among the lowest races, as the bushmen, we fin but incipient aggregation—sometimes single families, sometimes two or three families wandering about together. The number of associated units is small and variable, and their union inconstant. No division of labor exists except between the sexes ; and the only kind of mutual aid is that of joint attack or defence. We see nothing beyond an undit- 274 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. ferentiated group of individuals, forming the germ of a Society ; just as in the homogene- ous groups of cells above described we see Wnly the initial stage of animal and vegetal Wrganization. 'The comparison may now be carried a step Jigher. In 11me vegetal kingdom we pass from the Thallogens, consisting of mere masses of similar cells, to the Acrogens, in which the cells are not similar throughout the whole maSS ; but are here aggregated into a structure serving as leaf, and there into a structure serving as root, thus form- ing a whole in which there is a certain sub- division of functions among the units, and therefore a certain mutual dependence. In the animal kingdom we find analogous prog- ress. From mere unorganized groups of cells, or cell-like bodies, we ascend to groups of such cells arranged into parts that have different duties. The common Polype, from whose substance may be separated individual cells which exhibit, when detached, appear- unces and movements like those of the soli. tary Amaºba, illustrates this stage. The com- ponent units, though still showing great community of character, assume somewhat diverse functions in the skin, in the internal surface, and in the tentacles. There is a cer- tain amount of “physiological division of labor.” Turning to societies, we find these stages Yarallel in the majority of aboriginal tribes. When, instead of such small variable groups as are formed by bushmen, we come to the larger and more permanent groups formed by savages not quite so low, we begin to find Iraces of social structure. Though industrial . organization scarcely shows itself, except in the different occupations of the sexes, yet there is always more or less of governmental organization. While all the men are war- riors and hunters, only a part of them are included in the council of chiefs; and in this council of chiefs some one has commonly Supreme authority. There is thus a certain distinction of classes and powers; and through this slight specialization of func- tions is effected a rude co-operation among the increasing mass of individuals, whenever #he society has to act in its corporate capac-. ity. Beyond this analogy in the slight ex- tent to which organization is carried, there 2s analogy in the indefiniteness of the organ- ization. of the creature’s substance have many func- tions in common. They are all contractile ; omitting the tentacles, the whole of the ex- ternal surface can give origin to young Hydra? and when turned inside out, stomach performs the duties of skin, and skin the duties of stomach. In aboriginal Societies, Buch differentiations as exist are similarly imperfect. Notwithstanding distinctions of jank, all persons maintain themselves by their own exertions. Not only do the head men of the tribe, in common with the rest, build their own huts, make their own weap- ons, kill their own food, but the chief does lhe like. Moreover, in the 1udest of these In the Hydra, the respective parts tribes such governmental organization as ex- ists is very inconstant. It is fluguently changed by violence or treachery, and 11 e function of ruling assumed by other in m- bers of the community. Thus between the rudest societies and some of the lowest ful his of animal life there is analogy alike in he slight extent to which organization is cairit d, in the indefiniteness of this organization, and in its want, of fixity. A further complication of the analogy is at hand. From the aggregation of units into organized groups, we pass to the multiplica- tion of such groups, and their coalesconce into compound groups. The Hydra, when it has reached a certain bulk, puts foith flom its surface a bud, which, growing and grad- ually assuming the form of the parent, finally becomes detached ; and by this process of gemmation the creature peoples the adjacent water with others like itself. A parallel pro- cess is seen in the Inultiplication of those lowly-organized tribes above described. One of them having increased to a size that is either too great for co-ordination under so rude a structure, or else that is greater than the surrounding country can supply with game and other wild food, there arises a tendency to divide ; and as in such commu- nities there are ever-occurring quarrels, jeal- ousies, and other causes of division, the e soon comes an occasion on which a palt of the tribe separates under the leadership of some subordinate chief, and migrates. This process being from time to time repeated, un extensive region is at length occupied with numerous separate tribes descended frtm a common ancestry. The analogy by no means ends here. Though in the common Hydra, the young ones that bud out from the parent soon become detached and indepen- dent, yet throughout the rest of the class Bydrozoa, to which this creature belongs, the like does not generally happen. The succes- sive individuals thus developed continue attached, give origin to other such individ- uals which also continue attached, and so there results a compound animal. As in the Pſydra itself, we find an aggregation cf units which, considered separately, are akin to the lowest Protocoa , so here, in a Zoophyte, we find an aggregation of such aggregations. The like is also seen throughout the extensive family of Polyzoa or Molluscoida. The ascid. ' ian IIIollusks, too, in their many valled forms, show us the same thing : exhibiting at the same time various degrees of unit 1, subsisting among the component individuals. For while in the Salpa: the component indi. viduals adhere so slightly that a blow on the vessel of water in which they are floating will separate them ; in the Botryllida, the e exists a vascular connection between them, and a common circulation. Now in these various forms and degrees of aggregation, may we not see paralleled the union of groups of connate tribes into nations ? Though in regions where circum- stances permit, the separate tribes descended from scne original tribe, migrate in all direc- PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 275 tions and become far removed and quite sep- arate ; yet, in other cases, where the territory presents bairiers to distant migration, this docs not happen : the small kindred com- munities are held in closer contact, and eventually become more or less united into a nation. The contrast between the tribes of American Indians and the Scottish clans illustrates this. And a glance at our own early history, or the early histories of conti- nenial nations, shows this fusion of small simple communities taking place in various ways and to various extents. As says M. Guizot, in his history of “The Origin of Rep- resentative Government,” “By degrees, in the midst of the chaos of the rising society, small aggregations are formed which feel the want of alliance and union with each other. . . . Soon in- equality of strength is displayed among neighboring aggregations. The strong tend to subjugate the weak, and usurp at first the rights of taxation and military service. Thus political authority leaves the aggrega- tions which first instituted it, to take a wider range.” That is to say, the small tribes, clans, or feudal unions, sprung mostly from a common stock, and long held in contact as occupants of adjacent lands, gradually get united in other ways than by mere adhesion of race and proximity. - A further series of changes begins now to take place ; to which, as before, we shall find analogies in individual organisms. Iteturn- ing again to the Hydrozoa, we observe that in the simplest of the compound forms, the connected individuals developed from a com- mon stock, are alike in structure, and per- form like functions : with the exception, in- deed, that here and there a bud, instead of developing into a stomach, mouth, and ten- tacles, hecomes an egg-sac. But with the occanic Hydrozoa, this is by no means the case. In the Calycophoridae, some of the polyps growing from the common germ become developed and modified into large, long, sack - like bodies, which by their rhythmical contractions move through the water, dragging the community of polyps after them. In the Physophorida, a variety of organs similarly arise by transformation of the budding polyps; so that in creatures like the Physalia, commonly known as the “Portuguese man-of-war,” instead of that trec-like group of similar individuals form- ing the original type of the class, we have a complex filass of unlike parts fulfilling un-, like duties. As an individual Hydra may be regarded as a group of Protozoa which have become partially metamorphosed into differ- cnt organs, so a Physalia is, morphologically considered, a group of hydrae of which the individuals llave been variously transformed to fit them for various functions. - This differentiation upon differentiation is just what takes place in the evolution of a civilized society. We observed how, in the Ktuall communities first formed, there arises a certain silnole political organization-there (* is a partial separation of classes having dif- ferent duties. And now we have to observo how, in a nation formed by the fusion of such small communities, the several Sections, at first alike in structures and modes of activ- ity, gradually become unlike in both—grad- ually become mutually - dependent parts, diverse in their natures and functions. The doctrine of the progressive division of labor, to which we are here introduced, is familiar to all readers. And further, the analogy between the economical division of labor and the “physiological division of labor,” is so striking, as long since to have drawn the attention of scientific naturalists: so striking, indecd, that the expression “ physiological division of labor,” has been suggested by it. It is not needful, therefore, that we should treat this part of our subject in great detail. We shall content ourselves with noting a few general and significant facts, nut manifest on a first inspection. Throughout the whole animal kingdom, from the Calenterata upward, the first stage of evolution is the same. Equally in the germ of a polyp and in the human ovum, the aggregated mass of cells out of which the creature is to arise gives origin to a periph- eral layer of cells, slightly differing from the rest which they include ; and this layer sub- sequently divides into two—the inner, lying in contact with the included yelk, being called the mucous layer, and the outer, ex- posed to surrounding agencies, being called the serous layer ; or, in the terms used by Professor Huxley, in describing the develop- ment of the Hydrozoa-the endoderm and ectoderm. This primary division marks out a fundamental contrast of pults in the future organism. From the mucous layer, or en- doderm, is developed the apparatus of nu- trition ; while from the serous layer, or ecto- derin, is developed the apparatus of external action. Out of the one arise the organs by which food is prepared and absorbed, oxygen imbibed, and blood purified; while out of the other arise the nervous, muscular, and osseous systeins, by whose combined actions the movements of the body as a whole are effected. Though this is not a rigorously correct distinction, seeing that some organs: involve both of these primitive membranes, yet high authorities agree in stating it as a broad general distinction. Well, in the evolution of a society we see a primary differentiation of analogous kind, which similarly underlies the whole future structure. As already pointed out, the only manifest contrast of parts in primitive soci- eties is that between the governing and the governca. In the least organized tribes, the council of chiefs may be a lody of men dis- tinguished simply by greater courage or ex- perience. In more organized tribes, the chief-class is definitely separated from the lower class, and often regarded as different in nature — sometimes as god descended. And later, we find these two becoming re- spectively freemen and slaves, or nobles and serfs. A glance at their respective functions 276 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. makes it obvious that the great divisions thus early formed stand to each other in a rela- tion similar to that in which the primary divisions of the embryo stand to each other. For, from its first appearance, the class of chiefs is that by which the external acts of the society are controlled : alike in war, in negotiation, and in migration. Afterward, wnile the upper class grows distinct from the lower, and at the same time becomes Inore and more exclusively regulative and defen. sive in its functions, alike in the persons of kings and subordinate rulers, pricsts, and military leaders; the inferior class becomes more and more exclusively occupied in pro- viding the necessaries of life for the com- munity at large. From the soil, with which it comes in most direct contact, the mass of the people takes up and prepares for use the food and such rude articles of manufacture as are known, while the overlying mass of superior men, maintained by the working population, deals with circumstances external to the community—circumstances with which, by position, it is mole immediately concerned. Ceasing by and by to have any knowledge of or power over the concerns of the society as a whole, the serf class becomes devoted to the processes of alimentation ; while the noble class, ceasing to take any part in the processes of alimentation, becomes devoted to the co-ordinated movements of the chtire body politic. Equally remarkable is a further analogy of like kind. After the mucous and serous layers of the embryo have separated, there presently arises between the two, a third, known to playsiologists as the vascular layer —a layer out of which are developed the chief blood-vessels. The mucous layer ab- sorbs nutriment from the mass of yelk it in. closes; this nutriment has to be transferred to the ovel lying serous layer, out of which the nervo-muscular system is being devel- oped ; and between the two arises a vascular system by which the transfer is effected—a system of vessels which continues ever after to be the transferrer of nut liment from the places where it is absorbed aud prepared, to the places where it is needed for growth and repair. Well, may we not trace a parallel štep in social progress? Between the governing and the governed, there at first exists no intermediate class ; and even in some societies that have reached considerable sizes there are scarcely any but the nobles and their kindred on the one hand, and the serfs on the other : the social struc- ture being such that the transfer of com- modities takes place directly from slaves to their masters. But in societies of a higher type there grows up between these two primitive classes another—the trading or middle class. Equally at first as now, we may sec that, speaking generally, this middle class is the analogue of the middle layer in the embryo. For all traders are essentially distributors. Whether they be wholesale dealers, who collect into large masses the commodities of various producers, or whether they be retailers, who divide out to those who want them, the masses of com- modities thus collected together, all mercan- tile men are agents of transfer from the places where things are produced to the places where they are consumed. Thus the distributing apparatus of a society answers to the distributing apparatus of a living body ; not only in its functions, but in its intermediate origin and subsequent position, and in the time of its appearance. - Without enumerating the minor differen- tiations which these three great classes after- ward undergo, we will mercly note that throughout 1.Iley follow the same geneial law with the differentiations of an individ- ual orgauisin. In a society, as in a ſuſlimen- tary animal, we have seen that the most gen- eral and broadly contrasted divisions are the first to make their appearance ; and of the subdivisions it continues true in both cases, that they arise in the order of decreasing generality. Let us observe next, that in the one case as in the other, the specializations are at first very incomplete, and become moic com- plete as organization progresses. We saw that in primitive tribes, as in the simplest animals, there remains much community of functiºn between the parts that ale nomi- nally different: that, for instance, the class of chiefs long remain industrially the same as the inferiur class ; just as in a Hydra, the property of contractility is possessed by the units of the endoderm as well as by those of the ectoderm. We noted also how, as the society advanced, the two great primitive classes partook less and less of each other's functions. And we have here to remark, that all subsequent specializations are at first vague, and gradually become distinct. “In the infancy of society,” says M. Guizot, “everything is confused and uncertain ; there is as yet no fixed and precise line of demarcation between the different powers in a state.” “Originally kings lived like other Jandowners, on the incomes derived from their own private estates.” Nobles were petty kings, and kings only the most power- ful nobles. Bishops were feudal lords and military leaders. The right of coining money was possessed by powerful subjects, and by the Church, as well as by the king. Every leading man exercised alike the functions of landowner, farmer, soldier, statesman, judge. IRetainers were now soldiers, and now la- borers, as the day required. But by degrees the Church has lost all civil jurisdiction ; the state has exercised less and less control over religious teaching ; the military class has grown a distinct one ; handicrafts have con- centrated in towns; and the spinning-wheels of scattered farmhouses have disappeared before the machinery of manufacturing dis- tricts. Not only is all progress from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, but at the same time it is from the indefinile to the definite. * - Another fact which should not be passed over, is that in the evolution of a large so- TROGRESS: ITS I, AW AND CAUSE. 277 ciety out of an aggregation of small ones there is a gradual obliteration of the original lines of separation—a change to which, also, we may see analogies in living bodies. Throughout the sub-kingdom Annalosa this is clearly and variously illustrated. the lower types of this sub-kingdom the body consists"of numerous segments that are alike in nearly every particular. Each has its external ring ; its pair of legs, if the creat- ure has legs; its equal portion of intestines, or else its separate stomach ; its equal por- tion of the great blood-vessel, or, in some cases, its separate heart ; its equal portion of the nervous cord, and, perhaps, its separate pair of ganglia. But in the highest types, as in the large Crustacea, many of the segments are completely fused together, and the in- ternal organs are no longer uniformly re- peated in all the segments. Now the seg- ments of which nations at first consist lose their separate external and internal structures in a similar manner. In feudal times the minor communities governed by feudal lords, were severally organized in the same rude way, and were held together only by the fealty of their respective rulers to some suzerain. But along with the growth of a central power the demarcations of these local communities disappeared, and their separate organizations merged into the gen- eral organization. The like is seen on a larger scale in the fusion of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland ; and, on the conti- ment, in the coalescence of provinces into kingdoms. Even in the disappearance of law-made divisions, the process is analogous. Among the Anglo-Saxons England was di- vided into tithings, hundreds, and counties: there were county courts, courts of hundred. and courts of tithing. The courts of lithing disappeared first : then the courts of hun- dred, which have, however, left traces ; while the county jurisdiction still exists. But chiefly it is to be noted, that there eventually grows up an organization which has no reference to these original divisions, but traverses them in various directions, as is the case in creatures belonging to the Sub- kingdom just named ; aud, further, that in both cases it is the sustaining organization which thus traverses old boundaries, while in both cases it is the governmental or co-or- dinating organization in which the original boundaries continue traccable. Thus, in the highest Annillosa, the exo-skeleton and the muscular system never lose all traces of their primitive segmentation, but throughout a great part of the body the contained vis- cera do not in the least conform to the ex- ternal divisions. ‘Similarly, with a nation, we see that while, for governmental pur- poses, such divisions as counties and parishes still exist, the structure developed for carry- ing on the nutrition of society wholly ig- nores these boundaries: Our great cotton- manufacture spreads out of Lancashire into Nouth Derbyshire; Leicestershire and Not- tinghamshire have long divided the stocking- trade between them ; one great Centre for Among the production of iron and iron-goods in- cludes parts of Warwickshire, Staffordshire, Worcestershire; and those various speciali- zations of agriculture which have mail. different parts of England noted for different products show no more respect to county boundaries than do our growing towns to the boundaries of parishes. If, after conteinplating these analogies of structure, we inquire whether there are any such analogies between the processes of or ganic change, the answer is, Yes. . Tht. causes which lead to increase of bulk in any part of the body politic are of like nature with those which lead to increase of bulk in any part of an individual body. . In both cases the antecedent is greater functional activity, consequent on greater demand. Each limb, viscus, gland, or other member of an animal is developed by exercise—by actively dis- charging the duties which the body at large requires of it ; and similarly, any class of laborers or artisans, any manufacturing Cen- tre, or any official agency, begins to enlarge when the community devolves on it an in- crease of work. In each case, too, growth has its conditions and its limits, That any organ in a living being may grow by exer- cise there needs a due supply of blood ; tı, I action implies waste ; blood brings the mate- rials for lepair; and before there can be growth, the quantity of blood supplied must be more than that requisite for repair. So is it in a society. If to some district which elaborates for the community partic- ular commodities—say the woollens of York- shire—there comes an augmented demand ; and if, in fulfilment of this demand, a cer- tain expenditure and wear of the manufac- turing organization are incurred ; and if, in payment for the extra supply of woollens sent away there comes back only such quantity of commodities as leplaces the expenditure, and makes goud the waste of life and ma- chinery, there can clearly be no growth. That there may be growth, the commodities obtained in return must be more than suffi- cient for these ends ; and just in proportion as the surplus is great will the growth be rapid. Whence it is manifest that what in commercial affairs we call profit answers to the excess of nutrition over waste in a living body. Moreover, in both cases, when the functional activity is high and the nutrition defective, there results not growth, but de- cay. If in an animal any organ is worked so hard that the channels which bring blood cannot furnish enough for repair, the Organ dwindles; and if in the body politic some part has been stimulated into great produc- tivity, and cannot afterward get paid for all its produce, certain of its meinbers become bankrupt, and it decreases in size. One more parallelism to be here noted is, that the different parts of the social organ- ism, like the different parts of an individual organism, compete for nutriment, and Sev- erally obtain more or less of it according as they are discharging more or less duty. If a man's brain be over-excited, it will abstract . : ; 27 S PIROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. : : i * blood from his viscera and stop digestion ; or digestion actively going on will so affect the circulation through the brain as to cause drowsiness; or great muscular exertion will determine such a quantity of blood to the limbs as to arrest digestion or cerebral ac- tion, as the case may be. So, likewise, in a society, it frequently happens that great ac- tivity in some one direction causes partial arrests of activity elsewhere, by abstracting capital, that is commodities: as instance the way in which the sudden development of out railway system hampered commercial operations; or the way in which the laising of a large military force temporarily stops the growth of leading industries. The last few paragraphs introduce the next division of our subject. Almost un- awares we have come upon the analogy which exists between the blood of a living body and the circulating mass of commodi- ties in the body politic. We have now to trace out this analogy from its simplest to its most complex manifestations. In the lowest animals the to exists no blood properly so called. Through the small aggre- gation of cells which make up a Hydra, per- meate the juices absorbed from the food. There is no apparatus for elaborating a con- centrated and purified nutriment, and dis- tributing it autong the component units ; but these component units directly imbibe the unprepared nutriment, either from the digestive cavity or from cach other, May we not say that this is what takes place in an aboriginal tribe 7 All its members severally obtain for themselves the necessaries of life in their crude states, and severally prepare them for their own uses as well as they can. When there arises a decided differentiation between the governing and the governed, some amount of transfer begins between those inferior individuals, who, as workers, come directly in contact with the products of the earth, and those superior ones who exercise the higher functions—a transfer parallel to that which accompanies the differentiation of the ectoderm from the en- doderm. In the one case, as in the other, however, it is a transfer of products that are little if at all prepared, and takes place di- rectly from the unit which obtains to the unit which consumes, without entering into any general current. Passing to larger organisms—individual and social—we find the first advance upon this arrangement. Where, as among the Com: pound Hydrozoa, there is an aggregation of or many such primitive groups as form Hydrae, or where, as in a Medusa, one of these groups has become of great size, there exist rude channels running through- out the substance of the body ; not how- ever, channels for the conveyance of pre- pared nutriment, but mere prolongations of the digestive cavity, through which the crude chyle-aqueous fluid reaches the re- Inoter parts, and is moved backwald and forward by the creature’s contractions. Do we not find in some of the more advanced primitive communities an analogous condi- tion ? When the men, partially or fully united into one society, become numerous—when, as usually happens, they cover a surface of country not everywhere alike in its products —when, more especially, there arise consid- crabic classes that are not industrial ; some process of exchange and distribution inevi- tably ariscs. Travelsing here and there the earth’s surface, covered by that vegetation on which human life depends, and in which, as we say, the units of a society are im- bedded, there are formed indefinite paths, i.long which some of the necessaries of life occasionally pass, to be bartered for others which pit sently come back along the same channels. Note, however, that at first little Clse but crude commodities are thus trans- ferred—fruits, fish, pigs or cattle, skins, c{c. : theic are few, if any, manufactured Jºroducts or alticles prepared for consump- tion. And note further, that such distribution of these unprepared necessaries of life as takes place is but occasional—goes on with a certain slow, irregular rhythm. Further progress in the elaboration , and distribution of nutriment or of commodities is a necessary accompaniment of further differentiation of functious in the individual body or in the body politic. As fast as each organ of a living animal becomes confined to a special action, it must become dependent on the rest for all those materials which its position and duty do not permit it to obtain for itself ; in the same way that, as fast as each particular class of a community be- comes exclusively occupied in producing its own commodity, it must become dependent on the rest for the other commodities it needs. And, simultaneously, a more per- fectly-elaborated blood will result from a highly-specialized group of nut, five organs, severally adapted to prepare its different ele- ments; in the same way that the stream of commodities circulating through Uut a society will be of superior quality in proportion to the greater division of labor among the workers. Observe, also, that in either case the circulating mass of nutritive materials, besides coming gradually to consist of better ingredients, also grows more complex. All increase in the number of the unlike organs which add to the blood their waste matters, and demand from it the different materials they severally necd, implies a blood more heterogeneous in composition—an & prior? conclusion which, according to Dr. Will- iams, is inductively confirmed by examina- tion of the blood throughout the various grades of the animal kingdom. And simi- larly it is manifest that as fast as the division of labor among the classes of a community becomes greater, there must be an increasing heterogeneity in the currents of merchandise flowing throughout that community. The circulating mass of nutritive materials in individual organisms and in social organ- isms becoming alike better in the quality of its ingredients and more heterogeneous in composition, as the type of structure becomes → * PIROGſ. ESS: ITS LAW ANT). CAUSE. higher, eventually has added to it, in both cases another element, which is not itself nu- tritive, but facilitates the process of nutri- tion. We refer, in the case of the individual organism, to the blood-disks, and in the case of the social organism, to money. This analogy has been observed by Liebig, who in his “ Familiar Letters on Chemistry,” says: “Silver and gold have to perform in the organization of the state the same function as the blood corpuscles in the human or- ganization. As these round disks, without themselves taking an immediate share in the nutritive process, are the medium, the essen- tial condition of the change of matter, of the production of the heat, and of the force by which the temperature of the body is kept up and the motions of the blood and all the juices are determined, so has gold become the medium of all activity in the life of the state.’’ w And blood-corpuscles being like money in their functions, and in the fact that they are not consumed in nutrition, he further points out, that the number of them which in a considerable interval flows through the great centres is enormous when compared with their absolute number; just as the quantity of money which annually passes through the great mercantile centres is enormous when compared with the total quantity of money in the kingdom. Nor is this all. Liebig has omitted the significant circumstance, that only at a certain stage of organization does this element of the circulation make its ap- pearance. Throughout extensive divisions of the lower animals, the blood contains no cor- puscles ; and in Societies of low civilization there is no money. Thus far we have considered the analogy between the blood in a living body and the consuinable and circulating commodities in the body politic. Let us now compare the appliances by which they are respectively distributed. We shall find in the develop- ment of these appliances, parallelisms not less remarkable than those above set forth. Already we have shown that, as classes, wholesale and retail distributors discharge in a society the office which the vascular sys- tem discharges in an individual creature ; that they come into existence later than the other two great classes, as the vascular layer ap- pears later than the mucous and serous lay- ers; and that they occupy a like intermedi- ate position. Here, however, it remains to be pointed out that a complete conception of the circulating system in a society includes not only the active human agents who propel the currents of commodities, and regulate their distribution, but includes also the channels of communication. It is the forma- tion and arrangement of these to which wo now direct attention. Going back once more to those lower ani- mals in which there is found nothing but a partial diffusion, not of blood, but only of crude nutritive fluids, it is to be remarked that the channels through which the diffu- sion takes place are mere excavations 27) through the half-organized substance of the body : they liave no lining membranes, but are mere lacunae traversing a nude tissue. Now countries in which civilization is but commencing display a like condition : there are no roads properly so called ; but the wil- derness of vegetal life covering the earth's surface, is pierced by tracks, through which the distribution of crude commodities takes place. And while in both cases the acts of distribution occur only at long intervals (the currents, after a pause, now setting toward a general centre, and now away from iſ), the transfer is in both cases slow and difficult. But among other accompaniments of prog- ress, common to animals and societies, comes the formation of more definite and cornplete channels of communication. Blood-vessels acquire distinct walis; roads are fenced and gravelled. This advance is first seen in those roads or vessels that are nearest to the chief centres of distribution ; while the pe- ripheral roads, and peripheral vessels long continue in their primitive states. At a yet later stage of development, where comparative finish of structure is found throughout the system as well as near the chief centres, there remains in both cases the difference, that the main channels are comparatively broad and straight, while the subordinate ones are narrow and tortuous in proportion to their remoteness. - Lastly, it is to be remarked that there ulti- mittely arise in the higher social organisms, as in the higher individual organisms, main channels of distribution still more distin- guished by their perfect structures, their Comparative straightncss, and the absence of those small branches which the minor chan- nels perpetually give off. And in railways We also see, for the first time in the social organism, a specialization with respect to the directions of the currents—a system of diouble channels conveying currents in oppo- site directions, as do the arteries and veins. of a well-developed animal. - These parallelisms in the evolutions and structures of the circulating systems intro- duce us to others in the kinds and rates of the movements going on through them. In the lowest societies, as in the lowest creat- ures, the distribution of crude nutriment is by slow gurgitations and regurgitations. In creatures that have rude vascular systems, as in societies that are beginning to have roads and some transfer of commodities along them, there is no regular circulation in defi, nite courses ; but instead, periodical changes of the currents—now toward this point, and now toward that. Through each part of an inferior mollusk’s body the blood flows for a While in one direction, then stops, and flows in the opposite direction ; just as through a rudely-organized society the dis- tribution of merchandise is slowly carried on by great fairs, occurring in different locali- ties, to and from which the currents periodi- cally set. Only animals of tolerably com- plete organizations, like advanced communi- ties, are permeated by constant currents that 280 IPROGRESS. ITS LAW AND CAUSE. are definitely directed. In 1iving bodies the local and variable currents disappear when there grow up great centres of circulation, generating more powerful currents by a rhythm which ends in a quick, regular pul- sation. And when in social bodies there arise great centres of commercial activity, producing and exchanging large quantities of commodities, the rapid and continuous streams drawn in and emitted by these cen- tres subdue all minor and local circulations: the slow rhythm of fairs merges into the faster one of weekly markets, and in the chief cen- tres of distribution weekly markets merge into daily markets; while in place of the languid transfer from place to place, taking place at first weekly, then twice or thrice a week, we by and by get daily transfer, and finally transfer many times a day—the orig- inal sluggish, irregular rhythm becomes a rapid, equable pulse. Mark, too, that in both cases the increased activity, like the greater perfection of struc- ture, is much less conspicuous at the pe- riphery of the vascular system. On main lines of railway we have, perhaps, a score trains in each direction daily, going at from thirty to fifty miles an hour ; as, through the great arteries, the blood rushes rapidly in succes- sive gushes. Along high roads there move vehicles conveying men and commodities with much less, though still considerable speed, and with a much less decided rhythm ; as, in the smaller arteries, the speed of the blood is greatly diminished, and the pulse less conspicuous. In parish-roads, narrow, Ress complete, and more tortuous, the rate of movement is further decreased and the rhythm scarcely traceable, as in the ultimate arteries. In those still more imperfect by- roads which lead from these parish roads to scattered farmhouses and cottages, the motion is yet slower and very irregular; just as we find it in the capillaries. While along the field-roads, which, in their unformed, un- fenced state, are typical of lacunſt the move. ment is the slowest, the most iſ regular and the most infrequent ; as it is, not only in the prinitive lacunae of animals and societies, but as it is also in those lacuna in which the vascular system ends among extensive fam- ilies of inferior creatures. Thus, then, we find betwecn the distribut- ing systems of living bodies and the distrib- uting systems of bodies politic, wonderfully close parallelisins. In the lowest forms of individual and social organisms there exist neither prepared nutritive matters nor dis- tributing appliances ; and in both, these, arising as necessary accompaniments of the differentiation of parts, approach perfection as this differentiation approaches complete- ness. In animals as in societies, the distrib- uting agencies begin to show themselves at the same relative periods, and in the same relative positions. In the one, as in the other, the nutritive materials circulated are at first crude a nd simple, gradually become better elaborated and more heterogeneous, and have eventually added to them a new element facilitating the nutritive processes. The channels of communication pass through similar phases of development, which lot jug them to analogous forms. And the dii ( c. tions, 1 hythms, and rates of circulation pi ( - gress by like steps to like final conditions. We come at length to the nervous systein. Iſaving noticed the primary differentiation of Societies into the governing and governed classes, and observed its analogy to the dif- ferentiation of the two primary tissues which respectively develop into organs of exteinal action and organs of alimentation ; having noticed some of the leading analogies be- tween the development of industrial arrange- ments and that of the alimentary apparatus; and having, above, more fully traced the analogies between the distributing systems, social and individual, we have now to com- pare the appliances by which a society, as a whole, is regulated, with those by which the movements of an individual creature are regulated. We shall find here parallelisins equally striking with those already detailed. The class out of which governmental organization originates, is, as we have said, analogous in its relations to the ectoderm of the lowest animals and of embryonic forms. And as this primitive membrane, out of which the nervo-muscular system is evolved, must, even in the first stage of its differentia- tion, be slightly distinguished from the lest by that greater impressibility and contractil- ity characterizing the organs to which it gives rise ; so, in that superior class which is eventually transformed into the directo- executive system of a society (its legislative and defensive appliances), does there exist in the beginning a larger endowment of the capacities required for these higher social functions. Always, in rude assemblages of men, the strongest, most courageous, and most sagacious become rulers and leadel S ; and in a tribe of some standing this results in the establishment of a dominant class, characterized on the average by those mental and bodily qualities which fit them for delib- eration and vigorous combined action. Thus that greater impressibility and contractility, which in the rudest animal types characterize the units of the ectoderm, characterize also the units of the primitive social ectoderm ; since impressibility and contractility are the respective roots of intelligence and strength. Again, in the unmudified ectoderm, as we see it in the Hydra, the units are all endowed both with impressibility and contractility, but as We ascend to higher types of organi- zation, the ectoderm differentiates into classes of units which divide those two functions between them : some, becoming exclusively impressible, cease to be contiactile ; while Some, becoming exclusively contractile, cease to be impressible. Similarly with Societies. In an aboriginal tribe, the direc. tive and executive functions are diffused in a mingled form throughout the whole gov- erning class. Each minor chief commands those under him, and, if need be, himself co:ccGS 1 lit tº into obedience. The council PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 281 of Chiefs itself carries out on the battle-field : its own decisions. The head chief not only makes laws, but administers justice with his own hands. In larger and more settled com- munities, however,the directive and executive agencies begin to grow distinct from each other. As fast as his dutics accumulate, the head chief or king confines himself more and more to directing public affairs, and leaves the czecution of his will to others: he de- putes others to enforce submission, to inflict punishments, or to carry out minor acts of offenco autl defence ; and only on occasions when, pe:haps, the safety of the society and his own supremacy are at stake, does he begin to act as well as direct. As this differ- cntiation establishes itself, the characteristics of the ruler begin to change. No longer, as in an aboriginal tribe, the strongest and most daring man, the tendency is for him to be- come the man of greatest cunning, foresight, and skill in the management of others ; for in societies that have advanced beyond the first stage it is chiefly such qualities that insure success in gaining Supreme power, and holding it against internal and external enemies. Thus that member of the govern- ing class who comes to be the chief directing agent, and so plays the same part that a rudimentary nervous centre does in an un- folding organism is usually one endowed with some superiorities of nervous organiza- tion. In those somewhat larger and more com- plex communities possessing, perhaps, a sep- arate military class, a priesthood, and dis- persed masses of population requiring local control, there necessarily grow up subordi- nate governing agents; who, as their duties accumulate, severally become more directive and less executive in their characters. And when, as commonly happens, the king be- gins to collect round himself advisers who aid him by communicating information, pre- paring subjects for his judgment, and issuing his orders, we may say that the form of organization is comparable to one very gen- eral among inferior types of animals,in which there exists a chief ganglion with a few dis- persed ininor ganglia under its control. The analogies between the evolution of governmental structures in societies, and the evolution of governmental structures in living bodies, are, however, more strikingly dis- played during the formation of nations by the coalescence of small communities—a process already shown to be, in several re- spects, parallel to the development of those creatures that primarily consist of many like segments. Among other points of commu- nity between the successive rings which make up the body in the lower Articulata, is the possession of similar pairs of ganglia. These pairs of ganglia, though united together by nerves, are very incompletely dependent on any general controlling power. Hence it re- suits that when the body is cut in two, the hinder part continues to move forward under the propulsion of its numerous legs; and that when the chain of ganglia has been divided without severing the body, the hind limbs may be seen trying to propel the body in one direction, while the fore limbs are trying to propel it in another. Among the higher Articulata, however, a number of the anterior pairs of ganglia, besides growing larger, unite in one mass ; and this great cephalic ganglion, becoming the co-ordinator of all the creature’s movements, there no longer exists much local independence. Now may wenot in the growth of a consoli- dated kingdom out of petty sovereignties or baronies, observe analogous changes 2 Like the chiefs and primitive rulers above de- scribed, feudal lords, exercising supreme power over their respective groups of retain- ers, discharge functions analogous to those of rudimentary nervous centres; and we know that at first they, like their analogues, are distinguished by superiorities of directive and executive organization. Among these local governing centres there is, in early feudal times, very little subordination. They are in frequent antagonism ; they are indi- vidually restrained chiefly by the influence of large parties in their own class, and are but imperfectly and irregularly subject to that most powerful member of their order who has gained the position of head suzerain or king. As the growth and organization of the society progresses, these local directive centres fall more and more under the control of a chief directive centre. Closer commer- cial union between the several segments is accompanied by closer governmental union ; and these minor rulers end in being little more than agents who administer, in their several localities, the laws made by the supreme ruler ; just as the local ganglia above described eventually become agents which enforce, in their respective segments, the orders of the cephalic gauglion. - - The parallelism holds still further. We remarked above, when speaking of the rise of aboriginal kings, that in proportion as their territories and duties increase, they are obliged not only to perform their executive functions by deputy, but also to gather round themselves advisers to aid them in their directive functions; and that thus, in place of a solitary governing unit, there grows up a group of governing units, comparable to a ganglion consisting of many cells. Let us here add, that the advisers and chief officers who thus form the rudiment of a ministry, tend from the beginning to exercise a certain control over the ruler. By the information they give and the opinions they express, they sway his judgment and affect his commands. To this extent he therefore becomes a chan- nel through which are communicated the directions originating with them ; and in course of time, when the advice of ministers becomes the acknowledged source of his actions, the king assumes very much the character of an automatic centre, reflecting the impressions made on him from without. Beyond this complication of governmental structure many societies do not progress; but in sºme a further development takes 282 PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. place. Our own case best illustrates this further development and its further analo. gies. To kings and their ministries have been added, in England, other great directive centles, exercising a control which, at first small, has been gradually becoming predom- inant : as with the great governing ganglia that especially distinguish the highest classes of living beings. Strange as the assertion will be thought, our houses of parliament discharge in the social economy, functions that are in Sundry respects comparable to those discharged by the cerebral masses in a vertebrate animal. As it is in the nature of a single ganglion to be affected only by special stimuli from particular parts of the body, so it is in the nature of a single ruler to be swayed in his acts by exclusive person- al or class interests. As it is in the nature of an aggregation of ganglia, connected with the primary one, to convey to it a greater variety of influences from more numerous organs, and thus to make its acts conform to more numerous requirements, so it is in the nature of a king surrounded by sub- sidiary controlling powers, to adapt his rule to a greater number of public exigencies. And as it is in the nature of those great and latest-developed ganglia which distinguish the higher animals, to interpret and combine the multiplied and varied impressions con- veyed to them from all parts of the system, and to regulate the actions in such way as duly to regard them all ; so it is in the nature of those great and latest-developed legislative bodies which distinguish the most advanced societies, to interpret and combine the wishes and complaints of all classes and localities, and to regulate public affairs as much as possible in harmony with the general wants. The cerebrum co-ordinates the countless heterogeneous considerations which affect the present and future welfare of the indi- vidual as a whole ; and the legislature co- ordinates the countless heterogeneous con- siderations which affect the immediate and remote welfare of the whole community, We may describe the office of the brain as that of averaging the interests of life, physi- cal, intellectual, moral, social ; and a good brain is one in which the desires answering to these respective interests are so balanced, that the conduct they jointly dictate, sacri- fices none of them. Similarly, we may de- scribe the office of a parliament as that of averaging the interests of the various classes in a community ; and a good parliament is one in which the parties answering to these Tespective interests are so halanced, that their united legislation concedes to each class as much as consists with the claims of the rest. Besides being comparable in their duties, these great directive centres, social and individual, are comparable in the pro- cesses by which their duties are discharged. It is now an acknowledged truth in psy- chology, that the cerebrum is not occupied with direct impressions from without, but with the ideas of such impressions : instead of the actual sensations produced in the body, and directly appreciated by the sensory ganglia or primitive nervous centres, the cer- ebrum receives only the representations of these sensations; and its consciousness is Called 'epresentative consciousness, to dis- tinguish it from the original or presentative consciousness. Is it not significant that we lave hit on the same word to distinguish the function of our House of Commons ? We call it a representative body, because the in- terests with which it deals—the pains and pleasures about which it consults—are not directly presented to it, but represented to it by its various members; and a debate is a conflict of representations of the evils or benefits likely to follow from a proposed course—a description which applies with equal truth to a debate in the individual con- sciousness. In both cases, too, these great governing masses take no part in the execu- tive functions. As, after a conflict in the cerebrum, those desires which finally pre- dominate act on the subjacent ganglia, and, through their instrumentality determine the bodily actions ; so the parties which, after a parliamentary struggle, gain the victory, do not themselves carry out their wishes, but get them carried out by the executive divi- sions of the government. The fulfilment of all legislative decisions still devolves on the original directive centres—the impulse pass- ing from the parliament to the ministers, and from the ministers to the king, in whose name everything is done ; just as those smaller, first developed ganglia, which in the lowest vertebrata are the chief controlling agents, are still, in the brains of the higher vertebrata, the agents through which the dictates of the cerebrum are worked out. Moreover, in both cases these original centres become increasingly automatic. In the developed vertebrate animal, they have little function beyond that of conveying im- pressions to, and executing the determina- tions of, the larger centres. In our highly organized government, the Indnarch has long been lapsing into a passive agent of parlia- ment ; and now, ministers are Iapidly falling into the same position. - Nay, between the two cases there is a par- allelism, even in réspect of the exceptions to this automatic action. For in the individual creature, it happens that under circumstan- ces of sudden alarm, as from a loud sound close at hand, an unexpected object start- ing up in front, or a slip from insecure foot- ing, the danger is guarded against by some quick involuntary jump, or adjustment of the limbs, that takes place before there is time to consider the impending evil, and take deliberate measures to avoid it : the rationale of which is, that these violent im- pressions produced on the senses are reflected from the sensory ganglia to the spinal cord and muscles, without, as in ordinary cases, first passing through the cerebrum. In like manner, on national emergencies, calling for prompt action, the king and ministry, not having time to lay the matter before the great deliberative bodies, themselves issue PROGRESS: ITS IAW AND CAUSE. 283 commands for the requisite movements or precautions : the primitive, and now almost automatic, directive centres, resume for a moment their original uncontrolled power. And then, strangest of all, observe that in either case there is an after process of approval or disapproval. The individual on recovering from his automatic start, at once contemplates the cause of his fright ; and, according to the case, concludes that it was well he moved as he did, cr condemns himself for his groundiess alarm. In like manner, the deliberative powers of the state discuss, as soon as may be, the unauthorized acts of the executive powers; and, deciding that the reasons were or were not sufficient, grant or withhold a bill of indemnity.” Thus far in comparing the governmental organization of the body politic with thatsof an individual body, we have considered only the respective co-ordinating centres. We have yet to consider the channels, through which these co-ordinating centres receive in- formation and convey commands. In the simplest societies, as in the simplest organ- isms, there is no “internuncial apparatus,” as Hunter styled the nervous system. Con- sequently, impressions can be but slowly propagated from unit to unit throughout the whole mass, The same progress, however which, in animal organization, shows itself in the establishment of ganglia or directive centres shows itself also in the establishment of nerve-threads, through which the ganglia receive and convey impressions, and so con- trol remote organs. And in societies the like eventually takes place. After a long period during which the directive centres communicate with various parts of the society through other means, there at last comes into existence an “inter- nuncial apparatus,” analogous to that found in individual bodies. The comparison of telegraph-wires to nerves is familiar to all. It applies, however, to an extent not com- monly suppesed. We do not refer to the near alliance between the subtle forces em- ployed in the two cases; though it is now held that the nerve-force, if not literally elec- tric, is still a special form of electric action, related to the ordinary form much as mag- netism is. But we refer to the structural arrangements of our telegraph - system. Thus, throughout the vertebrate sub-king- dom, the great nerve-bundles diverge from the vertebrate axis, side by side with the great arteries; and similarly, our groups of telegraph-wires are carried along the sides of * It may be well to warn the reader against an error fallen into by one who criticised this essay on its first publication—the error of supposing that the analogy here intended to be drawn is a specific analogy be. tween the organization of society in England and the human organization. As said at the outset, no such specific analogy exists. The above parallel is one be: tween the most-developed systems of governmental organization.individual and social; and the vertebrate type is instanced merely as exhibiting this most-de- veloped system. If any specific comparison were made, which it cannot rationally be, it would be tc some much lower vertebrate form than the human. our railways. The most striking parallel- ism, however, remains. Into each great bundle of nerves, as it leaves the axis of ting body along with an artery, there enters a branch of the sympathetic nerve ; which branch, accompanying the artery through. out its ramifications, has the function of regulating its diameter and otherwise con trolling the flow of blood through it accord. ing to the local requirements. Analogously, In the group of telegraph wires running alongside each railway, there is one for the purpose of regulating the traffic—for retard- ing or expediting the flow of passengers and commodities, as the local conditious demand. 1°robably, when our now rudimentary tele- graph-system is fully developed, other anal- ogies will be traceable. Such, then, is a general outline of the evi- dence which justifies, in detail, the compari- son of societies to living organisms. That they gradually increase in mass; that they become little by little more complex ; that at the same time their parts grow more Inutu- ally dependent, and that they continue to live and grow as wholes, while successive generations of their units appear and disap- pear, are broad peculiarities which bodies politic display, in commun with all living bodies ; and in which they and living bodies differ from everything else. And on carry- ing out the comparison in detail, we find that these major analogies involve many minor analogies, far closer than might have been expected. To these we would gladly have added others. We had hoped to say something respecting the different types of social organization, and something also on social metamorphoses; but we have reached our assigned limits. + VI. -- THE USE OF ANTHROPOMORPHISM. THAT long fit of indignation which seizes all generous natures when in youth they be- in contemplating human affairs, having airly spent itself, there slowly grows up a perception that the institutions, beliefs, and forms so veheinently, condemned are not wholly bad. This reaction runs to various lengths. In some, merely to a comparative coulentment with the arrangements under which they live. In others to a recognition of the fitness that exists between each people and its government, tyrannical as that may be. In some, again, to the conviction that, hateful though it is to us, and injurious as it would be now, slavery was once beneficial —was one of the necessary phases of human progress. Again, in others, to the Suspicion that great benefit has indirectly arisen from the perpetual warfare of past times; insur. ing as this did the spread of the strongest races, and so providing good raw material for civilization. And in a few this 1eaction ends in the generalization that all modes of human thought and action subserve, in the times and places in which they occur, some useful function : that though bad in the ab- stract, they are relatively good—are the best 2.84 T’ROGIRX SS ITS LAW ANI) CAUSE. which the then existing conditions admit of. A startling conclusion to which this faith in the essential beneficence of things com- In its us, is that the 1eligious creeds througli which mankind successively pass, are, dur. ing the eras in which they are sev tally held, the best that could be held ; and that this is 1ſtle, not only of the latest and most refined creeds, but of all, even to the earliest and Inost gross. Those who regard men's faiths as given to them from without—as having origins either directly divine or diabolical, and who, considering their own as the sole example of the one, class all the rest under the other, will think this a very shocking opinion. I can imagine, too, that many of those who have abandoned current theologies and now regard religions as so many natural products of human nature—men who, hav. ing lost that antagonism toward their old creed which they felt while shaking them. selves free from it, can now see that it was highly beneficial to past generations, and is beneficial still to a large part of mankind ; I can imagine, even these hardly prepared to aſ mit that all religions, down to the lowest fetichism, have, in their places, fulfilled use- ful functions. If such, however, will con- sistently develop their ideas, they will find this inference involved. For if it be true that humanity in its cor- tºrate as well as in its individual aspect, is a growth and not a manufacture, it is ob- vious that during each phase men's theolo. gies, as well as their political and social ar- langements, Inust be determined into such forms as the conditions require. In the one case its in the other, by a tentative process, things from time to time resctile themselves in a way that best consists with national equilibrium. As out of plots and the strug- gles of chieftains, it continually results that the strongest gets to the top, and by virtue of his proved superiority insures a period of quiet, and gives society time to grow ; as out of incidental expedients there periodically arise new divisions of labor, which get per- manently established only by serving men's wants better than the previous arrrange- ments did ; so, the creed which each period (volves is one more in conformity with the needs of the time than the creed which pre- ceiled it. Not to lest in general statements, however, let us consider why this must be so. Let us see whether, in the genesis of men's ideas of deity, there is not involved a necessity to conceive of deity under the as: pſ ct most influential with them. It is now generally admitted that a more or less idealized humanity is the form which every conception of a personal God must take. Anthropomorphism is an inevitable Yesult of the laws of thought. We cannot take a step toward constructing an idea of God without the ascription of human attri- butes. We cannot even speak of a divine will without assimilating the divine nature to tºur own ; for we know nothing of volition sayſ, as a property of our own minds. While this anthropomorphic tendency, or rather necessity, is manifested by themselves With sufficient grossness—a grossness that is offensive to those more advanced—Christians are indignant at the still grosser manifosta- tions of it seen among uncivilized men. Cer- tainly, such conceptions as those of some Polynesians, who believe that their gods feed On the souls of the dead, or as those of the Greeks, who ascribed to the personages of their Pantheon every vice, fit m domestic cannibalism downwald, are repulsive enough. But if, ceasing to legard these notions from the outside, we more philosophically regard tlierr; from the Inside—if we consider low they looked to believers, and observe the relationships they bore to the natures and needs of such, we shall begin to think of them with some tolerance. The question to be answeled is, whether these beliefs were beneficent in their cffects on those who held thern ; not whether they would be beneficent for us, or for perfect men ; and to this ques- tion the answer must be that while absolutely bad, they were 1elatively good. For it is not obvious that the Savage man will be most effectually controlled by his fears of a savage deity ? Must it not happen, that if his nature requires great I estraint, the supposed consequences of transgression, to be a check upon him, must be propoltion- ately terrible ; and for these to be proportion. a1ely tertible, in ust not his god be conceived as proportionately cruel and revengeful ? I it, not well that the tº eacherous, thievish, lying Hindoo should believe in a hell wheid the wicked are boiled in Caldrops, rolled down mountains bristling with knives, and sawn asunder between flaming iron posts' And that there may be provided such a hell, is it not needful that he should believe in a divinity delighting in human immolations and the self-torture of fakirs ? Does it not seein clear that during the garlier ages in Christendom, when men's feelings were so hard that a holy father could describe one of the delights of heaven to be the contemplation of the torments of 1he damned—does it not seem clear that while the general nature was so unsympathetic, there needed, to keep men in order, all the prospective tortures de- scribed by Dante and a deity implacable enough to inflict them ż And if, as we thus see, it is well for the Savage man to believe in a savage god, then we may also see the great usefulness of this anthropomorphic tendency ; or, as before said, necessity. We have in it another illus- tration of that essential heneficence of things visible everywhere throughout nature. From this inability under which we labor to conceive of a deity save as some idealization of ourselves, it inevitably resuits that in each age, amoug each people and to a gi eat ex- tent in each individual, there must arise just that conceptiºn of deity best adapted to the needs of the case. If being violent and bloodthirsty the nature be one calling for Stringent control, it evolves the idea of a ruler still Inore violent and bloodthirsty, and fitted to afford this control. When by ages of so- PROGRESS: ITS LAW AND CAUSE. 28% cíal discipline the nature has been partially humanized, and the degree of restraint re- quired has become less, the diabolical char- acteristics before ascribed to the deity cease to be so predominant in the conception of him. And gradually, as all need for rt. straint disappears, this conception approxi- mates toward that of a purely beneficent necessity. Thus, man’s constitution is in this, as in other respects, self adjusting, self-balancing. The mind itself evolves a compensating check to its own movements, varying always in proportion to the require- ment. Its centrifugal and its centripetal forces are necessarily in correspondence, be- cause the one generates the other. And so we find that the forms of both religious and secular rule follow the same law. As an ill- controlled national character produces a de- spotic terrestrial government, so also does it produce a despotic celestial government—the one acting through the Senses, the other through the imagination ; and in the con- vetse case the same relationship holds good. Organic as this relationship is in its origin, no artificial interference can permanently affect it. Whatever pertul bations an exter- mal agency may seem to produce, they are Soon neutralized in fact, if not in appearance. I was recently struck with this in leading a missionary account of the ‘’ gracious visita- tions of the Holy Spirit at Wewa, ’’ one of the Fejee Islands. Describing a “penitent meeting,’’ the account says : “Certainly the feelings of the Wewa peo- ple were not ordinary. They literally roared for hours together for the disquie- tude of their souls. This frequently lei mi- nated in fainting from exhaustion, which was the outy respite some of them had till they found peace. They no sooner recovered their consciousness than they prayed them- selves first into an agony, then again into a state of entire insensibility.” Now these Fejee Islanders are the most savage of all the uncivilized races. They are given to cannibalism, infanticide, and human sacrifices ; they are so bloodthirsty and so treacherous that members of the same family dare not trust each other ; and, in harmony with these characteristics, they have for their aboriginal god, a serpent. Is it not clear, then, that these violent emotions which the missionaries describe, these ter. rors and agonies of despair which they re- joiced over, were nothing but the worship of the old god under a new name? It is not. clear that these Fejees had simply under- stood those parts of the Christian creed which agree in spirit with their own—the Vengevince, the perpetual tornlents, the dia- bolism of it. : that these, harmonizing with their natural conceptions of divine rule, were realized by thern with extreme vividness ; and that the extremity of the fear which made them “literally roar for hours to- gether.’’ arose from the fact that while tkey could fully take in and believe the punitive element, the merciful one was beyond their Comprehension ? This is the obvious infer- ence. And it carries with it the further one, that in essence their new belief was merely their old one under a new form—the same substantial conception with a different his- tory and different names. However great, therefore, may be the seeming change adventitiously produced in a people's 1eligion, the anthropomorphic ten- dency prevents it from being other than a Superficial change—insures such modifica- tions of the new religion as to give it all the potency of the old one—obscures whatever higher elements there may be in it until the people have reached the capability of being acted upon by them : and so, re-establishes the equilibrium between the impulses and the control they need. If any one requires detailed illustrations of this, he will find them in abundance in the history of the modi- fications of Christianity throughout Europe. Ceusing then to 1egard heathen theologies from the personal point of view, and consid- ering them solely with reference to the func- tion they fulfil where they are indigenous, we must recognize them, in common with all theologies, as good for their time and places; and this mental necessity which disables us from conceiving a deity save as some ideali- zation of ourselves, we must recognize n: the agency by which harmony is produced and maintained hetween every phase of hu- man character and its religious creed. CONTENTS. - - PAGE PAGE I. Progress: its Law and Cause..... . . . . . . . . . . 233 IV. The Development Hypothesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 II. #jj of Laughter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253 || W. The Social Organism ... . . . ............... § III. The Örigin and Function of Music ......... 258 | VI. The Use of Anthropomorphism............ 2 ţ. J ！ }· j * * * � w � • ; \， *� % ● } ſae ..., { » * � * ·• THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. IXY EIERBERT SPENCER. PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. co N TENTs. PART I. Causes of Force in Language which Depend upon Economy in the Mental Energies. I.—The Principle of Economy. Applied to Words, V - a- º 508 7 II.—The Effects of Figurative Language Explained, *- - - - 516 * III.-Arrangement of Minor Images in Building up a Thought, *- - tº- 519 2 IV.-The Superiority of Poetry to Prose Explained, - sº gº - 520 PART II. Causes of Force in Language which Depend upon Economy of the Mental Sensibilities, - - a- - * wº * sº * 522 THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. BY *-* THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. PART I. Causes of $7'orce in Language which JDepend Upon Economy of the Mental Energies. I.--THE . PIGINCIPIE OF ECONOMY AP– PUIED TO WORDS. CoMMENTING on the seeming incon- gruity between his father's argumen- tative powers and his ignorance of formal logic, Tristram Shandy says: “It was a matter of just wonder with my worthy tutor, and two or three fellows of that learned society, that a man who knew not so much as the names of his tools, should be able to work after that fashion with them.” Sterne's intended implication that a knowledge of the principles of reason- Ang neither makes, nor is essential to, a good reasoner, is doubtless true. *; HERBERT SPEN CER, Auxicº of “First Principles of Philosophy,” “Social Statics,” of Biology,” “Education,’ tic., etc. “Elements of Psychoicgy,” “iemesicz To which is added: - Thus, too, is it with grammar. As Dr. Latham, condemning the usual school-drill in Lindley Murray, rightly remarks: “Gross vulgarity is a fault to be prevented; but the proper pre- vention is to be got from habit—not rules.” Similarly, there can be little question that good composition is far less dependent upon acquaintance with its laws, than upon practice and natural aptitude. A clear head, a guick imagination, and a sensitive ear, will go far towards making all rhe- torical precepts needless. He whº daily hears and readá well-framed sentences, will naturally more or less teuv to use similar ones. And where tnere exists any mental idiosyncrasy- —where there is a deficient verbal memory, or an inadequate sense of logical dependence, or but little per- ception of order, or a lack of cons structive ingenuity; no amount of instruction will remedy the defect. *f :... [308] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. Nevertheless, some practical result may be expected from a familiality with the principles of style. The endeavor to conform to laws may tel', though slowly. And if in no other way, yet, as facilitating revision, a knowledge of the thing to be achieved —a clear idea of what constitutes a beauty, and what a blemish—cannot fail to be of service. - No general theory of expression seems yet to have been enungrated. The maxims contained in works on composition and rhetoric are presented in an unorganized form. Standing as isolated dogmas—as empirical gener- alizations, they are neither so clearly apprehended, nor so much respected, as they would be were they deduced from some simple first principle. We are told that “brevity is the soul of wit.” We hear styles condemned as verbose or involved. Blair says that every needless part of a sentence “in- terrupts the description and clogs the image:” awl again, that “ long sen- tences fatigue the reader's attention.” It is remarked by Lord Kaims, that “to give the utmost force to a period, it ought, if possible, to be closed with the word that makes the greatest fig- ure.” That parentheses should be avoided and that Saxon words should be used in preference to those of Latin origin, are established precepts. But, however influential the truths thus dogmatically embodied, they would be much more influential if reduced to something like scientific ordination. In this, as in other TöäSGS, conviction will be greatly strengthened when we understand the why. And we may be sure that a comprehension of the general principle from which the rules of composition result, will not only bring them home to us with greater force, but will discover to us other rules of like origin. . . sº - On seeking for some clue to the law underlying these current maxims, we may see shadowed forth in many of them, the importance of economiz- ing the ..º. To so present ideas that they may be apprehended with the least possible thought conveyed. mental effort, is the desideratum to-. wards which most of the rules above quoted point. When we condemn writing that is wordy, or confused, or, intricate—when we praise this style as easy, and blame that as fatiguing, we consciously or unconsciously as Sume this desideratum as our standard of judgment. Regarding language as an apparatus of symbols for the conveyance of thought, we may say that, , as in a mechanical appara- tus, the more simple and the better arranged in its parts, the greater will be the effect produced. In either case, whatever force is absorbed by the machine is deducted from the rº, sult. A leader or listener has at eacºn moment but a limited amount or mental power available. To recog- nize and interpret the symbols pre- sented to him, requires part of this power; to arrange and combine the images suggested, requires a further part ; and only that part which re- mains can be used for realizing the Hence, the more time and attention it takes to receive and understand each sentence, tha less time and attention can be given to the contained idea, and the less vividly will that idea be conceived, ~~ How truly language must be re- garded as a hindrance to thought, though the necessary instrument of it, we shall clearly perceive on re- membering the comparative force with which simple ideas are commun- icated by signs. To say “Leave the room” is less expressive than to oritz; to the door. Placing a finger at the lips is more forcible than whispering “Do not speak.” A beck of the hand. is better than “Come here.” No phrase can convey the idea of sur- prise so vividly as opening the eye. and raising the eyebrows. A shrug of the shoulders would lose much oy translation into words. it. may be remarked that wher. J.,..., Ian. guage is employed, the stronges: -f- fects are produced by interieo..…..., which condense entire sentences into syllables. And in other cases, where custom allows us to express thoughts *sºn, THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [509] 3 by single words, as in Beware, AHeigho, Fudge, much force would be , lost by expanding them into specific | propositions. Hence, carrying out the metaphor that language is the ye- arouse that thought as the term sour. | If we remember how slowly and with what labor the appropriate ideas follow unfamiliar words in another language, } and how increasing familiarity with hicle of thought, there seems reason such words brings greater rapidity to think that in all cases the friction and inertia of the vehicle deduct from; its efficiency ; and that in composi- tion, the chief, if not the sole thing to be done, is to reduce this friction and 2^inertia to the smallest possible amount. Let us then inquire whether economy of the recipient's attention is not the secret of effect, alike in the right choice and collocation of words, in the Wºmºntº clauses in a sen- teſſee, in the proper order of its prin- cíTäſänd subordinate propositions, in the iTTCIOUs use of simile, metaphor and other figures of speech, and even in the -rythmićiſsèqūce of sylla- bles. __---------------- The greater forcibleness of Saxon | English, or rather non-Latin English, first claims our attention. The sever- al special reasons assignable for this Liay all be reduced to the general reason-economy. The most impor-, tant of them. Téârly association. A child's vocabulīy is almost wholly Saxon. He says, I have, not I pos- sess—I wish, not I desire , he does not reflect, he thinks, he does not beg for amusement, but for play; he calls things ºvice or masty, not pleas- ant or disagreeable. The synonyms which he learns in after years never become so closely, so organically con- nected with the ideas signified, as do these original words used in child- hood ; and hence the association re- mains less strong. But in what does a ströIIgſåssociation between a word and an idea differ from a weak one? Simply in the greater ease and rapid- | º g *-*:" ity of the suggestive action. It can be in nothing else. Both of two words, if they be strictly synonymous, eventually call up the same image. The expression, It is acid, must in the end give rise to the same thought, as It is sour ; but because the term acid was learnt later in life, and has not been so often followed by the thought symbolized, it does not so readily and ease of comprehension; and if we consider that the same process must have gone on with the words of our mother tongue from child. hood upwards, we shall clearly see that the earliest learnt and oftenest used words will, other things equal, call up images with less loss of time and energy than their later leart syn- onyms. The further superiority possessed by Saxon English in its comparative brevity, obviously comes under the same generalization. If it be an ad- vantage to express an idea in the smallest number of words, then will smallest number of syllables. If cir- cuitous phrases and needless exple- tives distract the attention and di- minish the strength of the impression produced, then do surplus articula- tion do so. A certain effort, though commonly an inappreciable one, must be required to recognize every vowel and consonant. If, as all know, it is tiresome to listen to an indistinct speaker, or read a badly written man- uscript; and if, as we cannot doubt, the fatigue is a cumulative result of the attention needed to catch success- ive syllables; it follows that atten- tion is in such cases absorbed by each syllable. And if this be true when the syllables are difficult of recogni- tion, it will also be true, though in a less degree, when the recognition of them is easy. Hence, the shortness of Saxon words becomes a reason for their greater force One qualification, however, must not be overlooked. A word which in itself embodies the most important part of the idea to be con veyed, especially when that idea is an emotional one, may often with ad- vantage be a polysyllabic word. Thus it seems more forcible to say, “It is magnificent,” than “It is grand.” The word vast is not so powerful a one as stupendous. Calling a thing * it be an advantage to express it in the , t 4 (510] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. nasty is not so effective as calling it disgusting. There seem to be several causes for this exceptional superiority of certain long words. We may ascribe it part- ly to the fact that a voluminous, mouth-filling epithet is, by its very size, suggestive of largeness or strength; witness the immense pom- posity of sesquipedalian verbiage: and when great power or intensity has to be suggested, this association of ideas aids the effect. A further cause may be that a word of several syllables admits of more emphatic ar- ticulation; and as emphatic articula tion is a sign of emotion, the unusual impressiveness of the thing named is implied by it. Yet another cause is that a long word [of which the latter syllabies are generally inferred as soon as the first are spoken] allows the hearer's consciousness a longer time to dwell upon the quality pre- dicated; and where, as in the above eases, it is to this predicated quality that the entire attention is called, an advantage results from keeping it be- ford the mind for an appreciable time. The reasons which we have given for preferring short words evi- dently do not hold here. So that to make our generalization quite correct we must say, that while in certain sentences expressing strong feeling, the word which more especially im- plies that feeling may often with ad- vantage be a many-syllabled or Latin one ; in the immense majority of caseſ, each word serving but as a step to the idea embodied by the whole sentence, should, if possible, be a one- syllabled or Saxon one. Once more, that frequent cause of strength in Saxon and other primi- tive words, their imitative character, may be similarly resolved into the more general cause. Both those di- rectly imitative, as splash, bang, whiz, roar, etc., and those analogically im- itative, as wough, smooth, keen, blunt, thin, hard, craſſ, etc., have a greater or less likeness to the things symbol- ized; and by making on the senses impressions allied to the ideas to be called up, they save part of the effort needed to call up such ideas, and leave more attention for the ideas them. selves. --T The economy of the recipient's men- tal energy, into which are thus re- Solvable the several causes of the strength of Saxon English, may equal. ly be traced in the superiority of specific over generic words. That concrete terms produce more vivid impressions than abstract ones, and should, when possible, be used instead, is a thorough maxim of composition. As Dr. Campbell says, “The more general the terms are, the picture is the fainter; the more special they are, the brighter.” We should avoid such 3. Sentence àS : In proportion as the manners, customs, and amusements of a nation are cruel and barbarous, the regula- tions of their penal code will be se- Vél'é. * And in place of it we should write: In proportion as inen delight in battles, bull fights, and combats of gladiators, will they punish by hang- ing, burning, and the rack. This superiority of specific expres- sions is clearly due to a saving of the effort required to translate words into thoughts. As we do not think in geº- erals but in particulars—as, whenever any class of things is referred to, we represent it to ourselves by calling to mind individual members of it—it fo!- lows that when an abstract word is used, the hearer or reader has to choose from his stock of images, one or more, by which he may figure to himself the genus mentioned, In do- | \ ing this, some delay must arise—some force be expended; and if, by employ- ing a specific term, an appropriate image can be at once suggested, an economy is achieved, and a more vivid ... …--------...sº :- impression produced. Turning now from the choice words to their sequence, we shall find the same general principle hold good. We have a priori reasons for believ- ing that in every sentence there is some one order of words more effect- ive than any other; and that this order of - THE PEIILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [511] 5 is the one which presents the elements of the proposition in the succession in which they may be most readily put together. As in a narrative, the events should be stated in such Se- quence that the mind may not have to go backwards and forwards in order to rightly connect them; as in a group of sentences, the arrangement should be such, that each of them may be un- derstood as it comes, without waiting for subsequent ones; so in every sen- tence, the sequence of words should be that which suggests the constitu- ents of the thought in the order most convenient for the building up that thought. Duly to enforce this truth, and to prepare the way for applica- tions of it, we must briefly inquire in- to the mental act by which the mean- ing of a series of words is appre- hended. - We cannot more simply do this than by considering the º; “. of the substantive and adjective. Is it betteſ to place the adjective before || the substantiye, or the substantive be- fore the adjective? Ought we to say with the French—wn cheval noir; or to say as we do—a black horse? Probably, most persons of culture would decide that one order is as good as the other. Alive to the bias pro- duced by habit, they would ascribe to that the preference they feel for our own form of expression. They would expect those educated in the use of the opposite form to have an equal preference for that. And thus they would conclude that neither of these instinctive judgments is of any worth. There is, however, a philosophical ground for deciding in favor of the English custom. If “a horse black” be the arrangement, immediately on the utterance of the word “horse,” there arises, or tends to arise, in the mind, a picture answering to that word; and as there has been nothing to indicate what kind of horse, any image of a horse suggests itself. Very likely, however, the image will be that of a brown horse, brown horses being the most familiar. The result is that when the word “black” is added, a check is given to the process of thought. Either the picture of a brown horse already present to the imagination has to be suppressed, and the picture of a black one summoned in its place; or else, if the picture of a brown horse be yet unformed, the tendency to form it has to be stopped. Whichever is the case, a certain amount of hindrance results. But if, on the other hand, “a black horse” be the expression used, no such mistake can be made. The word “black,” in- dicating an abstract quality, arouses no definite idea. It simply prepares the mind for conceiving some object of that color; and the attention is kept suspended until that object is known. If, then, by the precedence of the adjective, the idea is conveyed without liability to error, whereas the precedence of the substantive is apt to produce a misconception, it follows that the one gives the mind less trouble than the other, and is therefore more forcible. Possibly it will be objected that the adjective and substantive come so close together, that practically they may be considered as uttered at the same mo- ment; and that on hearing the phrase, “a horse black,” there is not time to imagine a wrongly-colored horse be- fore the word “black” follows to pre- vent it. It must be owned that it is not easy to decide by introspection whether this is so or not. But there are facts collaterally implying that it is not Our ability to anticipate the words yet unspoken is one of them. If the ideas of the hearer kept con- siderably behind the expressions of the speaker, as the objection assumes, he could hardly foresee the end of a sentence by the time it was half de- livered: yet this constantly happens Were the supposition true, the mind, instead of anticipating, would be con- tinually falling more and more in ar- rear. If the meanings of words are not realized as fast as the words are uttered, then the loss of time over each word must entail such an accumula- tion of delays as to leave a hearer en- tirely behind. But whether the force /Gº THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. of these rephus be or be not admitted, it will scarcely be denied that the right formation of a picture will be facilitated by presenting its elements in the order in which they are wanted; even though the mind should do nothing until it has received them all. What is here said respecting the succession of the adjective and sub- stantive is obviously applicable, by change of terms, to the adverb and verb. And without further explana- tion, it will be manifest, that in the use of prepositions and other particles, most languages spontaneously conform with more or less completeness to this law. * On applying a like analysis to the larger divisions of a sentence, we find not only that the same principle holds good, but that the advantage of re- specting it becomes marked. In the arrangement of predicate and subject, for example, we are at once shown that as the predigate determi aspect under Whigh the subject is to be conceived, it should be placed first; and the striking effect produced by so º ... it becomes comprehensible. ake the often-quoted contrast be- tween “Great is Diana of the Ephe- sians" and “Diana of the Ephesians is great.” When the first arrange- ment is used, the utterance of the word “great” arouses those vague associations of an impressive nature with which it has been habitually connected; the imagination is pre- pared to clothe with high attributes whatever follows; and when the words “Diana of the Ephesians” are heard, all the appropriate imagery which can on the instant be sum- tnoned, is used in the formation of the picture, the mind being thus led directly, and without error, to the in- tended impression. When, on the contrary, the reverse order is followed, the idea, “Diana of the Ephesians,” is conceived with no special reference to greatness; and when the words “is great,” are added, the conception has to be remodelled, whence arises a loss of mental energy and a corre- sponding diminution of effect. The following verse from Coleridge's “Ancient Mariner,” though somewhat. irregular in structure, well illustrates the same truth : & “Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea / And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.” Of course the principle equally ap- plies when redigate Is A Verbºr a participle. And as effect is gaiſed ty placing first all words indicating the quality, conduct or condition of the subject, it follows that the copula also should have precedefice. It is true that the genéral habit of our language resists this arrangement of predicate, copula and subject; but we may readily find instances of the ad- ditional force gained by conforming to it. Thus, in the line from “Julius Caesar’— º, “Then burst this mighty heart,” priority is given to a word embody- ing both predicate and copula. In a passage contained in “The Battle of Flodden Field,” the like order is sys- tematically exployed with great ef. fect : r “The Border slogan rent the sky! A Home! a Gordon 1 was the cry; Loud were the clanging blows: * Advanced—forced back—now low, now high, The pennon sank and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale When rent are rigging, shrouds and sail, It wavered 'mid the foes.” Pursuing the principle yet further, it is obvious that for producing the greatest effect, not only should the ſmain divisions of a sentence observe this sequeñGe, but the sub-divisións of these should be similarly arranged. In nearly all cases, the predicate is accompanied by some limit or quali- fication, called its complement. Com- monly, also, the circumstances of the subject, which form its complement, have to be specified. And as these THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [513] 7 qualifications and circumstances must determine the mode in which the acts and things they belong to are con- ceived, precedence should be given to them. Lord Kaimes notices the fact that this order is preferable, though without giving the reason. He says: “When a circumstance is placed at. the beginning of the period, or near the beginning, the transition from it to the principal subject is agreeable— is like ascending or going upward.” A sentence arranged in illustration of this will be desirable. Here is one: —Whatever it may be in theory, it is clear that in practice the French idea of liberty is—the right of every man to be master of the rest. In this case, were the first two clauses, up to the word “practice,” inclusive, which qualify the subject, to be placed at the end instead of the beginning, much of the force would be lost; as thus: - The French idea of liberty is —the right of every man to be master of the rest; in practice at least, if not in theory. Similarly with respect to the con- ditions under which any fact is predi- cated. Observe in the following ex- ample the effect of putting them last : —How immense would be the stimulus to progress, were the honor now given to wealth and title given exclusively to high achievements and intrinsic worth ! And then observe the superior effect of putting them first : Were the honor now given to wealth and title given exclusively to high achievements and intrinsic worth, how immense would be the stimulous to progress! The effect of giving priority to the complement of the predicate, as well as the predicate itself, is finely dis- played in the opening of “Hyperion:” “Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the lealthy breath of Tnorm, Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star Satgray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.” Here it will be observed, not only that the predicate “sat” precedes the subject “Saturn,” and that the three lines in italics, constituting the com- plement of the predicate, come before it; but that in the structure of that complement also, the same order is followed: each line being so arranged that the qualifying words are placed before the words suggesting concrete Images. - The right succession of the princi- pal and stbordinate propositions in a sentence manifestly depends on the same law. Regard for economy of the recipient's attention, which, as we find, determines the best order for the r subject, copula, predicate, and their complements, dictates that the subor- dinate proposition.shall precede the principal one, when the sentence in- cludes two." Containing, as the sub- ordinate proposition does, some quali- fying or explanatory idea, its priority prevents misconception of the prin- cipal one ; and therefore saves the mental effort needed to correct such misconception. This will be seen in the annexed example. - —The secrecy once maintained in respect to the parliamentary de- bates, is still thought needful diplo. macy ; and in virtue of this secret diplomacy, England may any day be unawares betrayed by its ministers: into a war costing a hundred thousand lives, and hundreds of millions of . treasure: yet the English pique them- selves on being a self-governed people. The two subordinate propositions, ending with the semicolon and colon respectively, almost wholly determine the meaning of the principal propo- sition with which it concludes; and the effect would be lost if they were: placed last instead of first. r The general principle of right ar- rangement in sentences, which we have traced in its application to the leading divisions of them, equally de- termines the proper order of their minor divisions. In every sentence of any complexity the complement to the subject contains several clauses,and that to the predicate several others; and these may be arranged in greater 8 [514] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. or less conformity to the law of easy apprehension. Of course with these, as with the larger members, the suc- cession should be from the less spe- cific to the more specific—from the abstract to the concrete. Now, however, we must notice a further condition to be fulfilled in the proper construction of a sentence; but still a condition dictated by the same general principle with the other: the condition, namely, that the words and expressions most nearly related in Ught shall be brought the closest # Evidently the single Wörds, the miſiór clauses, and the leading di- visions of every proposition, severally qualify each other. The longer the time that elapses between the mention of any qualifying member and the member qualified, the longer must the , mind be exerted in carrying forward the qualifying member ready for use. And the more numerous the qualifica- tions to be simultaneously remembered and rightly applied, the greater will be the mental power expended, and the smaller the effect produced. Hence, other things equal, force will be gained by so arranging the members of a sen- tence that these suspensions shall at âny moment be the fewest in number; and shall also be of the shortest dura- tion. The following is an instance of defective combination : A modern newspaper state- ment, though probably true, would be laughed at, if quoted in a book as tes- timony; but the letter of a court gos- sip, is thought good historical evi- dence, if written some centuries ago. A rearrangement of this, in accord- ance with the principle indicated above, will be found to increase the effect. Thus: - Though probably true, a mod- ern newspaper statement quoted in a book as testimony, would be laughed at ; but the letter of a court gossip, if written some centuries ago, is thought good historical evidence. By making this change, some of the suspensions are avoided and others shortened; while there is less liability to produce premature 3onceptions. s? * The passage quotº below from “Par- adise Lost’ affords a fine instance of a sentence well arranged: alike in the priority of the subordinate members, in the avoidance of long and numer- ous suspensions, and in the corre- spondence between the order of the clauses and the sequence of the phe- momona described, which, by the way, is a further prerequisite to easy com: prehension, and therefore to effect. “As when a prowling wolf, Whom hunger drives to seek new haun” for prey, - Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve In hurdled cotes amid the field secure, Leaps o'er the ience with ease into the fold: : Or as a thief bent to unboard the cash Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, Cross-barr'd, and bolted fast, fear no as- Sault, In at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles: So clomb the first grand thief into God's fold; So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.” . The habitual use of sentences in which all or most of the descriptiya and-limiting-elements—eveeede—these described and limited, gives rise to what is galled the inverted style: a title which is, however, by TOTmeans confined to this structure, but is often used where the Qrder of the words is simply unusual. A more appropriate title would be the direct style, as con- trasted with the other, or indirect style: the peculiarity of the one being, that it conveys each thought into the minºl step by step with little liability to error; and of the other, that it gets the right thought conceived by a se- ries of approximations. The superiority of the direct over the indirect form of sentence, implied by the several conclusions that have been drawn, must not, however, be af- firmed without reservation. Though, up to a certain point, it is well for the qualifying clauses of a period to pre- cede those qualified; yet, as carrying forward each qualifying clause costs THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [515] 9 ºme mental effort, it follows that When the number of them and the time they are carried become great, we reach a limit beyond which more is lost than is gained. Other things equal, the arrangement should be such that no concrete image shall be sug- gested until the materials out of which it is to be made have been presented. And yet, as lately pointed out, other things equal, the fewer the materials to be held at once, and the shorter the distance they have to be borne, the better. Hence in some cases it be- comes a question whether most men- tal effort will be entailed by the many and long suspensions, or by the cor- rection of successive misconceptions. This question may sometimes be decided by considering the capacity of the persons addressed. A greater grasp of mind is required for the ready comprehensin of thoughts expressed in the direct manner, where the sen- tences are anywise intricate. To re- collect a number of preliminaries stated in elucidation of a coming idea, and to apply them all to the forma- tion of it when suggested, demands a good memory and considerable power of concentration. To one pos- sessing these, the direct method will mostly seem the best ; while to one deficient in them it will seem the worst. Just as it may cost a strong man less effort to carry a hundred-weight from place to place at once, than by a stone at a time; so, to an active mind it may be easier to bear along all the qualifications of an idea and at once rightly form it when named, than to first imperfectly cenceive such idea and then carry back to it, one by one, the details and limitations afterwards mentioned. While conversely, as for a boy, the only possible mode of transferring a hundred-weight, is that of taking it in portions; so, for a weak mind, the only possible mode of forming a com- pound conception may be that of building it up by carrying sepa- rately its several parts. That the indirect—method—the sºlº method of gor Ag the meaning b a series of approximations—is best fitted for the uncultivated, may in- deed be inferred from their habitual use of it. The form of expression adopted by the savage, as in—“Wa- ter, give me,” is the simplest type of the approximate arrangement. In pleonasms, which are comparatively prevalent among the uneducated, the same essential structure is seen ; as, for instance, in-‘‘The men, they were there.” Again, the old possessive case—“The king, his crown,” con- forms to the like order of thought. Moreover, the fact that the indirect mode is called the natural one, im- plies that it is the one spontaneously employed by the common people : that is—the one easiest for undisci- plined minds. - . There are many cases, however, in which neither the direct nor the in- direct structure is the best ; but where an intermediate structure is preferable º.º. to botn"Whérºthéºtimber of cir- cumstances and qualifications to be included in the sentence is great, the most judicious course is neither to enumerate them all before introduc. ing the idea to which they belong, mor to put this idea first and let it be remodelled to agree with the particu- lars afterwards mentioned ; but to do a little of eagh. Take a case. It is desirable to avoid so extremely indi- rect an arrangement as the follow- Ing: . ——“We came to our journey's. end, at last, with no small difficulty. after much fatigue, through deep, roads, and bad weather.” - Yet to transform this into an en- tirely indirect sentence would not. produce a satisfactory effect; as wit– I] eSS : At last, with no small difficul- ty, after much fatigue, through deep, roads, and bad weather, we came to. our journey's end. Dr. Whately, from whom we quote. the first of these two arrangements, proposes this construction: “At last, after much fatigue, through deep roads and bad weather, we came, with no small difficulty, to our journey's end.” Here it will be observed that by 10 [516] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. introducing the words “we came " a little earlier in the sentence, the labor of carrying forward so many particu- lars is diminished, and the subsequent qualification “with no small difficul- ty” entails an addition to the thought that is very easily made. But a further improvement may be pro- duced by introducing the words “we came " still earlier; especially if at the same time the qualifications be rearranged in conformity with the principle already explained, that the more abstract elements of the thought should come before the more con- crete. Observe the better effect ob. tained by making these two changes: ——At last, with no small diffi- culty, and after much fatigue, we came, through deep roads and bad weather, to our journey's end. This reads with comparative smooth- ness; that is, with less hindrance from suspensions and reconstructions of thought—with less mental effort Before dismissing this branch of our subject, it should be further re- marked, that even when addressing the most vigorous intellects, the dia rººtstyle is unfit for çommunicating ideas of a gomºlºgº abstragiºghār- acter. So long as the mind has not miſch to do, it may be well able to grasp all the preparatory clauses of a sentence, and to use them effectively; but if some subtlety in the argument absorb the attention—if every faculty be strained in endeavoring to catch the speaker's or writer's drift, it may happen that the mind, unable to carry on both processes at once, will break down, and allow the elements of the thought to lapse into confusion. II.--THE EFFECT or FIGURATIVE LAN- GUAGE EXPLAINED. i Turning now to consider figures of speech, we may equally discern the same general law of effect Under- lying all the rules given for the choice and right use of them, we shall find the same fundamental require- ment—economy of attention. It is, indeed, chiefly because they so well subserve this requirement, that fig- ures of speech are employed. To bril e mind more easily to the de- sited conceptiºn is Tin many TGSGS solely, and in all cases mainly, their * tº et us begin with the figure called Syngghdoche. The advantage some- timesgåſhed by putting a part for the whole is due to the more conve- nient, or more accurate, presentātion 5f the idea. If, instead of sāyīāg" a fleet of ten ships,” we say “a fleet of ten sail,” the picture of a group of vessels at sea is more readily sug- gested; and is so because the sails constitute the most conspicuous parts of vessels so circumstanced, whereas the word ships would very likely re- mind us of vessels in dock. Again, to say “All hands to the pumps” is better than to say “All men to the pumps,” as it suggests the men in the | special attitude intended, and so saves effort. Bringing “gray hairs with sorrow to the grave" is another ex- pression, the effect of which has the S3, Illê CàUISè. The occasional increase-of-forge produced by Metonymy pay be sim- # *-*ºtºrºiºsº- ilarly accounted for. § *rº rality of the bar” is a phrase both more brief and significant than the literal one it stands for. A belief in the ultimate Supremacy of intelligence over brute force, is conveyed in a more concrete and therefore more re- alizable form, if we substitute the pew and the sword for the two abstract terms. To say “Beware of drink- ing!” is less effective than to say “Beware of the bottle /" and is so, clearly, because it calls up a less spe- cific image. º The Simile is in many cases used shi h—a view rnament—but. whenever it increases the force of a passage,it dº sºy being-anºn omy. Here in arr TTIstance: -- *—i. illusion that great men and great events came oftener in ear- ly times than now, is partly due to historical perspective. As in a range of equidistant columns, the furthest *A* [Yl THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [517]:11 off look the closest : so, the conspicu- ous objects of the past seem more thickly clustered the more remote they are. To construct by a process of literal explanation, the thought thus con- veyed would take many sentences, and the first elements of the picture would become faint while the imag- ination was busy in adding the oth- ers But by the help of a compari- son all effort is saved—the picture is instantly realized and its full effect produced. Of the position of the Simile,” it needs only to remark that what has been said respecting the order of the adjective and substantive, predicate and subject, principal and subordinate propositions, etc., is applicable here. As whatever qualifies should precede whatever is qualified, force will gen- erally be gained by placing the simile before the object to which it is ap- lº That this arrangement is the rest, may be seen in the following passage from the “Lady of the Lake”: “As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stav, And at the monarch's feet she lay.” Inverting these couplets will be found to diminish the effect considerably. There are cases, however, even where the simile is a simple one, in which it may with advantage be placed last, As in these lines from Alexander Smith’s “L fe Drama”. “I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.” The reason for this seems to be *Properly, the term “simile” is appli- cable only to the entire figure, inclusive of the two things compared and the com- parison drawn between them. But as £- there exists no name for the illustrative' member of the figure, there seems no al- ternative but to employ “simile” to ex- press this also. ach case, show in which sense the word is used. - 3 This context will, in that so abstract an idea as that at- taching to the word “future” does not present itself to the mind in any defi- nite form, and hence the subsequent arrival at the simile entails no recon- struction of the thought. Such, however, are not the only cases in which this order is the most forcible. As the advantage of put- ting the simile before the object de- pends on its being carried forward in the mind to assist in forming an im- age of the object, it must happen that if, from length or complexity, it can- not be so carried forward, the advan- tage is not gained. The annexed sonnet, by Coleridge, is defective from this cause: gº • “As when a child, on some long Win- ter's night, Affrighted, clinging to its grandam's : knees, With eager wond'ring and perturb’d delight - Listens strange tales of fearful dark de- erees, Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell; - Or of those hags who at the witching time - Of murky midnight, ride the air sub- lime, ...' And mingle foul embrace with fiends of hell; - Cold horror drinks its blood | Anon the tear More gentle starts, to hear the beldame tell Of pretty babes, that lov’d each other dear, Murder'd by cruel uncle's mandate fell: Ev’n such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart, - - Ev’n so, thou, Siddons, meltest my sail heart.” IIere, from the lapse of time and accumulation of circumstances, the first part of the comparison is forgot- ten before its application is reached, and requires re-reading. Had the main idea been first mentioned, less effort. would have been required to retain it. and to modify the conception of it. into harmony with the comparison than to remember the comparison-and refer back to its successive features 12 [518] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. for help in forming the final image. The superiority of the Metaphor to the Simile is ascribed by Dr. Whately to the fact that “all men are more gratified at catching the resemblance for themselves than in having it pointed out to them.” But after what has been said, the great econo- my it achieves will seem the more probable cause Lear's exclamation— “Ingratitudel thou:marble-hcarted fiend,” would lose part of its effect were it changed into— “Ingratitude thou ſlend with heart like marble;” and the loss would result partly from the position of the simile and partly from the extra number of words re- quired. When the comparison is an involved one, the greater force of the metaphor, consequent on its greater brevity, becomes much more conspicu- ous. "Tſ, drawing an analogy between mental and physical phenomena, we As, in passing through the crystal, beams of white light are de- composed into the colors of the rain- bow; so, in traversing the soul of the poet, the colorless rays of truth are transformed into brightly tinted po- etry; - it is clear that in receiving the double set of words expressing the two halves of the comparison, and in carrying the one half to the other, considerable attention is absorbed. Most of this is saved, however, by putting the com- parison in a metaphorical form, thus: The white light of truth, in traversing the many sided transparent soul of the poet, is refracted into iris hued poetry. How much is conveyed in a few words by the help of the Metaphor, and how vivid the effect consequently produced, may be abundantly exem- plified. From “A Life Drama” may be quoted the phrase, “I spear'd him with a jest,” as a fine instance among the many Evidemy. It which that poem contains. A passage in the “Prometheus Unbound,” of Shelley, displays the power of the Metaphor to great advantage : “Methought among the lawns together We wandered underneath the young gray dawn, - - - And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds . Were wandering in thick flocks along the In Ollntains Shepherded by the slow unwilling wind.” This last expression is remarkable for the distinctness with which it re- alizes the features of the scene: bring- ing the mind, as it were, by a bound to the desired conception. But a limit is put to the advantage- Qus use of the Metaphor, by the con- dition that it must be sufficiently simple to be understood tram-a-hir ITthere be any obscurity in the meaning or application of it, no economy of attention will be gained; but rather the reverse. Hence, when the comparison is complex, it is usual to have recourse to the Simile. There is, however, a species of figure, some- times classed under RAllegory, but which might, perhaps, be bêtter called Compound Metaphor, that enables us to retain the brevity of the metaphori. cal form even when the analogy is in- tricate. This is done by indicating the application of the figure at the outset, and then leaving the mind to continue the parallel. Emerson has employed it with great effect in the first of his “Letures on the Times": “The main interest which any aspects of the times can have for us, is the great Spirt which gazes through them, the light which they can shed on the wonderful questions, What are we, and Whither do we tend ? We do not wish to be de- ceived. Here we drift, like white sail across the wild ocean, now bright on the wave, now darkling in the trough of the sea; but from what port did we sail : Who knows? Or to what port are we bound 3. Who knows? There is no one to tell us but such poor weather-tossed mariners as ourselves, whom we speak as as we pass. or who have hoisted some signal, or floated to us some letters in a bottle from afar. But what know they THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. ſö19] 13 more than we ? They also found them- selves on this wondrous sea. No ; from the older sailors nothing. Over all their speaking trumpets the gray sea and the loud winds answer—Not in us; not in Time.” The division of the Simile from the Metaphor is by no means a definite one. Between the one extreme in which the two elements of the comparison are detailed at full length and the analogy pointed out, and the other extreme in which the comparison is implied instead of stated, come in- termediate forms, in which the com- parison is partly stated and partly im- plied. For instance: –Astonished at the performanees of the English plow, the Hindoos paint it, set it up, and worship it; thus turning a tool into an idol: lin- guists do the same with language. There is an evident advantage in leaving the reader or hearer to com- rºlete the figure. And generally these intermediate forms are good in pro- portion as they do this; provided the mode of completing it be obvious. Passing over much that may be said of like purport upon Hyperbole, Per- sonification, Apostrophe, etc., let us close our remarks upon a construction by a typical example. The general principle which has been enunciated is, that other things equal, theforge of all verbal forms and arrangements.is great, in proportion, as the time and mental effort they demand for the re- cipient is sińall. The corollaries from this général principle have been sev- erally illustrated; and it has been shown that the relative goodness of sny two modes of expressing an idea, may be determined by observing which requires the shortest process of thought for its comprehension. But though conformity in particular points has been exemplified, no cases of com- plete conformity have yet been quoted. It is indeed difficult to find them ; for the English idiom does not commonly permit the order which theory dictates. A few, however, occur in Ossian. Here is one : “As Autumn's dark storm pours from two echoing hills, so towards each other approached the hcrocs. As two dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plain: loud, rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inisfail. * * * As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven; such is noise of the battle.” Except in the position of the verb in the first two similes, the theoreti- cally best arrangement is fully carried out in each of these sentences. The simile comes before the qualified *mage, the adjectives before the sub- is "ntives, the predicate and copula becce the subject, and their respective complements before them. That the passage is open to the charge of being bombastic proves nothing ; or rather, proves our case. For what is bom- bast but a force of expression too great for the magnitude of the ideas embodied ? All that may rightly be inferredis, that only in very rare cases, and then only to produce a climax, should all the conditions of effective expression be fulfilled. --- III.-AIRRANGEMIENT OF MINOR IMAGES IN BUILDING UP A TIROUGHT. Passing on to a more complex ap- plication of the doctrine with which we set out, it must now be remarked, that not only in the structure of sen- tences, TâûTThe use of figures of ºft, Inay economy of the reci i. ient's mentāſēnērgy be assigned as the GâûSé of force; but that in the choice and arrangement of the minor images.--Toryman-some Targe #. Fº is To be built up, we may trace the same condition to effect. To select from the sentiment, scene, or event described, those typical ele- ments which carry many others along with them ; and so, by saying a few things but suggesting many, to abridge the description ; is the secret of producing a vivid impression. An extract from Tennyson’s “Mariana” will well illustrate this: 14 [580) THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. “All day within the dreamy house, The door upon the hinges creaked, The blue fly sung i' the pane; the in Ouse Behind the shrieked, - Or from the crevice peered about.” moldering wainscot The several circumstances here spe- cified bring with them many appro- priate associations. Our attention is rarely drawn by the buzzing of a fly in the window, save when everything is still. While the inmates are mov- ing about the house, mice usually keep silence; and it is only when ex- treme quietness reigns that they peep from their retreats. Hence each o' the facts mentioned presupposes … a- merous others, calls up these with more or less distinctness; and revives the feeling of dull solitude wit, which they are connected in our exper, nee. Were ail these facts detailed inste, d of suggested, the attention would be so frittered away that little impres- Fion of dreariness would be produced. Similarly in other cases. Whatever the nature of the thought to be con- veyed, this skillful selection of a few particulars which imply the rest, is the key to success. In the choice of competent ideas, as in the choice of expressions, the aim must be to con- vey the greatest quantity of thoughts with the smallest quantity of words. The same principle may in some cases be advantageously carried yet further, by indirectly suggesting some entirely distinct thought in addition to the one expressed. Thus, if we Say, - The head of a good classic is tº as full of ancient myths, as that of a servant-girl of ghost stories; * *. it is manifest that besides the fact as- serted, there is an implied opinion respecting the small value of classical knowledge: and as this implied opin- ion is recognized much sooner than it can be put into words, there is gain in omitting it. In other cases, again, great effect is produced by an overt 9pmission; provided the nature of the idea left out is obvious. A good in- stance of this occurs Th “Heroes and mire. Hero-worship.” After describing the way in which Burns was sacrificed to the idle curiosity of Lion-hunters— people who came not out of sympathy. but merely to see him—people who sought a little amusement, and who got their amusement while “the He- ro's life went for it !” Carlyle sug- gests a parallel thus: “Richter says, in the Island of Su- matra there is a kind of “Light- chafers,’ large Fire-flies, which peo- ple stick upon spits, and illuminate the ways with at night. Persons of condition can thus travel with a plea- sant radiance, which they much ad- Great honor to the Fire-flies But—!—” ~~ .* Iv.–THE SUPERIORITY OF POETRY. To . PROSE EXPLAINED. Before inquiring whether the law of cffect, thus far traced, explains the superiority of poetry to prose, it will be needful to notice some supplerºn- - ve not yet been mentioned. These are not, properly speaking, ad- ditional causes; but rather secondary. ones, originating from those already specified—reflex results of them. In the first place, then, we may remark that mental excitement spantaneously prompts the use of those forms of speech which have been pointed out as the most effective. “Out with him 1" “Away with him 1" are the natural utterances of angry citizens at a disturbed meeting. A voyager, dscribing a terrible storm he had wit: messed, would rise to some such cli- max as–“Crack went the ropes and down came the mast.” Astonishment may be heard expressed in the phrase —“Never was there such a sight !” All of which sentences are, it will be observed, constructed after the direct type. Again, every one knows that exited persons are given to figures of speech. The vituperation of the vulgar abounds with them: often, in: deed, consists of little else. “Beast," “brute,” “gallows regue,” “cut- throat villain,” these, and other like THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. [521] 15 metaphors and metaphorical epithets, or inverted form of sentence predom- at once call to mind a street quarrel. |inates in them, and that to a degree Further, it may be noticed that ex-| quite inadmissible in prose. And not treme brevity is another characteris. only in the frequency, but in what is tic of passionate language. The sen- termed the violence of the inversions, tences are generally incomplete; the will this distinction be remarked. In particles are omitted; and frequently the abundant use of figures, again, important words are left to be gath- we may recognize the same truth. ered from the context. Great admi-|Metaphors, similes, hyperboles and ration does not vent itself in a precise personifications are the poet's colors, proposition, as-“It is beautiful; ” which he has liberty to employ al- but in the simple exclamation,-- most without limit. We characterize “Beautiful!” He who, when read- as “poetical” tha prose which uses ing a lawyer's letter, should say, these appliances of language with any “Vile rascall ” would be thought|frequency, and condemn it as “over angry; while, “He is a vile rascal 1"|florid” or “affected” long before they would imply comparative coolness. occur with the profusion allowed in Thus we see that alike in the order verse. Further, let it be remarked of the words, in the frequent use of that in brevity—the other requisite of figures, and in extreme conciseness, forcible expression which theory the natural utterances of excitement points out and emotion spontaneously conform to the theoretical conditions |fulfils—poetical phraseology similarly of forcible expression. differs from ordinary phraseology. Hence, then, the higher forms of Imperfect periods are frequent, clis- speech acquire a secondary strength ions are perpetual and many of the from association. Having, in actual |minor words, which would be deemed life, habitually heard them in connec- essential in prose, are dispensed with. tion with vivid mental impressions, Thus, poetry, regarded as a vehicles. and having been accustomed to meet of thought, is especilly impressive, with them in the most powerful partly because it obeys all the laws writing, they come to have in them- of effective speech and partly because selves a species of force. The emo- in so doing it imitates the natural ut- tions that have from time to time terances of excitement. While the been produced by the strong thoughts matter elabodied is idealized emotion, wrapped up in these forms, are par- the vehicle is the idealized language tially aroused by the forms them- of emotion. As the musical composer selves, They create a certain degree catches the cadences in which our of animation ; they induce a prepara. feelings of joy and sympathy, grief tory sympathy, and when the striking and despair vent themselves, and out. ideas looked for are reached, they are of these germs evolves molodies sug- the more vividly realized, gesting higher phases of these feel- The continuous use of these modes.|ings; so, the poet develops from the. of expression, that are alike forcible|typical expressions in which men ut- in themselves and forcible from their tetºpassion and sentiment those choice. associations, produces the peculiarly forms of verbal combination in which impressive species of \omposition concentiated passion and sentiment. which we call poetry. Roetr } may be fitly presented. shall find, habitually adópts: * | There is one peculiarity of poetry, symbols of thought and thosó ucing much to its effect—the pe-- Öf using them which instinct” rity which is, indeed, usually alysis agree in choosing as most ef-|thought its characteristic one—still, fective, and becºmes poetry by virtue remaining to be considered ; we means of doing this. On turning back to its .# structure. This im- the various spedimens that have been probable though it seems, will be. found to come under the same-genere. quoted, it will be seen that the direct 16 [522] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. alization with the others. Like each of them, it is an idealization of the matural language of strong emotion, which is known to be more or less metrical if the emotion be not too vio- lent, and like each of them, it is an economy of the reader's or hearer's attention. In the peculiar tone and manner we adopt in uttering versified language, may be discerned its rela- tionship to the feelings, and the pleas- ure which its measured movement gives us is ascribable to the compar- ative ease, with which words metri- cally arranged can be recognized. This last position will scarcely be at once admitted; but a little expla- nation will show its reasonableness. For if, as we have seen, there is an expenditure of mental energy in the mere act of listening to verbal artic- ulations, or in that silent repetition of them which goes on in reading—if the perceptive faculties must be in active exercise to identify every syl- lable—then, any mode of so combin- ing words as to present a regular re- currence of certain traits which the mind can anticipate, will that strain upon the attenti by the totallinºgularity—of . Just as the body in receiving a of varying concussions, must keep the muscles ready to meet the most vio- lent of them, as not knowing when such may come: so, the mind in re- ceiving unarranged articulations, must keep its perceptives active enough to recognize the least easily caught sounds. And as, if the concussions recur in a definite order, the body may husband its forces by adjusting the resistance needful for each concus- sion; so, if the syllables be rhythmic- ally arranged, the mind may econo- mize its energies by anticipating the attention required for each syllable. Far-fetched though this idea will "perhaps be thought, a little introspec- tion will countenance it. That we do take advantage of metrical language to adjust our perceptive faculities to the force of the expected articula- tions, is clear from the fact that we are balked by halting versification. *ITV diminish-- equired Much as at the bottom of a flight of stairs, a step more or less than we counted upon gives us a shock; so, too, does a misplaced accent or a su- pernumerary syllable. In the one case, we know that there is an erro. neous preadjustment; and we can scarcely doubt that there is one in the other. But if we habitually pre- adjust our perceptions to the meas- ured movement of verse, the physical analogy above given renders it prob- able that by So doing we economize attention; and hence that metrical language is more effective than prose, because it enables us to do this, Were there space, it might be worth while to inquire whether the pleasure we take in rhyme, and also that which we take in euphony, are not partly ascribable to the same general cause. FART II. Causes of Force in Language which Depend Upon Economy of the Mental Servsööilities. . A few paragraphs only, can be de- voted to a second division of our sub- ject that here presents itself. To pursue in detail the laws of effect, as applying to the larger features of composition, would carry us beyond our limits. But we may briefly indi- cate a further aspect of the general principle hitherto traced out, and hint a few of its wider applications. Thus far, then, we have considered only those causes of force in language which depend upon egonomy of the mental energies: we have now to glance at those which depend upon economy of the mental sensibilities. Questionable though this division may be as a psychological one, it will yet serve roughly to indicate the remaining field of investigation. It will suggest that besides considering the extent to which any faculty or group of faculties is tasked in receiv- ing a form of words and realizing its THE PHILosophy of STYLE. [522] 17 contained idea, we have to consider the s tº • group of faculties is left. and how state. Wit going at length i so wide a topic as the exercise of faculties and its reactive effects, it will be sufficient here to call to mind that every faculty (when in a state of normal activity) is most capable at the outset; and that the change in its condition, which ends in what we term exhaustion, begins simultaneous- ly wiſh its exercise. This generaliza- tion, with which we are all familiar in our bodily experiences, and which our daily language recognizes as true of the mind as a whole, is equally true of each mental power, from the simplest of the senses to the most complex of the sentiments. If we hold a flower to the nose for long, we become insensible to its scent. We say of a very brilliant flash of light- ning that it blinds us; which means that our eyes have for a time lost their ability to appreciate light. Af- ter eating a quantity of honey, we are apt to think our tea is without sugar. The phrase “a deafening roar,” implies that men find a very loud sound temporarily incapacitates them for hearing faint ones. To a hand which has for some time carried a heavy body, small bodies afterwards lifted seem to have lost their weight. Now, the truth at once recºgnized in these, its extreme manifestations, may be traced throughout. It may be shown that alike in the reflective faculties, in the imagination, in the perceptions of the beautiful, the lu. dicrous, the sublime, in the senti- ments, the instincts, in all the mental powers, however we may classify them—action exhausts; and that in proportion as the action-is-violent, the subsequent prostralian-is-great. . y, throughout the whole na- ture, may be traced the law that ex- ercised faculties are ever tending to resume their original state. Not only after continued rest, do they regain their full power shot only do brief ...~~~"º: mediately succeed. cessations partially *::::::::::::::: - but even while they are IITâction, the resulting exhaustion is ever being neutralized. The two processes of Waste, and repair go-gn together- Hence with faculties habitually exer- cised—as the senses of all persons, or the muscles of any one who is strong —it happens that, during moderate activity, the repair is so nearly equal to the waste, that the diminution of power is scarcely appreciable; and it is only when the activity has been long continued, or has been very vio- lent, that the repair becomes so far in arrear of the waste as to produce a perceptible prostration. In all cases, however, when, by the action of a faculty, waste has been incurred, some lapse of time must take place before full efficiency can be reac- quired; and this time must be long in proportion as the waste has been great. IKeeping in mind these general truths, we shall be in a condition to understand certain causes of effect in composition now to be considered. Every perception received, and every conception realized, entailing some amount of waste—or, as Liebig would say, some change of matter in the brain; and the efficiency of the facul- ties subject to this waste being there- by temporarily, though often but mo– mentarily, diminished; the resulting partial inability must affect the acts of perception and conception that im- Iſlº, *Sº idness with which images are ré will, in many cases, depend on the ords.So their presentation: even when one order is as-Gönvenient to the trºrder- standing He Ormer. There äFe Sündry facts which alike illustrate this, and are explained by it. Climax is one of them. The marked effect obtained by placing last the most striking of any series of images, and the weakness—often the ludicrous weakness—produced by reversing this arrangement, depends on the general law indicated. Asim- mediately after looking at the sun we 18 [524] THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. cannot perceive the light of a fire, while by looking at the fire first and the sun afterwards we can perceive both; so, after receiving a brilliant, or weighty, or terrible thought, we cannot appreciate a less brilliant, less weighty, or less terrible one, while, by reversing the order, we can appre- ciate each. In Antithesis, again, we may recognize the same general truth. The opposition of two thoughts that are the feverse CTCTC r in soſ.T.I.Töfflinent trait, insures an im- pressive effect; and does this by giv- ing a momentary relaxation to the faculties addressed. If, after a series of images of an ordinary character, appealing in a moderate degree to the sentiment of reverence, or approba- tion, or beauty, the mind has pre- sented to it a very insignificant, a very unworthy, or a very ugly image; the faculty of reverence, or approba- tion, or beauty, as the case may be, having for the time nothing to do, tends to resume its full power; and will immediately afterwards appre- ciate a vast, admirable, or beautiful image better than it would otherwise do. Conversely, where the idea of absurdity due to extreme insignifi- cance is to be produced, it may be greatly intensified by placing it after something highly impressive: espe- cially if the form of phrase implies that something still more impressive is coming. A good illustration of the effect gained by thus presenting a petty idea to a consciousness that has not yet recovered from the shock of an exciting one, occurs in a sketch by Balzac. His hero writes to a mistress who has cooled towards N the following letter: “Madame -—Votre conduite m'étonne- antant qu’elle m'afilige. Non contente. tle me déchirer le coeur par vos dédains, vous avez l'indélicatesse de me retenir une brosse à dents, que mes moyens ne me permettent pas de remplacer, mes pro- priétés étant grevées d'hypothèques. “Adieu, trop belle et trop ingrate amic l Puissionsnous mous revoir dans un monde meilleur ! “CHARLEs—ED3UARD.” Thus we see that the phenomena of Climax, Antithesis, and Anticlimax, alike result from this general princi- ple. Improbable as these momentary variations in susceptibility may seem, we cannot doubt their occurrence when we contemplate the analagous variations in the susceptibility of the senses. Referring once more to phe- nomena of vision, every one knows that a patch of black on a white. ground looks blacker, and a patch of white on a black ground looks whiter, than elsewhere. As the blackness and the whiteness must really be the same, the only assignable cause for this is a difference in their actious upon us, dependent upon the different states of our facultie It is simply a visual antithesis. But this extension of the general principle of economy—this further condition to effective composition, that the sensitiveness of the faculties. must be continuously husbanded 4– includes much more than has been yet hinted. It implies not only that certain arrangements and certain jux- tapositions of connected ideas are best ; but that some modes of divid- ing and presenting a sūbjeet will be more striking than others; hat, too, irrespective-of-its logical cohe- sion. It shows why we must pro- ***-*... . .aix.- ..., a , gress from the less interesting to the -******** -º- a -º more interesting; and why not only the composition as a whole, but each of its successive p rtions, should tend towards a climax. At the same time, ſit forbids long continuity of the same kind of thought, or repeated produc- tion of like effects. It warns us against the error committed both by Pope in his poems and by Bacon in his essays—the error, namely, of con- antly employing forcible forms of Tession: and it points out that as thèTéâsiest posture by and by be. comes fatiguing, and is with pleasure exchanged for one less easy, so, the most perfectly-constructed sentences will soon weary, and relief will be given by using those of an inferior kind. Further, we may infer from it not only that should we avoid generally combining our words in one manner, THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. |B25] 19 º however good, or working out our figures and illustrations in one way, however telling; but that we should avoid anything like uniform adher- ence, even to the wider conditions of effect. We should not make every section of our subj terest; we should not always rise to x. As we saw that, in single sentences, it is but rarely allowable to fulfill all the conditions to strength : so, in the larger sections of a compo- sitions we must not often conform en- tirely to the law indicated. We must subordinate the component effect to the total effect. In deciding how practically to car- ry out the principles of artistic com- position, we may derive help by bear- ing in mind a fact already pointed out—the fitness of certain verbal ar- rangements for certain kinds of thought. That constant variety in the mode of presenting ideas which the theory demands, wili in a great degree result from a skillful adapta- tion of the form to the matter. We saw how the direct or inverted sen- tence is spontaneously used by ex- cited people; and how their language *e also characterized by figures of speech and by extreme brevity. Henge these may with advantage predominate in emotional passages; and may increase as the emotion rises. On the other hand, for com- lex ideas, the indirect sentence $3eems the best vehicle:--In-conver- sation, the excitement produced by the near approach to a desired con- clusion, will º show itself in a series of shoºt, sharp sentences; while, in impressing a view already enunciated, we generally make our periods voluminous by piling thought upon thought. These natural modes of procedure may serve as guides in writing. Keen observation and skill- ful analysis would, in like manner, detect further peculiarities of expres- sion produced by other attitudes of mind; and by paying due attention to all such traits, a writer possessed of sufficient versatility might make ect progress in in-l 3 to |tences which are theoretically best, Some approach to a completely or- gainzed work. This species of composition which the law of effect points out as the perfect one, is the one which high genius tends maturally to produce. As we found that the kinds of sen- are those generally employed by su- perior minds, and by inferior minds when excitement has raised them; so, we shall find that the ideal form for a poem, essay, or fiction, is that which the ideal writer would evolve spontaneously. One in whom the powers of expression fully responded to the state of feeling, would uncon- sciously use that variety in the mode of presenting his thoughts which Art demands. This constant employment of one species of phraseology, which all have now to strive against, implies an undeveloped faculty of language. To have a specific style is to be poor in speech. If we remember that, in the far past, men had only nouns and verbs to convey their ideas with, and that from then to now the growth has been towards a greater number of implements of thought, and conse. quently towards a greater complexity and variety in their combinations; we may infer that we are now, in our use of sentences, much what the primitive man was in his use of words; and that a continuance of the process that has hitherto gone on, must produce increasing heterogeneity in our modes of expression. As now, in a fine nature, the play of the fea- tures, the tones of the voice and its cadences, vary in harmony with every thought uttered; so, in one possessed of a fully-developed power of speech, the mould in which each combination of words is cast will similarly var with, and be appropriate to the senti- ment. That a perfectly endowed man must unconsciously write in all styles, we may infer from considering how styles originate. Why is Johnson pompous, Goldsmith simple? Why is one au- thor abrupt, another rhythmical, an- 30 [526) THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. ether concise? Evidently in each case the habitual mode of utterance must depend upon the habitual bal- ance of the nature. tellect to represent them. But while The predominant feelings have by use trained the in- g, though unconscious, discipline has made it do this efficiently, it re- mains from lack of practice, incapa- { ble of doing the same for the less ac- tive feelings; and when these are ex- cited, the usual verbal forms undergo but slight modifications. powers of speech be fully developed, however—let the ability of the intel- lect to utter the emotions becomplete; and this fixity of style will disappear. The perfect writer will express him- self as Junius, when in the Junius frame of mind; when he feels as Lamb felt, will use a like familiar speech; and will fall into the rugged- ness of Carlyle when in a Carlylean, mood. Now he will be rhythmical Tet the and now irregular; here his language will ain and there ornate; SOmre- times his sentences will be balanced and at other times unsymmetrical; . for a while there will be considerable sameness, and then again great variety. His mode of expression naturally re- sponding to his state of feeling, there will flow from his pen a composition changing to the same degree that the aspects of his subject change. He will thus without effort conform to what we have seen to be the laws of effect. And while his work presents to the reader that variety-ſeedful to prevent continuous exertion of the # faculties, it wilſ also Tănswer to the description of all highly-organized products, both of man and of nature: it will be not a series,#!". simply placed in jūkāpósition, but one whole made up of unlike parta hat are mutually dependent. y E S S A. Y. S. HERBERT SPENCER. Of Laws in General, and the Order of their Discovery, The Origin of Animal Worship, Political Fetichism, Specialized Administration, “The Collective Wisdom,” Reasons for Dissenting from the Philosophy of Comte, What is Electricity ? SPENCER'S ESSAYS. {; O N T E N T S : 435 442 454 57.1 593 606 619 THREE viz.: LAWS, AND THE ORDER OF THEIR DISCOVERY ; ORIGIN OF ANIMAL wor- ESSAYS, SHIP ; AND POLITICAL FETICHISM. By HERBERT SPENCER. OF LAWS IN GENERAL, AND THE ORDER OF THEIR DIS COVERY. - THE recognition of Law being the recognition of uniformity of relations among phenomena, it follows that the order in which different groups of phenomena are reduced to law, must depend on the frequency with which the uniform relations they severally display are distinctly experienced. At any given stage of progress, those uniformities will be best known with which men's minds have been often- est and most strongly impressed. In proportion partly to the number of times a relation has been presented to consciousness (not merely to the senses), and in proportion partly to the vividness with which the terms of the relation have been cognized, will be the degree in which the constancy of connection is perceived. The succession in which relations are generalized being thus deter- mined, there result certain derivative principles to which this succession must more immediately and obviously conform. First is the directness with which personal welfare is affected. While, among surrounding things, many do not appreciably influence us in any way, some produce pleasures and Some pains, in various degrees; and manifestly, those things whose actions on the organism for good or evil are most decided, will, casteris paribus, be those whose laws of acticn are earliest observed. Second comes the conspicuousness of one or both phe- nomena between which a relation is to be perceived. On every side are phe- nomena so concealed as to be detected only by close observation; others not obtrusive enough to attract notice: others which moderately solicit the attention ; others so imposing or vivid as to force themselves on conscious- ness ; and, supposing conditions to be the same, these last will of course be among the first to have their rela- tions generalized. In the third place we have the absolute frequency with which the relations occur. There are co-existences and sequences of all de- grees of commonness, from those which are ever present to those which are extremely rare; and manifestly, the rare co-existences and sequences, as well as the sequences which are very long in taking place, will not be reduced to law so soon as those which are familiar and rapid. Fourthly has 2 [436] THREE ESSAYS. principle of the * to be added the relative frequency of occurrence. Many events and appear- ances are limited to certain times or certain places, or both ; and, as a re- lation which does not exist within the environment of an observer cannot be perceived by him, however common it may be elsewhere or in another age, we have to take account of the sur- rounding physical circumstances, as well as of the state of society, of the arts, and of the sciences—all of which affect the frequency with which cer- tain groups of facts are observable. The fifth corollary to be noticed is, that the succession in which different classes of relations are reduced to law, depends in part on their simplic- ity. Phenomena presenting great composition of causes or conditions, have their essential relations so masked, that it requires accumulated experiences to impress upon con- sciousness the true connections of an- tecedents and consequents they in- volve. Hence, other things equal, the progress of generalization will be from the simple to the complex; and this it is which M. Comte has wrongly asserted to be the sole regulative progress. Sixth comes the degree of abstractness. Con- crete relations are the earliest acqui- sitions. Such analyses of them as separate the essential connections from their disguising accompani- ments, necessarily come later. The analyses of the connections, always more or less compound, into their el- ements then becomes possible. And so on continually, until the highest and most abstract truths have been reached. - These, then, are the several deriva- tive principles. The frequency and vividness with which uniform relations are repeated in conscious experience, determining the recognition of their uniformity, and this frequency and vividness depending on the above conditions, it follows that the order in which different classes of facts are generalized, must depend on the ex- tent to which the above conditions are fulfilled in each class. Let us mark how the facts harmonize with this conclusion : taking first a few that elucidate the general truth, and afterward some that exemplify the Special truths which we here see fol- low from it. The relations earliest known as uniformities, are those subsisting be- tween the common properties of mat. ter—tangibility, visibility, cohesion, weight, etc. We have no trace of a time when the resistance offered by an object was regarded as caused by the will of the object; or when the pressure of a body on the hand hold- ing it, was ascribed to the agency of a living being. And accordingly, these are the relations of which we are oftenest conscious; being objectively frequent, conspicuous, simple, con crete, and of immediate personal con- CCII). .’ Similarly with the ordinary phe- nomena of motion. The fall of a mass on the withdrawal of its sup- port, is a sequence which directly af- fects bodily welfare, is conspicuous, simple, concrete, and very often re- peated. Hence it is one of the uni- formities recognized before the dawn of tradition. We know of no era when movements due to terrestrial gravitation were attributed to volition. Only when the relation is obscured— only, as in the case of an aérolite, where the antecedent of the descent is unperceived, do we find the con- ception of personal agency. On the other hand, motions of intrinsically the same order as that of a falling stone—those of the heavenly bodies— long remain ungeneralized; and until their uniformity is seen, are construed as results of will. This difference is clearly not dependent on comparative complexity or abstractness; since the motion of a planet in an ellipse, is as simple and concrete a phenomenon as the motion of a projected arrow in a parabola. But the antecedents are not conspicuous; the sequences are of long duration; and they are not often repeated. And that these are the causes of their slow reduction to THREE ESSAYS. [437] .3 law, we see in the fact that they are severally generalized in the order of their frequency and conspicuousness— the moon’s monthly cycle, the Sun's annual change, the periods of the in- ferior planets, the periods of the Su- perior planets. While astronomical sequences were still ascribed to volition, certain ter- restrial sequences of a different kind, but some of them equally without complication, were interpreted in like manner. The solidification of water at a low temperature, is a phenome- non that is simple, concrete, and of much personal concern. But it is neither so frequent as those which we see are earliest generalized, nor is the presence of the antecedent so mani- fest. Though in all but tropical cli- mates, mid-winter displays the rela- tion between cold and freezing with tolerable constancy; yet, during the spring and autumn, the occasional appearance of ice in the mornings has no very obvious connection with coldness of the weather. Sensation being so inaccurate a measure, it is not possible for the Savage to expe- rience the definite relation between a temperature of 32° and the congeal- ing of water; and hence the long continued belief in personal agency. Similarly, but still more clearly, with the winds. The absence of regular. ity and the inconspicuousness of the antecedents, allowed the mythological explanation to survive for a great pe- riod. During the era in which the uni- formity of many quite simple inorganic relations was still unrecognized, Cer- tain organic relations, intrinsically very complex and special, were gener- alized. The constant co-existence of feathers and a beak, of four legs with an internal bony framework, are facts which were, and are, familiar to every savage. Did a savage find a bird with teeth, or a mammal clothed with feathers, he would be as much surprised as an instructed naturalist. Now these uniformities of organic structure thus early perceived, are of exactly the same kind as those more numerous ones later established by biology. The constant co-existence of mammary glands with two occipital condyles to the skull, of vertebrae with teeth lodged in sockets, of frontal horns with the habit of rumina- tion, are generalizations as purely empirical as those known to the ab- original hunter. The botanist cannot in the least understand the complex relation between papilionaceous flowers and seeds borne in flattened pods: he knows these and like con- nections simply in the same way that the barbarian knows the connections between particular leaves and partic. ular kinds of wood. But the fact that sundry of the uniform relations . which chiefly make up the organic sciences, were very early recognized, is due to the high degree of vividness and frequency with which they were presented to consciousness. Though the connection between the sounds characteristic of a bird, and the pos. session of edible flesh, is extremely involved; yet the two terms of the relation are conspicuous, often recur in experience, and a knowledge of their connection has a direct bearing on personal welfare. Meanwhile in- numerable relations of the same or- der, which are displayed with even greater frequency by surrounding plants and animals, remain for thou- Sands of years unrecognized, if they are unobtrusive or of no apparent In Onnellt. When, passing from this primitive stage to a more advanced stage, we trace the discovery of those less fa. miliar uniformities which mainly con- stitute what is distinguished as Science, we find the succession. in which knowledge of them is reached, to be still determined in the same manner. This will become obvious on contemplating separately the in- fluence of each derivative condition. How relations that have immediate bearings on the maintenance of life, are, other things equal, fixed in the mind before those which have no im- mediate bearings, the history of 4 [438] THREE ESSAYS. Science abundantly illustrates. The habits of existing uncivilized races, who fix times by moons and barter so many of one article for so many of another, show us that conceptions of equality and number, which are the germs of mathematical science, were developed under the immediate press- ure of personal wants ; and it can scarcely be doubted that those laws of numerical relations which are em- bodied in the rules of arithmetic, were first brought to light through the practice of mercantile exchange. Similarly with geometry. The deri- vation of the word shows us that it originally included only certain meth- ods of partitioning ground and lay- ing out buildings. the scales and the lever, involving the first principle in mechanics, were early generalized under the stimulus of commercial and needs. To fix the times of religious £estivals and agricultural operations, were the motives which led to the es- tablishment of the simpler astronomic periods. Such small knowledge of chemical relations as was involved in ancient metallurgy, was manifestly ob- tained in seeking how to improve tools and weapons. In the alchemy of later times, we see how greatly an intense hope of private benefit con- tributed to the disclosure of a certain class of uniformities. Nor is our own age barren of illustrations. “Here,” says Humboldt, when in Guiana, “as in many parts in Europe, the sciences are thought worthy to occupy the mind, only so far as they confer some immediate and practical benefit on society.” How is it possible to be- lieve,” said a missionary to him, “that you have left your country to come to be devoured by mosquitoes on this river, and to measure lands that are not your own.” Our coasts furnish like instances. Every sea- side naturalist knows how great is the contempt with which fishermen re- gard the collection of objects for the microscope or aquarium. Their in- credulity as to the possible value of such things is so great, that they can The properties of architectural scarcely be induced even by bribes to preserve the refuse of their nets. Nay, we need not go for evidence beyond daily table-talk. The de- mand for “practical science ’’—for a knowledge that can be brought to bear on the business of life—joined to the ridicule commonly vented on Scientific pursuits having no obvious uses, suffice to show that the order in which laws are discovered greatly de- pends on the directness with which they affect our welfare. - That, when all other conditions are the same, obtrusive relations will be generalized before unobtrusive ones, is so nearly a truism that examples appear almost superfluous. If it be admitted that by the aboriginal man, as by the child, the co-existent prop- erties of large surrounding objects are noticed before those of minute objects, and that the external rela- tions which bodies present are gen- eralized before their internal relations, it must be admitted that in subsequent stages of progress, the comparative conspicuousness of relations has greatly affected the order in which they were recognized as uniform. Hence it happened that after the es- tablishment of those very manifest sequences constituting a lunation, and those less manifest ones. marking a year, and those still less manifest ones marking the planetary periods, astronomy occupied itself with such inconspicuous sequences as those displayed in the repeating, cycle of lunar eclipses, and those which sug- gested the theory of epicycles and eccentrics; while modern astronomy deals with still more inconspicuous sequences, some of which, as the planetary rotations, are nevertheless the simplest which the heavens pre- sent. In physics, the early use of canoes implied an empirical knowl- edge of certain hydrostatic relations that are intrinsically more complex than Sundry static relations not em- pirically known ; but these hydrostatic relations were thrust upon observa- tion. Or, if we compare the solution of the problem of specific gravity THREE ESSAYS. [439] 5 by Archimedes with the discovery of atmospheric pressure by Torricelli (the two involving mechanical rela- tions of exactly the same kind), we perceive that the much earlier occur- rence of the first than the last was determined, neither by a difference in their bearings on personal welfare, nor by a difference in the frequency with which illustrations of them came under observation, nor by relative simplicity; but by the greater obtru- siveness of the connection between antecedent and consequent in the one case than in the other. Among mis- cellaneous illustrations, it may be pointed out that the connections be- tween lightning and thunder, and be- tween rain and clouds, were recog- nized long before others of the same order, simply because they thrust themselves on the attention. Or the long-delayed discovery of the micro- scopic forms of life, with all the phe- nomena they present, may be named as very clearly showing how certain groups of relations not ordinarily perceptible, though in other respects like long-familiar relations, have to wait until changed conditions render them perceptible. But, without fur- ther details, it needs only to consider the inquiries which now occupy the electrician, the chemist, the physiolo- gist, to see that science has advanced, and is advancing, from the more con- spicuous phenomena to the less con- spicuous ones. - How the degree of absolute fre- quency of a relation affects the recog- nition of its uniformity, we see in contrasting certain biological facts. The connection between death and bodily injury, constantly displayed not only in men but in all inferior creatures, was known as an instance of natural causation while yet deaths from diseases were thought supernat- ural. Among diseases themselves, it is observable that unusual ones were regarded as of demoniacal origin dur- ing ages when the more frequent were ascribed to ordinary causes: a truth paralleled among our own peasantry, who by the use of charms show a were regarded as wrath. no surprise by their lingering Superstition with respect to rare disorders, which they do not show with respect to common ones, such as colds. Passing to physical illustrations, we may note that within the historic period whirlpools were accounted for by the agency of water- spirits; but we do not find that with- in the same period the disappearance of water on exposure either to the sun or to artificial heat was interpreted in an analogous way: though a more marvelous occurrence, and a much more complex one, its great frequency led to the early recognition of it as a natural uniformity. Rainbows and comets do not differ much in conspic- uousness, and a rainbow is intrinsic- ally the more involved phenomenon ; but chiefly because of their far greater commonness, rainbows were perceived to have a direct dependence on Sun and rain while yet comets signs of divine That races living inland must long have remained ignorant of the daily and monthly sequences of the tides, and that tropical races could not early have comprehended the phenom- lena of northern winters, are extreme illustrations of the influence which relative frequency has on the recogni- tion of uniformities. Animals which, where they are indigenous, call forth StructureS Or habits, because these are so familiar, when taken to countries where they have never been seen, are looked at with an astonishment approaching to awe-are even thought supernatural: a fact which will suggest numerous others that show how the localization of phenomena in part controls the order in which they are reduced to law... Not only however does their localization in space affect the pro- gression, but also their localization in time. Facts which are rarely if ever manifested in one era, are rendered very frequent in another, simply through the changes wrought by civil- ization. The lever, of which the properties are illustrated in the use of sticks and weapons, is vaguely under- 6 [440] THREE ESSAYS. stood by every savage—on applying it in a certain way he rightly anticipates certain effects; but the wheel-and-axle, pulley, and screw, cannot have their powers either empirically or ration- ally known till the advance of the arts has more or less familiarized them. Through those various means of exploration which we have inherited and added to, we have become ac- quainted with a vast range of chemi- cal relations that were relatively non- existent to the primitive man. To highly developed industries we owe both the substances and the appliances that have disclosed to us countless uni- formities which our ancestors had no opportunity of Seeing. These and like instances that will occur to the reader, show that the accumu- lated materials, and processes, and products, which characterize the en- vironments of complex societies, greatly increase the accessibility of various classes of relations; and by so multiplying the experiences of them, or making them relatively fre- quent, facilitate their generalization. Moreover, various classes of phenom- ena presented by society itself, as for instance those which political econ- omy formulates, become relatively frequent, and therefore recognizable, in advanced social states; while in less advanced ones they are either too rarely displayed to have their rela- tions perceived, or, as in the least ad- vanced ones, are not displayed at all. That, where no other circumstances interfere, the order in which different uniformities are established varies as their complexity, is manifest. The geometry of straight lines was under: stood before the geometry of curved lines; the properties of the circle be- fore the properties of the ellipse, par- abola, and hyperbola; and the equa- tions of curves of single curvature were ascertained before those of curves of double curvature. Plane trigonometry comes in order of time and simplicity before spherical trigo- nometry; and the mensuration of plane surfaces and solids before the mensuration of curved surfaces and solids. Similarly with mechanics : the laws of simple motion were gener alized before those of compound mo- tion; and those of rectilinear motior: before those of curvilinear motion. The properties of equal-armed levers or scales, were understood before those of levers with unequal arms; and the law of the inclined plane was formulated earlier than that of the screw, which involves it. In chemis- try, the progress has been from the simple inorganic compounds to the more involved or organic compounds. And where, as in the higher sciences, the conditions of the exploration are more complicated, we still may clearly trace relative complexity as determining the order of discovery where other things are equal The progression from concrete re- lations to abstract ones, and from the less abstract to the more abstract, is equally obvious. Numeration, which in its primary form concerned itself only with groups of actual objects, came earlier than simple arithmetic ; the rules of which deal with numbers apart from objects. Arithmetic, lim- ited in its sphere to concrete numeri- cal relations, is alike earlier and less abstract than Algebra, which deals with the relations of these relations. And in like manner, the Calculus of Operations comes after Algebra, both *in order of evolution and in order of abstractness. In Mechanics, the more concrete relations of forces exhibited in the lever, inclined plane, etc., were understood before the more abstract relations expressed in the laws of resolution and composi- tion of forces ; and later than the three abstract laws of motion as for- mulated by Newton came the still more abstract law of inertia. Simi- larly with Physics and Chemistry, there has been an advance from truths entangled in all the speciali- ties of particular facts, and particular classes of facts, to truths disentangled from the disguising incidents under which they are manifested—to truths of a higher abstractness. - THREE ESSAYS." [441] 7 Brief and rude as is this sketch of a mental development that has been long and complicated, I venture to think it shows inductively what was deductively inferred, that the order in which separate groups of uniformi- ties are recognized, depends not on one circumstance but on several cir- cumstances. The various classes of relations are generalized in a certain succession, not solely because of one particular kind of difference in their natures; but also because they are variously placed in time and in space, variously open to observation, and variously related to our own consti- tutions: our perception of them be- ing influenced by all these conditions in endless combinations. The com- parative degrees of importance, of ob- trusiveness, of absolute frequency, of relative frequency, of simplicity, of concreteness, are every one of them factors ; and from their unions in proportions that are never twice alike, there results a highly complex proc- ess of mental evolution. But while it is thus manifest that the proximate causes of the succession in which re- lations are reduced to law, are nu- merous and involved ; it is also man- ifest that there is one ultimate cause to which these proximate causes are subordinate. As the several circum- stances that determine the early or late recognition of uniformities are circumstances that determine the num- ber and strength of the impressions which these uniformities make on the mind, it follows that the progression conforms to a certain fundamental principle of psychology. We see & fosteriori, what we concluded d priori that the order in which relations are generalized, depends on the fre- quency and impressiveness with which they are repeated in conscious expe- rience. Having roughly analyzed the prog- ress of the past, let us take advan- tage of the light thus thrown on the present, and consider what is implied respecting the future. Note first that the likelihood of the universality of Law has been ever growing greater. Out of the count- less co-existences and sequences with which mankind are environed, they have been continually transferring some from the group whose order was supposed to be arbitrary, to the group whose order is known to be uniform. And manifestly, as fast as the rela- tions that are unreduced to law be- come fewer, the probability that among them there are some that do not con- form to law, becomes less. To put the argument numerically—It is clear that when out of surrounding phe- nomena a hundred of several kinds have been found to occur in constant connections, there arises a slight pre- sumption that all phenomena occur in constant connections. When uniform- ity has been established in a thousand cases, more varied in their kinds, the presumption gains strength. And when the known cases of uniformity amount to myriads, including many of each variety, it becomes an ordinary induction that uniformity exists every- where. Silently and insensibly their expe- riences have been pressing men on to- ward the conclusion thus drawn. Not out of a conscious regard for these reasons, but from a habit of thought which these reasons formulate and justify, all minds have been advanc- ing toward a belief in the constancy of surrounding co-existences and se- quences. Familiarity with concrete uniformities has generated the ab- stract conception of uniformity—the idea of Zazey; and this idea has been in successive generations slowly gain- ing fixity and clearness. Especially has it been thus among those whose knowledge of natural phenomena is the most extensive—men of science. The mathematician, the physicist, the astronomer, the chemist, severally ac- quainted with the vast accumulations of uniformities established by their predecessors, and themselves daily adding new ones as well as verifying the old, acquire a far stronger faith in law than is ordinarily possessed. With them this faith, ceasing to be $ [442] THREE ESSAYS. merely passive, becomes an active stimulus to inquiry. Wherever there exist phenomena of which the depend- ence is not yet ascertained, these most cultivated intellects, impelled by the conviction that here too there is some invariable connection, proceed to ob- serve, compare, and experiment; and when they discover the law to which the phenomena conform, as they event- ually do, their general belief in the universality of law is further strength- ened. So overwhelming is the evi- dence, and such the effect of this dis- cipline, that to the advanced student of nature, the proposition that there are lawless phenomena has become not only incredible but almost incon- ceivable. This habitual recognition of law which already distinguishes modern thought from ancient thought, must spread among men at large. The ful- fillment of predictions made possible by every new step, and the further command gained of nature's forces, prove to the uninitiated the validity of scientific generalizations and the doc- trine they illustrate. Widening edu- cation is daily diffusing among the mass of men that knowledge of these generalizations which has been hith- erto confined to the few. And as fast as this diffusion goes on, must the be- lief of the scientific become the belief of the world at large. That law is universal, will become an irresistible conclusion when it is perceived that the progress in the dis- covery of laws itself conforms to lazy; and when this perception makes it clear why certain groups of phenom- ena have been reduced to law, while other groups are still unreduced. When it is seen that the order in which uniformities are recognized, must de- pend upon the frequency and vivid- ness with which they are repeated in conscious experience; when it is seen that, as a matter of fact, the most com- mon, important, conspicuous, Con- crete, and simple, uniformities were the earliest recognized, because they were experienced oftenest and most distinctly; it will by implication be seen that long after the great mass of phenomena have been generalized, there must remain phenomena, which, from their rareness, or unobtrusive- ness, or Seeming unimportance, or com- plexity, or abstractness, are still un- generalized. Thus will be furnished a solution to a difficulty sometimes raised. When it is asked why the uni- versality of law is not already fully established, there will be the answer that the directions in which it is not yet established are those in which its establishment must necessarily be lat- est. That state of things which is in- ferable beforehand, is just the state which we find to exist. If such co-ex- istences and Sequences as those of Biology and Sociology are not yet re- duced to law, the presumption is not that they are irreducible to law, but that their laws elude our present means of analysis. Having long ago proved uniformity throughout all the lower classes of relations, and having been step by step proving uniformity throughout classes of relations suc- cessively higher and higher, if we have not yet succeeded with the highest classes, it may be fairly concluded that our powers are at fault, rather than that the uniformity does not ex- ist. And unless we make the absurd assumption that the process of gener- |alization, now going on with unexam- pled rapidity, has reached its limit, and will suddenly cease, we must in- fer that ultimately mankind will dis- cover a constant order of manifesta- tion even in the most involved and obscure phenomena. THE ORIGIN OF ANIMAL- WORSHIP. MR. McLENNAN's essays on the Worship of Animals and Plants have done much to elucidate a very ob- scure subject. By pursuing in this case, as before in another case, the truly scientific method of comparing the phenomena presented by existing THREE ESSAYS. [443] 9 uncivilized races with those which the early traditions of civilized races pre- sent, he has rendered both more com- prehensible than they were before. It seems to me, however, that Mr. McLennan gives but an indefinite an- swer to the essential question—How did the worship of animals and plants arise 2 Indeed, in his concluding paper, he expressly leaves this prob lem without a solution; saying that his “is not an hypothesis explanatory of the origin of Zofemism, be it re- membered, but an hypothesis explan- atory of the animal and plant worship of the ancient nations.” So that we have still to ask—Why have savage tribes so generally taken animals and plants and other things as their to- tems 2 What can have induced this tribe to ascribe special sacredness to one creature, and that tribe to an- other ? And if to these questions the general reply is, that each tribe con- siders itself to be descended from the object of its reverence, then there presses for answer the further question —How came so strange a notion into existence 2 If this notion occurred in one case only, we might set it down to some whim of thought or some illu- sive occurrence. But appearing as it does with multitudinous variations among so many uncivilized races in different parts of the world, and hav- ing left equally numerous traces in the superstitions of the extinct civilized races, we cannot assume any special or exceptional cause. general cause, whatever it may be, must be such as does not negative an aboriginal intelligence essentially like our own. After studying the gro- tesque beliefs of savages, we are apt to suppose that their reason is not as our reason. But this supposition is inadmissible. Given the amount of knowledge which primitive men pos- sess, and given the imperfect verbal symbols used by them in speech and thought, and the conclusions they ha- bitually reach will be those that are relatively the most rational. This must be our postulate; and, setting out with this postulate, we have to ask Moreover, the explanation? how primitive men came so generally, if not universally, to believe them- selves the progeny of animals or plants or inanimate bodies. There is, I believe, a satisfactory answer. The proposition with which Mr. McLennan sets out, that totem-wor- ship preceded the worship of anthropo- morphic gods, is one to which I can yield but a qualified assent. It is true in a sense, but not wholly true. If the words “gods” and “worship’’ carry with them their ordinary definite mean- ings, the statement is true; but if their meanings are widened so as to compre- hend those earliest vague notions out of which the definite ideas of gods and worship are evolved, I think it is not true. The rudimentary form of all religion is the propitiation of dead an- cestors, who are supposed to be still existing, and to be capable of working good or evil to their descendants. As a preparation for dealing hereafter with the principles of sociology, I have, for some years past, directed much attention to the modes of thought current in the simpler human societies; and evidence of many kinds, furnished by all varieties of un- civilized men, has forced on me a con- clusion harmonizing with that lately expressed in this Review by Prof. Huxley—namely, that the savage, conceiving a corpse to be deserted by the active personality who dwelt in it, conceives this active personality to be still existing, and that his feelings and ideas concerning it form the basis of his superstitions. Everywhere we find expressed or implied the belief that each person is double; and that when he dies, his other self, whether remaining near at hand or gone far away may return, and continues capa- ble of injuring his enemies and aiding his friends.” *A critical reader may raise an objection. If animal-worship is to be rationally inter- preted, how can the interpretation set out by assuming a belief in the spirits of dead an- cestors—a belief which just as much requires Doubtless there is here a wide gap in the argument. I hope eventually to fill it up. . Here, out of many experiences *10 [444] THREE ESSAYS. But how out of the desire to propi- tiate this second personality of a de- ceased man (the words “ghost’’ or “spirit” are somewhat misleading, since the savage believes that the sec- ond personality reappears in a form equally tangible with the first) does there grow up the worship of animals, plants, and inanimate objects Very simply. Savages habitually distin- guish individuals by names that are either directly suggestive of some per- sonal trait or fact of personal history, or else express an observed community of character with some well-known object. Such a genesis of individual names, before surnames have arisen, is inevitable; and how easily it arises we shall see on remembering that it still goes on in its original form, even which conspire to generate this belief, I can but briefly indicate the leading ones: 1. It is not impossible that his shadow, following him everywhere, and moving as he moves, may have some small share in giving to the Savage a vague idea of his duality. It needs but to watch a child’s interest in the move- ments of its shadow, and to remember that at first a shadow cannot be interpreted as a negation of light, but is looked upon as an entity, to perceive that the savage may very possibly consider it as a specific something which forms part of him. 2. A much more decided suggestion of the same kind is likely to result from the reflection of his face and figure in water: imitating him as it does in his form, colors, motions, grimaces. When we remember that not unfrequently a savage objects to have his portrait taken, because he thinks whoever carries away a representation of him carries away some part of his being, will see how probable it is that he thinks his double in the water is a reality in some way belonging to him. 3. Echoes must greatly tend to confirm the idea of duality otherwise arrived at. Incapable as he is of understand- ing their natural origin, the primitive man necessarily ascribes them to living, beings— beings who mock him and elude his search. 4. The suggestions resulting from these and other physical phenomena are, however, sec- ondary in importance. The root of this be: lief in another self lies in the experience of dreams. The distinction so easily made by us between our life in dreams and our real life, is one which the savage recognizes in but a vague way; and he cannot express even that distinction which he perceives. When he awakes, and to those who have seen him lying quietly asleep, describes where he has been, and what he has done, his rude lan- guage fails to state the difference between seeing and dreaming that he saw, doing and when no longer needful. I do not re- fer only to the significant fact that in Some parts of England, as in the nail- making districts, nicknames are univer- sal, and surnames Scarcely recognized; but I refer to the general usage among both children and adults. The rude man is apt to be known as “a bear; ” a sly fellow, as an “old fox; ” a hypo- crite, as “the crocodile.” Names of plants, too, are used ; as when the red- haired boy is called “carrots” by his school-fellows. Nor do we lack nick- names derived from inorganic objects and agents: instance that given by Mr. Carlyle to the elder Sterling— “Captain Whirlwind.” Now, in the earliest Savage state, this metaphorical naming will in most cases commence afresh in each generation—must do so, dreaming that he did. From this inadequacy of his language it not only results that he cannot truly represent this difference to oth- ers, but also that he cannot truly represent it to himself. Hence, in the absence of an al- ternative interpretation, his belief, and that of those to whom he tells his adventures, is that his other self has been away and came back when he awoke. And this belief, which we find among various existing savage tribes, we equally find in the traditions of the early civilized races. 5. The conception of an- other self capable of going away and return. ing, receives what to the savage must seem conclusive verifications from the abuormal suspensions of consciousness, and derange- ments of consciousness, that occasionally oc- cur in members of his tribe. One who has fainted, and cannot be immediately brought back to himself (note the significance of our own phrases “returning to himself,” etc.) as a sleeper can, shows him a state in which the other self has been away for a time beyond recall. Still more is this prolonged absence of the other self shown him in cases of apo. piexy, catalepsy, and other forms of sus- pended animation. Here for hours the other self persists in remaining away, and on re- turning refuses to say where he has been. Further verification is afforded by every epi- leptic subject, into whose body, during the absence of the other self, some enemy has entered; for how else does it happen that the other self on returning denies all knowledge of what his body has been doing 2 And this supposition that the body has been “pos- sessed” by some other being, is confirmed by the phenomena of somnambulism and insan- ity. 6. What, then, is the interpretation in- evitably put upon death? The other self has habitually returned after sleep, which simu- lates death. It has returned, too, after faint- ing, which simulates death much more. It THREE ESSAYS. [445] 11 indeed, until surnames of some kind have been established. I say in most cases, because there will occur excep- tions in the cases of men who have dis- tinguished themselves. If “the Wolf,” proving famous in fight, becomes a terror to neighboring tribes, and a dominant man in his own, his sons, proud of their parentage, will not let fall the fact that they descended from the Wolf; nor will this fact be forgot- ten by the rest of the tribe who held “the Wolf” in awe, and see some rea- son to dread his sons. In proportion to the power and celebrity of the Wolf will this pride and this fear conspire to maintain among his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, as well as among those over whom they domi- nate, the remembrance of the fact that their ancestor was the Wolf. And if, as will occasionally happen, this domi- nant family becomes the root of a new tribe, the members of this tribe will become known to themselves and Others as the Wolves. We need not rest satisfied with the Inference that this inheritance of nick- names will take place: there is proof that it does take place. As nicknam- ing after animals, plants, and other objects, still goes on among ourselves, so among ourselves does there go on the descent of nicknames. An in- has even returned after the rigid state of cat- alepsy, which simulates death very greatly. Will it not return also after this still more prolonged quiescence and rigidity ? Clearly it is quite possible—quite probable even. The dead man's other self is gone away for a long time, but it still exists somewhere, far or near, and may at any moment come back to do all he said he would do. Hence the various burial-rites—the placing of weapons and valuables along with the body, the daily bringing of food to it, etc. I hope hereafter to show that, with such knowledge of the facts as he has, this interpretation is the most reasonable the savage can arrive at. Let me here, however, by way of showing how clearly the facts bear out this view, give one illustration out of many. “The ceremo- nies with which they [the Veddahs] invoke them [the shades of the dead] are few as they are simple. The most common is the fol- lowing: An arrow is fixed upright in the ground, and the Veddah dances slowly round it, chanting this invocation, which is almost musical in its rhythm: . . * stance has come under my own notice on an estate in the West Highlands, be- longing to some friends with whom I frequently have the pleasure of spend- ing a few weeks in the autumn. “Take a young Croshek,” has more than once been the reply of my host to the in- quiry, who should go with me when I was setting out salmon-fishing. The elder Croshek I knew well; and Sup- posed that this name, borne by him and by all belonging to him, was the . family surname. Some years passed before I learned that the real surname was Cameron ; that the father was called Croshek, after the name of his cottage, to distinguish him from other Camerons employed about the prem- ises; and that his children had come to be similarly distinguished. Though here, as very generally in Scotland, the nickname was derived from the place of residence, yet had it been derived from an animal, the process would have been the same—inherit- ance of it would have occurred just as naturally. Not even for this small link in the argument, however, need we depend on inference; there is fact to bear us out. Mr. Bates, in his “Naturalist on the River Amazon '' (2d ed., p. 376), describing three half- castes who accompanied him on a hunting trip, says: “Two of them were brothers—namely, Joao (John) -je. “Mā miya, mā miy, mā deyā, - Topang Koyichetti mittigan yandāh P” “My departed one, my departed one, my God! Where art thou wandering P’’ “This invocation appears to be used on all occasions when the intervention of the guar- dian spirits is required in sickness, prepara- tory to hunting, etc. Sometimes in the latter căse, a portion of the flesh of the game is promised as a votive offering, in the event of the chase being successful; and they believe that the spirits will appear to them in dreams and tell them where to hunt. Sometimes they cook food and place it in the dry bed of a river, or some other secluded spot, and then call on their deceased ancestors by name, ‘Come and partake of this 1 Give us main- tenance as you did when living! Come, wheresoever you may be, on a tree, on a rock, in the forest, come !’ And dance round the food, half chanting half shouting the invoca- tion.”—Bailey, 7%ams. Æth. Soc., London, N. S., ii., p. 3OI. 12 [446] THREE ESSAYS. and Zephyrino Jabutí; Jabutſ, or tor- toise, being a nickname which their father had earned for his slow gait, and which, as is usual in this country, had descended as the surname of the family.” Let me add the statement made by Mr. Wallace respecting this same region, that “one of the tribes on the river Isānna is called “Jurupari’ (Devils). Another is called “Ducks; a third, ‘Stars; ' a fourth, “Mandi- occa.’” Putting these two statements together, can there be any doubt about the genesis of these tribal names 2 Let the tortoise become sufficiently distinguished (not necessarily by supe- riority—great inferiority may occa- sionally suffice) and the tradition of descent from him, preserved by his descendants themselves if he was su- perior, and by their contemptuous neighbors if he was inferior, may be- come a tribal name.* “But this,” it will be said, “does not amount to an explanation of ani- mal-worship.” True: a third factor remains to be specified. Given a be- lief in the still-existing other self of the deceased ancestor, who must be propitiated ; given this survival of his metaphorical name among his grand- children, great-grandchildren, etc.; and the further requisite is that the dis- tinction between metaphor and reality shall be forgotten. Let the tradition of the ancestor fail to keep clearly in view the fact that he was a man called the Wolf—let him behabitually spoken * Since the foregoing pages were written, my attention has been drawn by Sir John Lubbock to a passage in the appendix to the second edition of “Prehistoric Times,” in which he has indicated this derivation of tribal names. He saws: “In endeavoring to account for the worship of animals, we must remember that names are very frequently taken from them. The children and followers of a man called the Berr or the lion would make that a tribal name. Hence the animal itself would be first respected, at last worshiped.” Of the genesis of this worship, however, Sir John Lubbock does not give any specific explana- tion. Apparently he inclines to the belief, tacitly adopted also by Mr. McLennan, that animal-worship is derived from an original Fetichism, of which it is a more developed form. As will shortly be seen, I take a differ- cut view of its origin. - of as the Wolf, just as when alive; and the natural mistake of taking the name literally will bring with it, firstly, a belief in descent from the actual wolf, and, Secondly, a treatment of the wolf in a manner likely to propi- tiate him—a manner appropriate to one who may be the other self of the dead ancestor, or one of the kindred, and therefore a friend. That a misunderstanding of this kind will naturally grow up, becomes obvious when we bear in mind the great indefiniteness of primitive lan- guage. As Prof. Max Müller says, respecting certain misinterpretations of an opposite kind : “These met- aphors . . . . would become mere names handed down in the conver. sation of a family, understood perhaps by the grandfather, familiar to the father, but strange to the son, and misunderstood by the grandson.” We have ample reason, then, for thinking that such misinterpretations are likely to occur. Nay, we may go further. We are justified in saying that they are certain to occur. For undevel- oped languages contain no words ca- pable of indicating the distinction to be kept in view. In the tongues of existing inferior races, only concrete objects and acts are expressible. The Australians have a name for each kind of tree, but no name for tree irrespect- ive of kind. And though some wit- nesses allege that their vocabulary is not absolutely destitute of generic names, its extreme poverty in such is unquestionable. Similarly with the Tasmanians. Dr. Milligan says they “had acquired very limited powers of abstraction or generalization. They possessed no words representing ab- stract ideas; for each variety of gum- tree and wattle-tree, etc., etc., they had a name, but they had no equiva- lent for the expression, “a tree; ' nei- ther could they express abstract qual- ities, such as hard, soft, warm, cold, long, short, roundi, etc.; for “hard,’ they would say ‘like a stone,’ for “tall,’ they would say “long legs,” etc., and for ‘round,’ they said “like a ball,’ ‘like the moon,' and so on, usually THREE ESSAYS. [447] 13. suiting the action to the word, and con- firming, by some sign, the meaning to be understood.”” Now, even making allowance for over-statement here (which seems needful, since the word “long,” said to be inexpressible in the abstract, subsequently occurs as qual- ifying a concrete in the expression, “Long legs”), it is sufficiently mani- fest that so imperfect a language must fail to convey the idea of a name, as something separate from a thing; and that still less can it be capable of in- dicating the act of naming. Familiar use of such partially abstract words as are applicable to all objects of a class, is needful before there can be reached the conception of a name—a word symbolizing the symbolic character of other words; and the conception of a name, with its answering abstract term, most be long current before the verb to name can arise. Hence, among tribes with speech so rude, it will be impossible to transmit the tradition of an ancestor named the Wolf, as dis- tinguished from the actual wolf. The children and grandchildren who saw him will not be led into error; but in later generations, descent from the Wolf will inevitably come to mean de- scent from the animal known by that name. And the ideas and sentiments which, as above shown, naturally grow up around the belief that the dead par- ents and grandparents are still alive, and ready, if propitiated, to befriend their descendants, will be extended to the wolf species. Before passing to other develop- ments of this general view, let me point out how not simply animal- worship is thus accounted for, but also the conception, so variously illustrated in ancient legends, that animals are capable of displaying human powers of speech and thought and action. Mythologies are fall of stories of beasts and birds and fishes that have played intelligent parts in human affairs— | creatures that have befriended partic- ular persons by giving them infor- mation, by guiding them, by yielding * Proc. Royal Soc. Tasmania, iii., p. 280. them help ; or else that have deceived them, verbally or otherwise. Evi dently all these traditions, as well as those about abductions of women by animals and fostering of children by them, fall naturally into their places as results of the habitual misinterpre- tation I have described. The probability of the hypothesis will appear still greater when we ob- serve how readily it applies to the worship of other orders of objects. Belief in actual descent from an ani- mal, strange as we may think it, is one by no means incongruous with the un- analyzed experiences of the savage; for there come under his notice many metamorphoses, vegetal and animal, which are apparently of like character. But how could he possibly arrive at so grotesque a conception as that the progenitor of his tribe was the son, or the moon, or a particular star 2 No observation of surrounding phenom- ena affords the slightest suggestion of any such possibility. But by the in- heritance of nicknames that are event- ually mistaken for the names of the objects from which they were derived the belief readily arises—is sure to arise. That the names of heavenly bodies will furnish metaphorical names to the uncivilized, is manifest. Do we not ourselves call a distin- guished singer or actor a star And have we not in poems numerous com- parisons of men and women to the sun and moon ; as in “Love's Labor's Lost,” where the princess is called “a gracious moon,” and as in “Henry VIII.,” where we read—“Those suns of glory, those two lights of men 2 ° Clearly, primitive men will be not un- likely thus to speak of the chief hero of a successful battle. When we re- member how the arrival of a triumph- ant warrior must affect the feelings of his tribe, dissipating clouds of anxiety and irradiating all faces with joy, we shall see that the comparison of him to the sun is extremely natural: and in early speech this comparison can be made only by calling him the sun. As before, then, it will happen that, 14 [4481 THREE ESSAYS. through a confounding of the meta- phorical name with the actual name, his progeny, after a few generations, will be regarded by themselves and others as descendants of the sun. And, as a consequence, partly of actual in- heritance of the ancestral character, and partly of maintenance of the tradi- tions respecting the ancestor’s achieve- ments, it will also naturally happen that the solar race will be considered a superior race, as we find it habit- ually is. * The origin of other totems, equally strange if not even stranger, is simi- larly accounted for, though otherwise unaccountable. One of the New Zealand chiefs claimed as his progen- itor the neighboring great mountain, Tongariro. This seemingly-whimsical belief becomes intelligible when we observe how easily it may have arisen from a nickname. Do we not our- selves sometimes speak figuratively of a tall, fat man as a mountain of flesh And, among a people prone to speak in still more concrete terms, would it not happen that a chief, remarkable for his great bulk, would be nick- named after the highest mountain within sight, because he towered above other men as this did above surrounding hills Such an occur- rence is not simply possible, but prob- able. And, if so, the confusion of metaphor with fact would originate this surprising genealogy. A notion perhaps yet more grotesque, thus re- ceives a satisfactory interpretation. What could have put it into the im- agination of any one that he was de- scended from the dawn 2 Given the extremest credulity, joined with the wildest fancy, it would still seem requisite that the ancestor should be conceived as an entity; and the dawn is entirely without that definiteness and comparative constancy which enter into the conception of an en- tity. But when we remember that “the Dawn” is a natural compliment- ary name for a beautiful girl opening into womanhood, the genesis of the idea becomes, on the above hypothe- sis, quite obvious. Another indirect verification is that we thus get a clear conception of Fetichism in general. Under the fetichistic mode of thought, surround- ing objects and agents are regarded as having powers more or less defi- nitely personal in their natures. And the current interpretation is, that hu- man intelligence, in its early stages, is obliged to conceive of their powers under this form. I have myself hitherto accepted this interpretation; though always with a sense of dissat- isfaction. This dissatisfaction was, I think, well grounded. The theory is scarcely a theory properly so called; but rather, a restatement in other words. Uncivilized men do habitually form anthropomorphic con- ceptions of surrounding things; and this observed general fact is trans- formed into the theory that at first they must so conceive them—a theory for which the psychological justifica- tion attempted, seems to me inade- quate. From our present stand-point, it becomes manifest that Fetichism is not primary but secondary. What has been said above almost of itself shows this. Let us, however, follow out the steps of its genesis. Respect- ing the Tasmanians, Dr. Milligan says: “The names of men and women were taken from natural objects and occurrences around, as, for instance, a kangaroo, a gum-tree, snow, hail, thunder, the wind, flowers in blossom, etc.” Surrounding objects, then, giving origin to names of persons, and being, in the way shown, eventu- ally mistaken for the actual progeni- tors of those who descend from per- sons nicknamed after them, it results that these surrounding objects come to be regarded as in some manner possessed of personalities like the hu- man. He whose family tradition is that his ancestor was “the Crab,” will conceive the crab as having a disguised inner power like his own; and alleged descent from “the palm- tree” will entail belief in some kind of consciousness dwelling in the palm. tree. Hence, in proportion as the an- imals, plants, and inanimate objects THREE ESSAYS. [449] 15 or agents that originate names of per- sons, become numerous (which they will do in proportion as a tribe be- comes large and the number of per- sons to be distinguished from one an- other increases), multitudinous things around will acquire imaginary person- alities. And so it will happen that, as Mr. McLennan says of the Fee- jeeans: “Vegetables and stones, nay, even tools and weapons, pots and ca- noes, have souls that are immortal, and that, like the souls of men, pass on at last to Mbulu, the abode of de- parted spirits.” Setting out, then, with a belief in the still-living other self of the dead ancestor, the alleged general cause of misapprehension af- fords us an intelligible origin of the fetichistic conception; and we are enabled to see how it tends to be- come a general, if not a universal, conception. Other apparently inexplicable phe- nomena are at the same time divested of their strangeness. I refer to the beliefs in, and worship of, compound monsters—impossible hybrid animals, and forms that are half human, half brutal. The theory of a primordial Fetichism, supposing it otherwise ad- equate, yields no feasible solution of these. Grant the alleged original tendency to think of all natural agen- cies as in some way personal. Grant, too, that hence may arise a worship of animals, plants, and even inani- mate bodies. Still the obvious im- plication is that the worship so de- rived will be limited to things that are, or have been, perceived. Why should this mode of thought lead the savage to imagine a combination of bird and mammal; and not only to imagine it but worship it as a god 2 If even we admit that some illusion may have suggested the belief in a creature half man, half fish, we cannot thus explain the prevalence among Eastern races of idols representing bird-headed men, men having their legs replaced by the legs of a cock, and men with the heads of elephants. Carrying with us the inferences above drawn, however, it is a manirest corollary that ideas and practices of these kinds will arise. When tradi- tion preserves both lines of ancestry —when a chief, nicknamed the Wolf, carries away from an adjacent tribe a wife who is remembered either under the animal name of her tribe, or as a woman; it will happen that if a son distinguishes himself, the remem- brance of him among his descendants will be that he was born of a wolf and some other animal, or of a wolf and a woman. Misinterpretation, arising in the way described from defects of lan- guage, will entail belief in a creature uniting the attributes of the two; and if the tribe grows into a society, rep- resentations of such a creature will become objects of worship. One of the cases cited by Mr. McLennan may here be repeated in illustration. “The story of the origin of the Diko- kamenni Kirgheez,” they say, “from a red greyhound and a certain queen with her forty handmaidens, is of ancient date.” Now, if “the red grey- hound ’’ was the nickname of a man ex- tremely swift of foot (celebrated run- ners have been similarly nicknamed among ourselves), a story of this kind would naturally arise, and if the met- aphorical name was mistaken for the actual name, there might result, as the idol of the race, a compound form ap- propriate to the story. We need not be surprised, then, at finding among the Egyptians the goddess Pasht rep- resented as a woman with a lion's head, and the god Month as a man with the head of a hawk. The Baby- Jonian gods—one having the form of a man with an eagle's tail, and an- other uniting a human bust to a fish’s body—no longer appear such unac- countable conceptions. We get feasi- ble explanations, too, of sculptures representing sphinxes, winged human- headed bulls, etc.; as well as of the stories about centaurs, satyrs, and the reSt. & Ancient myths in general thus ac- quire meanings considerably different from those ascribed to them by com- 16 [450] THREE ESSAYS. parative mythologists. Though these last may be in part correct, yet if the foregoing argument is valid, they can scarcely be correct in their main outlines. Indeed, if we read the facts the other way upward, re- garding as secondary or additional the elements that are said to be pri- mary, while we regard as primary certain elements which are considered as accretions of later times, we shall, A think, be nearer the truth. - The current theory of the myth S that it has grown out of the habit of symbolizing natural agents and proc- esses, in terms of human personalities and actions. Now it may in the first place be remarked that, though symbolization of this kind is common enough among civilized races, it is not common among races that are the most uncivilized. By existing savages, surrounding objects, motions, and changes, are habitually used to convey ideas respecting human transactions. It is by no means so much the habit to express by the do- ings of men the course of natural phenomena. It needs but to read the speech of an Indian chief to see that just as primitive men name one another metaphorically after surround- ing objects, so do they metaphorically describe one another's doings as though they were the doings of natural objects. But assuming a contrary habit of thought to be the dominant one, ancient myths are explained as results of the primitive tendency to symbolize inanimate things and their changes, by human beings and their doings. A kindred difficulty must be added. The change of verbal meaning from which the myth is said to arise, is a change opposite in kind to that which prevails in the earlier stages of linguistic development. It implies a derivation of the concrete from the abstract; whereas at first abstracts are derived only from concretes; the concreting of abstracts being a sub- sequent process. In the words of Prof. Max Müller, there are “dialects no abstract nouns, and the more we go back in the history of languages, the smaller we find the number of these useful expressions” (“Chips,” vol. ii., p. 54); or, as he says more recently : “Ancient words and an- cient thoughts, for both go together, have not yet arrived at that stage of abstraction in which, for instance, active powers, whether natural or Supernatural, can be represented in any but a personal and more or less human form.” (Fraser's Magazine, April, 1870.) Here the concrete is represented as original, and the ab- stract as derivative. Immediately afterward, however, Prof. Max Müller, having given as examples of abstract nouns, “day and night, spring and winter, dawn and twilight, storm and thunder,” goes on to argue that, “as long as people thought in language, it was simply impossible to speak of morning or evening, of Spring and winter, without giving to these con- ceptions something of an individual, active, sexual, and at last personal character.” (“Chips,” etc., vol. ii., p. 55.) Here the concrete is derived from the abstract—the personal con- ception is represented as coming after the impersonal conception ; and through such transformation of the impersonal into the personal, Prof. Max Müller considers ancient myths to have arisen. How are these propo- sitions reconcilable One of two things must be said : If originally there were none of these abstract nouns, then the earliest statements respecting the daily course of Nature were made in concrete terms—the personal elements of the myth were the primitive elements, and the imper- sonal expressions which are their equivalents came later. If this is not admitted, then it must be held that, until after there arose these abstract nouns, there were no current state- ments at all respecting these most conspicuous objects and changes which the heavens and the earth present; and that the abstract nouns having been somehow formed, and rightly spoken at the present day which have formed, and used without personal THREE ESSAYS. [451] 17 meanings, afterward became person- alized—a process the reverse of that which characterizes early linguistic progress. No such contradictions occur if we interpret myths after the manner that has been indicated. Nay, besides escaping contradictions, we meet with unexpected solutions. The moment we try it, the key unlocks for us with ease what seems a quite inexplicable fact, which the current hypothesis takes as one of its postulates. Speak- ing of such words as sky and earth, dew and rain, rivers and mountains, as well as of the abstract nouns above named, Prof. Max Müller says: “Now, in ancient languages every one of these words have necessarily a ter- mination expressive of gender, and this naturally produced in the mind the corresponding idea of sex, so that these names received not only an individual but a sexual character. There was no substantive which was not either masculine or feminine ; neuters being of later growth, and distinguishable chiefly in the nomina- tive.” (“Chips,” etc., vol. ii., p. 55.) And this alleged necessity for a mas- culine or feminine implication is assigned as a part of the reason why these abstract nouns and collective nouns became personalized. But should not a true theory of these first steps in the evolution of thought and language show us how it happened that men acquired the seemingly- strange habit of so framing their words for sky, earth, dew, rain, etc., as to make them indicative of sex 2 Or, at any rate, must it not be admitted that an interpretation which, instead of as- suming this habit to be “necessary,” shows. us how it results, thereby ac- quires an additional claim to accept- ance 2 The interpretation I have in- dicated does this. If men and women are habitually nicknamed, and if de- fects of language lead their descend- ants to regard themselves as descend- ants of the things from which the names were taken, then masculine or femi- nine genders will be ascribed to these things according as the ancestors named after them were men or women. If a beautiful maiden known metaphorically as “the Dawn,” after- ward becomes the mother of some distinguished chief called “the North Wind,” it will result that when, in course of time, the two have been mistaken for the actual dawn and the actual north wind, these will, by implication, be respectively considered as male and female. Looking, now, at the ancient myths in general, their seemingly most inexplicable trait is the habitual combination of alleged human ances- try and adventures, with the posses. sion of personalities otherwise figur. ing in the heavens and on the earth, with totally non-human attributes. This enormous incongruity, not the exception but the rule, the current theory fails to explain. Suppose it to be granted that the great terres- trial and celestial objects and agents naturally become personalized; it does not follow that each of them shall have a specific human biog- raphy. To say of some star that he was the son of this king or that hero, was born in a particular place, and when grown up carried off the wife of a neighboring chief, is a gratuitous multiplication of incongruities already sufficiently great; and is not ac- counted for by the alleged necessary personalization of abstract and col- lective nouns. As looked at from our present standpoint, however, such traditions become quite natural—nay, it is clear that they will necessarily arise. When a nickname has be- come a tribal name, it thereby ceases to be individually distinctive ; and, as already said, the process of nicknam- ing inevitably continues. It com- mences afresh with each child ; and the nickname of each child is both an in- dividual name and a potential tribal name, which may become an actual tribal name if the individual is suffi- ciently celebrated. Usually, then, there is a double system of distin- guishing the individual ; under one of which he is known by his ancestral name, and under the other of which 18 [452] THREE ESSAYs. he is known by a name suggestive of. Something peculiar to himself: just as we have seen happens among the Scotch clans. Consider, now, what will result when language has reached a stage of development such that it can Convey the notion of naming, and is able, therefore, to preserve tradi- tions of human ancestry: the pres- ervation of such traditions being furthered by those corruptions of tribal names which render them no longer suggestive of the things they were derived from. It will result that the individual will be known both as the son of such and such a man by a mother whose name was so-and-so, and also as the Crab, or the Bear, or the Whirlwind—supposing one of these to be his nickname. Such joint use of nicknames and proper names occurs in every school. Now, clearly, in advancing from the early state in which ancestors become identified with the objects they are nicknamed after, to the state in which there are proper names that have lost their metaphorical meanings, there must be passed through a state in which proper names, partially settled only, may or may not be preserved, and in which the new nicknames are still liable to be mistaken for actual names Under such conditions there will arise (especially in the case of a distinguished man) this seemingly- impossible combination of human parentage with the possessioni of the non-human, or superhuman, attributes of the thing which gave the nick- name Another anomaly simultane- ously disappears. The warrior njay have, and often will have, a variety of complimentary nicknames— “the powerful one,” “the destroyer,” etc. Supposing his leading nickname has been the Sun, then when he comes to be identified by tradition with the Sun, it will happen that the sun will acquire his alternative descriptive ti- tles—the swift one, the lion, the wolf —titles not obviously appropriate to the Sun, but quite appropriate to the warrior. Then there comes, too, an explanation of the remaining trait of such myths. When this identification of conspicuous persons, male and female, with conspicuous natural agents, has become settled, there will in due course arise interpretations of the actions of these agents in anthro- pomorphic terms. Suppose, for in- stance, that Endymion and Selene, metaphorically named, one after the setting sun, the other after the moon, have had their human individualities merged in those of the sun and moon, through misinterpretation of meta- phors, what will happen? The legend of their loves having to be reconciled with their celestial appearances and motions, these will be spoken of as results of feeling and will; so that when the sun is going down in the west, while the moon in mid-heaven is following him, the fact will be ex- pressed by saying: “Selene loves and watches Endymion.” Thus we obtain a consistent explanation of the myth without distorting it; and with- out assuming that it contains gratui- tous fictions. We are enabled to ac- cept the biographical part of it, if not as literal fact, still as having had fact for its root. We are helped to see how, by an inevitable misinterpre- tation, there grew out of a more or less true tradition, this strange identi- fication of its personages, with objects and powers totally non-human in their aspects. And then we are shöwn how, from the attempt to reconcile in thought these contradictory elements of the myth, there arose the habit of ascribing the actions of these non- human things to human motives. One further verification may be drawn from facts which are obstacles to the converse hypothesis. These objects and powers, celestial and terrestrial, which force themselves most on men's attention, have some of them several proper names, identi- fied with those of different individ- uals, born at different places, and having different sets of adventures, Thus we have the sun variously known as Apollo, Endymion, Helios, Titho- nos, etc.—personages having irrecon- cilable genealogies. Such anomalies THREE ESSAYS. [453] 19 Prof. Max Müller apparently ascribes to the untrustworthiness of traditions, which are “careless about contradic- tions, or ready to solve them some- times by the most atrocious expedi- ents.” (“Chips,” etc., vol. ii., p. 84.) But if the evolution of the myth has been that above indicated, there exist no anomalies to be got rid of : these diverse genealogies become parts of the evidence. For we have abundant proof that the same objects furnish metaphorical names of men in differ- ent tribes. There are Duck tribes in Australia, in South America, in North America. The eagle is still a totem among the North Americans, as Mr. McLennan shows reason to conclude that it was among the Egyp- tians, among the Jews, and among the Romans. Obviously, for reasons that have been assigned, it naturally happened in the early stages of the ancient races, that compliment- ary comparisons of their heroes to the sun were frequently made. What resulted The sun having furnished names for sundry chiefs and early founders of tribes, and local traditions having severally identified them with the sun, these tribes, when they grew, spread, Con- quered, or came otherwise into partial union, originated a combined mythol- ogy, which necessarily contained con- flicting stories about the Sun-god, as about its other leading personages. If the North-American tribes, among several of which there are traditions of a sun-god, had developed a com- bined civilization, there would simi- larly have arisen among them a my- thology which ascribed to the sun several different proper names and genealogies. Let me briefly set down the leading characters of this hypothesis which give it probability. - True interpretations of all the nat- ural processes, organic and inorganic, that have gone on in past times, habitually trace them to causes still in action. It is thus in Geology; it is thus in Biology; it is thus in Phi- lology. Here we find this character. istic repeated. Nicknaming, the in- heritance of nicknames, and, to some extent, the misinterpretation of nick. names, go among us still ; and were Surnames absent, language imperfect, and knowledge as rudimentary as of old, it is tolerably manifest that re- sults would arise like those we have contemplated. A further characteristic of a true cause is that it accounts not only for the particular group of phenomena to be interpreted, but also for other groups. The cause here alleged does this. It equally well explains the worship of animals, of plants, of moun- tains, of winds, of celestial bodies, and even of appearances too vague to be considered entities. It gives us an in- telligible genesis of fetichistic concep- tions in general. It furnishes us with a reason for the practice, otherwise so unaccountable, of molding the words applied to inanimate objects in such ways as to imply masculine and femi- nine genders. It shows us how there naturally arose the worship of com- pound animals, and of monsters half man half brute. And it shows us why the worship of purely anthropomorphic deities came later, when language had so far developed that it could preserve in tradition the distinction between proper names and nick- Ila Iſle S. A further verification of this view is, that it conforms to the general law of evolution : showing us how, out of one simple, vague, aboriginal form of belief, there have arisen, by continuous differentiations, the many heterogeneous forms of belief which have existed and do exist. The de- sire to propitiate the other self of the dead ancestor, displayed among savage tribes, dominantly manifested by the early historic races, by the Peruvians and Mexicans, by the Chinese at the present time, and to a considerable degree by ourselves (for what else is the wish to do that which a lately-deceased parent was known to have desired 2), has been the universal first form of religious 20 [454] THREE ESSAYS. belief; and from it have grown up the many divergent beliefs that have been referred to. Let me add, as a further reason for adopting this view, that it immensely diminishes the apparently-great con- trast between early modes of thought and our own mode of thought. Doubt- less the aboriginal man differs consid- erably from us, both in intellect and feeling. But such an interpretation of the facts as helps us to the bridge over the gap, derives additional likelihood from doing this. The hypothesis I have sketched out enables us to see that primitive ideas are not so gratui- tously absurd as we suppose, and also enables us to rehabilitate the ancient myth with far less distortion than at first sight appears possible. These views I hope to develop in the first part of “The Principles of Sociology.” The large mass of evi- dence which I shall be able to give in support of the hypothesis, joined with the solutions it will be shown to yield of many minor problems which I have passed over, will, I think, then give to it a still greater probability than it seems now to have. POLITICAL FETICHISM. A HINDoo, who, before beginning his day’s work, Salaams to a bit of plas- tic clay out of which, in a few moments, he has extemporized a god in his own image, is an object of amazement to the European. We read with surprise bordering on skepticism of worship done by machinery, and of prayers which owe their supposed efficacy to the motion given by the wind to the papers they are written on. When told how certain of the Orientals, if displeased with their wooden dei- ties, take them down and beat them, men laugh and wonder. Why should men wonder 2 Kindred superstitions are exhibited by their fellows every day—Superstitions that are, indeed, not so gross, but are in- trinsically of the same nature. There is an idolatry which, instead of carving the object of its worship out of dead matter, takes humanity for its raw material, and expects, by molding a mass of this humanity into a particular form, to give it powers or properties. quite different from those it had be- fore it was molded. In the one case as in the other, the raw material is, as much as may be, disguised; there are decorative appliances by which the savage helps himself to think that he has something more than wood before him, and the citizen gives to the political agencies he has helped to create, such imposing ex- ternals and distinctive names expres- sive of power as serve to strengthen his belief in the benefits prayed for. Some faint reflection of that “ di- vinity” which “doth hedge a king” spreads down through every state de- partment to the lowest rank, so that, in the eyes of the people, even the policeman puts on along with his uni- form a certain indefinable power—nay, the mere dead symbols of author- ity excite reverence in spite of bet- ter knowledge; a legal form of words seems to have something especially binding in it, and there is a preter- natural efficiency about a government- Stamp. The parallelism is still more con- spicuous between the persistency of faith in the two cases, notwithstand- ing perpetual disappointments. It is difficult to perceive how graven im- ages, that have been thrashed for not responding to their worshipper's desire, should still be reverenced and petitioned; but the difficulty of con- ceiving this is diminished when we re- member how, in their turns, all the idols in our political pantheon under- go castigations for failing to do what was expected of them, and are never- theless daily looked up to in the trust- ful hope that future prayers will be answered. The stupidity, the slow- ness, the perversity, the dishonesty of officialism, in one or other of its em- bodiments, are demonstrated afresh in almost every newspaper that issues. Probably half the leading articles THREE ESSAYS. [455] 21 written have for texts some absurd official blunder, some exasperating official delay, Some astounding cor- ruption, some gross official injustice, some incredible official extravagance. And yet these whippings, in which balked expectation continually vents itself, are immediately followed by re- newed faith ; the benefits that have not come are still hoped for, and prayers for others are put up. Along with proof that the old State machines are in themselves inert, and owe such powers as they seem to have to the public opinion that sets their parts in motion, there are continually pro- posed new state machines of the same type as the old. This inexhaust- ible credulity is counted on by men of the widest political experience. Lord Palmerston, who probably knows his public better than any other man, lately said, in reply to a charge made in the House—“I am quite convinced that no person be- longing to the government, in what- ever department he may be, high or low, would be guilty of any breach of faith in regard to any matter confided to him.” To assert as much in the face of facts continually disclosed, implies that Lord Palmerston knows well that men’s faith in officialism survives all adverse evidence. In which case are the hopes from state agency realized 2 One might have thought that the vital interests at stake would have kept the all-essen- tial apparatus for administering jus- tice up to its work; but they do not. On the one hand, here is a man wrongly convicted, and afterward proved to be innocent, who is “par- doned ” for an offense he did not com- mit; and has this as consolation for his unmerited suffering. On the other hand, here is a man whose grave delinquencies a Lord Chancellor over. looks, on partial restitution being made —nay, more, countenances the grant. ing of a pension to him. Proved guilt is rewarded, while proved inno- cence is left without compensation for pains borne and fortunes blasted . This marvelous antithesis, if not often fully paralleled in the doings of offi- cialism as administrator of justice, is, in endless cases, paralleled in part. The fact that imprisonment is the sen- tence on a boy for stealing a penny- worth of fruit, while thousands of pounds may be transferred from a pub. lic into a private purse without any positive punishment being adjudged, is an anomaly kept in countenance by numerous other judicial acts. Theo- retically, the state is a protector of the rights of subjects; practically, the state continually plays the part of ag- gressor. Though it is a recognized principal of equity that he who makes a false charge shall pay the costs of the defense, yet, until quite recently, the Crown has persisted in refusing to pay the costs of citizens against whom it has brought false charges. Nay, worse, deliberate attempts used to be made to establish charges by corrupt means. Within the memory of those now living, the Crown, in excise-pros- ecutions, bribed juries; when the ver- dict was for the Crown, the custom was to give double fees; and the practice was not put an end to until the counsel for a defendant announced in open court that the jury should have double fees if their verdict was for his client . Not alone in the superior parts of Our judicial apparatus is this ill-work- ing of officialism so thrust on men's notice as to have become proverbial : not alone in the life-long delays and ruinous expenses that have made Chancery a word of dread; not alone in the extravagances of bankruptcy courts, that lead creditors carefully to Shun them ; not alone in that uncer- tainty which makes men submit to gross injustice rather than risk the still grosser injustice which the law will, as likely as not, inflict on them ; but down through the lower, divisions of the judicial apparatus are all kinds of failures and absurdities daily dis- played. It may be fairly urged in mitigation of the sarcasms current re- specting the police, that among so many men cases of misconduct and in- efficiency must be frequent; but we 22 [456] THREE ESSAYS. might have expected the orders under which they act to be just and well con- sidered. Very little inquiry shows that they are not. There is a story current that, in the accounts of an Irish official, a small charge for a tel- egram, which an emergency had called for, was objected to at the head office in London, and, after a long corre- spondence, finally allowed, but with the understanding that in future no such item would be past, unless the department in London had authorized it ! We cannot vouch for this story, but we can vouch for something which gives credibility to it. A friend who had been robbed by his cook went to the police-office, detailed the case, gave good reasons for inferring the di- rection of her flight, and requested the police to telegraph, that she might be intercepted. He was told, however, that they could not do this without authority; and this authority was not to be had without a long delay. The result was that the thief, who had gone to the town at the time supposed, es- caped, and has not since been heard of. Take another function assumed by the police—the regulation of traffic. Daily, all through London, ten thou- sand fast-going vehicles, with hard- pressed men of business in them, are stopped by a sprinkle of slow-going carts and wagons. Greater speed in these comparatively few carts and wagons, or limitation of them to early and late hours, would immensely di- minish the evil. But, instead of deal- ing with these really great hindrances to traffic, the police deal with that which is practically no hindrance. Men with advertisement-boards were lately for- bidden to walk about, on the groundless plea that they are in the way; and inca- pables, prevented thus from getting a shilling a day, were driven into the ranks of paupers and thieves. Worse cases may be observed. For years past there has been a feud between the po- lice and the orange girls, who are chased hither and thither because they are said to be obstructions to foot-pas- sengers. Meanwhile, in some of the chief thoroughfares, may constantly be seen men standing with toys, which they delude children ang their parents into buying by pretending that the toys make certain sounds, which they themselves make, and when the police, quietly watching this obtain- ment of money under false pretenses, are asked why they do not interfere, they reply that they have no orders. Admirable contrast ! Trade dishon- estly, and you may collect a small crowd on the pavement without com- plaint being made that you interrupt the traffic. Trade honestly, and you shall be driven from the pavement- edge as an impediment—shall be driven to dishonesty One might have thought that the no- torious inefficiency of officialism as a protector against injustice would have made men skeptical of its efficiency in other things. If here, where citi- zens have such intense interests in getting a function well discharged, they have failed through all these many centuries in getting it well dis- charged—if this agency, which is in theory the guardian of each citizen, is in so many cases his enemy, that go- ing to law is suggestive of impoverish- ment and possible ruin, it might have been supposed that officialism would scarcely be expected to work in all di- rections where the interests at stake are less intense. But so strong is the influence of political fetichism, that neither these experiences, nor the par- allel experiences which every state- department affords, diminish men's faith. For years past there has been thrust before them the fact that, of the funds of . Greenwich Hospital, one- third goes to maintain the sailors, while two-thirds go in administration : but this and other such facts do not stop their advocacy of more public ad- ministrations. The parable of strain- ing at gnats and swallowing camels they see absolutely paralleled by offi- cialism, in the red-tape particularity with which all minute details are en- forced, and the astounding careless- ness with which the accounts of a whole department, like the Patent Office, are left utterly uncontrolled; THREE ESSAYS. [457] **) 9% and yet we continue to hear men pro- pose government-audits as checks for mercantile companies | No diminu- tion of confidence seems to result from the disclosure of stupidities which even a wild imagination would scarcely have thought possible ; in- stance the method of promotion lately made public, under which a clerk in one branch of a department takes the higher duties of some deceased supe- rior clerk, without any rise of salary, while some clerk in another branch of the department gets the rise of salary without any increase in his responsi- bilities - Endless are these evils and absurd- ities, and surviving generation after generation, as they do, spite of com- missions and reports and debates, there is an annual crop of new schemes for government agencies that are ex- pected by citizens to work just as they propose them to work. With a system of army promotion which insures an organized incompetence, but which survives perpetual protests; with a notoriously ill-constituted admiralty, of which the doings are stock-subjects of ridicule; with a church that main- tains its most effete formulas, notwith- standing almost universal repudiation of them ; there are daily fresh de- mands for more law-established appli- ances. With building acts under which arise houses less stable than those of the last generation; with coal- mine inspection that does not prevent coal-mine explosions; with railway in- spection that has for its accompani- ment plenty of railway accidents— with these and other such failures continually displayed, there still pre- vails what M. Guizot rightly calls that “gross delusion, a belief in the sovereign power of political machin- ery.” . . A great service would be done by any man who would analyze the leg- islation, say of the last half century, and compare the expected results of Acts of Parliament with their proved results. He might make it an in- structive revelation by simply taking all the preambles, and observing how many of the evils to be rectified were evils produced by preceding enact- ments. His chief difficulty would be that of getting within any mod- erate compass the immense number of cases in which the benefits an- ticipated were not achieved, while unanticipated disasters were caused. And then he might effectively close his digest by showing what immense advantages have, in instance after in- stance, followed the entire cessation of legislative action ; not, indeed, that such an accumulation of cases, how- ever multitudinous and however con- clusive, would have an appreciable ef- fect on the average mind. Political fetichism will continue so long as men remain without scientific discipline— so long as they recognize only proxi- mate causes, and never think of the re- moter and more general causes by which their special agencies are set in motion. Until the thing which now usurps the name of education has been dethroned by a true education, having for its end to teach men the nature of the world they live in, new political de- lusions will grow up as fast as old ones are extinguished. But there is a select class existing, and a larger select class arising, on whom a work of the kind described would have an effect, and for whom it would be well worth while to write it. C O N T Laws IN GENERAL, ETC................ . . . . . . ORIGIN OF ANIMAL WORSHIP PoliticAL FETICHISM ... * * * * * * * * u, º ſº e º a tº ºn e º ſº E N T S. PAGE * tº e º e º 'º is tº º ºs º º ſº e º ſº º º sº tº I 8 • a s > * 2O tº º 'º dº º tº £ tº as e º e º e º ºs e º º sº & E. & tº sº a * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * s e s e e s s s & • ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. § By HERBERT SPENCER. * I. SPECIALIZED ADMINISTRATION. IT is contrary to common-sense that fish should be more difficult to get at the sea-side than in London ; but it is true, nevertheless. No less con- trary to common-sense seems the truth that though, in the West High- lands, oxen are to be seen everywhere, no beef can be had without sending two or three hundred miles to Glas- gow for it. Rulers who, guided by common-sense, tried to suppress cer- tain opinions by forbidding the books containing them, never dreamed that their interdicts would cause the diffu- sion of these opinions; and rulers who, guided by common-sense, for- bade excessive rates of interest, never dreamed that they were thereby making the terms harder for borrow- ers than before. When printing replaced copying, any one who had prophesied that the number of per- sons engaged in the manufacture of books would immensely increase, as a consequence, would have been thought wholly devoid of common- sense. And equally devoid of com- | mon-sense would have been thought any one who, when railways were re- placing coaches, said that the number of horses employed in bringing passengers and goods to and from railways, would be greater than the number directly replaced by the rail- ways. Such cases might be multi- plied indefinitely. Whoso remembers that, among quite simple phenomena, causes produce effects which are often utterly at variance with anticipation, will see how habitually this must hap- pen among complex phenomena. That a balloon is made to rise by the same force which makes a stone fall : that the melting of ice may be greatly retarded by wrapping the ice in a blanket ; that the simplest way of setting potassium on fire is to throw it into the water; are truths which those who know only the outside aspects of things would regard as manifest falsehoods. And, if, when the factors are few and simple, the results may be so absolutely opposed 2 [574] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. is seeming probability, much more will they be often thus opposed when the factors are many and involved. The saying of the French respecting political events, that “it is always the unexpected which happens’’—a say- ing which they have been abundantly re-illustrating of late—is one which legislators, and those who urge on schemes of legislation, should have ever in mind. Let us pause a mo- ment to contemplate a seemingly- impossible set of results which social forces have wrought out. Up to quite recent days, Language was held to be of supernatural origin. That this elaborate apparatus of sym- bols, so marvelously adapted for the conveyance of thought from mind to mind, was a miraculous gift, seemed unquestionable. No possible alterna- tive way could be thought of by which there had come into existence these multitudinous assemblages of words of various orders, genera, and species, molded into fitness for articulating with one another, and capable of be- ing united from moment to moment into ever-new combinations, that rep- resent with precision each idea as it arises. . The supposition that, in the slow progress of things, Language grew out of the continuous use of signs—at first mainly mimetic, after- ward partly mimetic, partly vocal, and at length almost wholly vocal—was an hypothesis never even conceived by men in early stages of civilization; and when the hypothesis was at length conceived, it was thought too mon- strous an absurdity to be even enter- tained. Yet this monstrous absurdity proves to be true. Already the evolu- tion of Tanguage has been traced back far enough to show that all its | particular words, and all its leading traits of structure, have had a natural genesis; and day by day investigation wnakes it more manifest that its gen- esis has been natural from the begin- ning. Not only has it been natural from the beginning, but it has been spontaneous. No language is a cun- ningly-devised scheme of a ruler or body of legislators. There was no council of savages to invent the parts of speech, and decide on what princi- ples they should be used. Nay, more. Going on without any author- ity or appointed regulation, this natural process went on without any man observing that it was going on. Solely under pressure of the need for communicating their ideas and feel- ings—solely in pursuit of their per- sonal interests—men little by little developed speech in absolute uncon- sciousness that they were doing any- thing more than pursuing their per- sonal interests. Even now the un- consciousness continues. Take the whole population of the globe, and there is probably not above one in a million who knows that in his daily talk he is carrying on the process by which Language has been evolved. I commence thus by way of giving the key-note to the argument which follows. My general purpose, in dwelling a moment on this illustration, has been that of showing how utterly beyond the conceptions of common- Sense, literally so called, and even beyond the conceptions of cultivated common-sense, are the workings-out of Sociological processes—how these workings-out are such that even those who have carried to the uttermost “the scientific use of the imagina- tion,” would never have anticipated them. And my more special purpose has been that of showing how marvel- ous are the results indirectly and unintentionally achieved by the co- operation of men who are severally pursuing their private ends. Let me pass now to the particular topic to be here dealt-with. I have greatly regretted to see Prof. Huxley strengthening, by his deserv- edly high authority, a school of poli- ticians which can scarcely be held to need strengthening—its opponents being so few. I regret it the more because, thus far, men prepared for the study of Sociology by previous studies of Biology and Psychology, have scarcely expressed any opinions on the question at issue ; and that ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [575] 3 Prof. Huxley, who by both general and special culture is so eminently fitted to judge, should have come to the conclusions set forth in the last number of the Fortnightly Review, will be discouraging to the small number who have reached opposite conclu- sions. Greatly regretting however, though I do, this avowed antagonism of Prof. Huxley to a general political doctrine with which I am identified, I do not propose to make any reply to his arguments at large : being de- terred partly by reluctance to dwell on points of difference with one whom I so greatly admire, and partly by the consciousness that what I should say would be mainly a repetition of what I have explicitly or implicitly said elsewhere. But with one point raised I feel obliged to deal. Prof. Huxley tacitly puts to me a question. By so doing he leaves me to choose between two alternatives, neither of which is agreeable to me. I must either, by leaving it unanswered, accept the im- plication that it is unanswerable, and the doctrine I hold untenable ; or else I must give it an adequate an- swer. Little as I like it, I see that the latter of these alternatives is that which, on public as well as on per- Sonal grounds, I must accept.' Had I been allowed to elaborate more fully the Review-article from which Prof. Huxley quotes, this question would possibly not have been raised. That article closes with the following words: “We had hoped to say something respecting the dif- ferent types of social organization, and something also on social meta- morphoses; but we have reached our assigned limits.” These further de- velopments of the conception—devel- opments to be hereafter set forth in the “Principles of Sociology”—I must here sketch in outline before my answer can be made intelligible. In sketching them, I must say much that would be needless were my answer addressed to Prof. Huxley only. Bare allusions to general phenomena of organization, with which he is im- measurably more familiar than I am, would suffice. But, as the sufficiency of my answer has to be judged by the general reader, the general reader must be supplied with the requisite data—my presentation of them being under correction from Prof. Huxley if it is inaccurate. . The primary differentiation in or- ganic structures, manifested alike in the history of each organism and in the history of the organic world as a whole, is the differentiation between outer and inner parts—the parts which hold direct converse with the environ- ment and the parts which do not hold direct converse with the environment. We see this alike in those smallest and lowest forms improperly, though suggestively, sometimes called unicel- lular, and also in the next higher divi- sion of creatures which, with consid- erable reason, are regarded as aggre- gations of the lower. In these crea- tures the body is divisible into endo- derm and ectoderm, differing very little in their characters, but serving the one to form the digestive sac, and the other to form the outer wall of the body. As Prof. Huxley de- scribes them in his “Oceanic Hydro- zoa,” these layers represent respect- ively the organs of nutrition and the organs of external relation—generally, though not universally, for there are exceptions, especially among para- sites. In the embryos of higher types, these two layers severally become double by the splitting of a layer . formed between them ; and from the outer double layer is developed the body-wall with its limbs, nervous sys- tem, senses, muscles, etc.; while from the inner double layer there arise the alimentary canal and its appendages, together with the heart and lungs. Though in such higher types these two systems of organs, which re- spectively absorb nutriment and ex- pend nutriment, become so far con- nected by ramifying blood-vessels and nerves that this division cannot be sharply made, still the broad contrast remains. At the very outset, then, there arises this separation, which im- 4 [576] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. plies at once a co-operation and an antagonism—a co-operation, because, while the outer organs secure for the inner organs the crude food, the inner organs elaborate and supply to the outer organs the prepared materials by which they are enable to do their work ; and an antagonism, because each set of organs, living and growing at the cost of these prepared materials, cannot appropriate any portion of the total supply without diminishing by So much the supply available for the other. This general co-operation and general antagonism becomes compli- cated with special co-operations and special antagonisms, as fast as these two great systems of organs develop. The originally simple alimentary canal, differentiating into many parts, becomes a congeries of structures which, by co-operation, fulfill better their general function, but between which there nevertheless arise antag- onisms; since each has to make good its waste and to get matter for growth, at the cost of the general supply of nutriment available for them all. Similarly, as fast as the outer system develops into special senses and limbs, there arise among these, also, Sec- ondary co-operations and secondary antagonisms. By their variously-com- bined actions, food is obtained more effectually ; and yet the activity of each set of muscles, or each directive nervous structure, entails a draft upon the stock of prepared nutriment which the outer organs receive, and is by So much at the cost of the rest. Thus the method of organization, both in general and in detail, is a simultaneous co-operation and opposition. All the organs unite in subserving the inter- ests of the organism they form ; and yet they have all their special interests, and compete with one another for blood. - A form of government, or control, or co-ordination, develops as fast as these systems of organs develop. Eventually this becomes double. A general distinction arises between the two controlling systems belonging to the two great systems of organs. Whether the inner controlling system is or is not originally derived from the Outer, matters not to the argument— when developed it is in great measure independent.* And if we contemplate their respective sets of functions, we shall perceive the origin of this dis- tinction. That the outer organs may co-operate effectively for the purposes of catching prey, escaping danger, etc., it is needful that they should be under a government capable of direct- ing their combined actions, now in this way and now in that, according as outer circumstances vary. From in- stant to instant there must be quick ad- justments to occasions that are more or less new ; and hence there requires a complex and centralized nervous ap- paratus, to which all these organs are promptly and completely obedient. The government needful for the inner system of organs is a different and much simpler one. When the food obtained by the Outer organs has been put into the stomach, the co-oper- ation required of the viscera, though it varies somewhat as the quantity or kind of food varies, has nevertheless a general uniformity; and it is re- quired to go on in much the same way whatever the outer circumstances may be. In each case the food has to be reduced to a pulp, supplied with various solvent secretions, propelled onward, and its nutritive part taken * Here, and throughout the discussion, I refer to these controlling systemis only as they exist in the Vertebrata, because their rela- tions are far better known in this great division of the animal kingdom—not because like re- lations do not exist elsewhere. Indeed, in the great sub-kingdom Amaulosa, these con- trolling systems have relations that are ex- tremely significant to us here. For while an inferior annulose animal has only a single set of nervous structures, a superior annulose an- imal (as a moth) has a set of nervous struct- ures presiding over the viscera, as well as a more conspicuous set presiding over the or- gans of external relation. And this contrast is analogous to one of the contrasts between undeveloped and developed societies; for, while among the uncivilized and incipiently civilized there is but a single set of directive agencies, there are among the fully civilized, as we shall presently see, two sets of directive agencies, for the outer and inner structures respectively. ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [577] 5. up by absorbent surfaces. That these processes may be effective, the organs which carry them on must be supplied with fit blood; and to this end the heart and the lungs have to act with g: 2ater vigor. This visceral co-oper- ation, carried on with this compara- tive uniformity, is regulated by a ner- vous system which is to a large extent independent of that higher and more complex nervous system controlling the external organs. The act of swal- lowing is, indeed, mainly effected by the higher nervous system; but, being swallowed, the food affects by its presence the local nerves, through them the local ganglia, and indirectly, through nervous connections with other ganglia, excites the rest of the viscera into co-operative activity. It is true that the functions of the sym- pathetic or ganglionic nervous system, or “nervous system of organic life,” as it is otherwise called, are imper- fectly understood. But, since we know positively that some of its plexuses, as the cardiac, are centers of local stimu- lation and co-ordination, which can act independently, though they are influ- enced by higher centers, it is fairly to be inferred that the other and still larger plexuses, distributed among the viscera, are also such local and largely independent centers; especially as the nerves they send into the viscera, to join the many subordinate ganglia distributed through them, greatly ex- ceed in quantity the cerebro-spinal fibers accompanying them. Indeed, to suppose otherwise is to leave un- answered the question, What are their functions 2 as well as the question, How are these unconscious visceral co-ordinations effected 2 There re- mains only to observe the kind of co- operation which exists between the two nervous systems. This is both a general and a special co-operation. The general co-operation is that by which either system of organs is en- abled to stimulate the other to action The alimentary canal yields through certain nervous connections the sen- sation of hunger to the higher nervous system; and so prompts efforts for procuring food. Conversely, the ac- tivity of the nervo-muscular system, or, at least, its normal activity, sends in- ward to the cardiac and other plexuses a gush of stimulus which excites the viscera to action. The special co-op- eration is one by which it would seem that each system puts an indirect re- straint on the other. Fibers from the sympathetic accompany every artery throughout the organs of external re- lation, and exercise on the artery a constrictive action ; and the converse is done by certain of the cerebro-spinal fibers which ramify with the sympa- thetic throughout the viscera : through the vagus and other nerves, an inhib- itory influence is exercised on the heart, intestines, pancreas, etc. Leaving doubtful details, however, the fact which concerns us here is sufficiently manifest. There are, for these two systems of organs, two ner- vous systems, in great measure inde- pendent; and, if it is true that the higher system influences the lower, it is no less true that the lower very powerfully influences the higher. The restrictive action of the sympathetic upon the circulation, throughout the nervo-muscular system, is unquestion- able ; and it is possibly through this that, when the viscera have much work to do, the nervo-muscular system is incapacitated in so marked a man- ner.” ‘. . * To meet the probable objection that the experiments of Bernard, Ludwig, and others, show that in the case of certain glands the nerves of the cerebro-spinal system are those which set up the secreting process, I would re- mark that in these cases, and in many others where the relative functions of the cerebro- spinal nerves and the sympathetic nerves have been studied, the organs have been those in which sensation is either the stimulus to activity or its accompaniment; and that from these cases no conclusion can be drawn ap- plying to the cases of those viscera which normally perform their functions without sen- sation. Perhaps it may even be that the fünctions of those sympathetic fibers which accompany the arteries of the outer organs are simply ancillary to those of the central parts of the sympathetic system, which stimulate and regulate the viscera—ancillary in this sense, that they check the diffusion of blood in external organs when it is wanted in internal organs: cerebro-Spinal inhibition (except in 6 [578] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. The one further fact here concern- ing us is the contrast presented in clifferent kinds of animals, between the degrees of development of these two great systems of organs that carry on respectively the outer functions and the inner functions. tive organs, the organs of sense, to- gether with the nervous apparatus which combines their actions, bear a large ratio to the organs of alimenta- tion and their appendages; while there are inactive creatures in which these organs of external relation bear a very Small ratio to the organs of alimenta- tion. And a remarkable fact, here es- pecially instructive to us, is that very frequently there occurs a metamor- phosis, which has for its leading trait a great change in the ratio of these two systems—a metamorphosis which ac- companies a great change in the mode of life. The most familiar metamor- phosis is variously illustrated among insects. During the early or larval stage of a butterfly, the organs of alimentation are largely developed, while the organs of external relation are but little developed ; and then, during a period of quiescence the or- gans of external relation undergo an immense development, making possi- ble the creature’s active and varied ad- justments to the surrounding world, while the alimentary system becomes relatively small. On the other hand, among the lower invertebrate animals there is a very common metamorphosis of an opposite kind. When young, the creature, with scarcely any aliment- ary system, but supplied with limbs and sense organs, swims about act- ively. Presently it settles in a habitat where food is to be obtained without moving about, loses in great part its organs of external relation, develops its visceral system, and, as it grows, assumes a nature utterly unlike that its action on the heart) working the opposite way. And possibly this is the instrumentality for carrying on that competition for nutri- ment which, as we saw, arises at the very out- set between these two great systems of or- gans. - There are active creatures in which the locomo- which it originally had—a nature adapted almost exclusively to alimen- tation and the propagation of the spe- C16S. - * , , Let us turn now to the social or- ganism, and the analogies of structure and function which may be traced in it. Of course these analogies between the phenomena presented in a phys- ically coherent aggregate forming an individual, and the phenomena pre- sented in a physically incoherent aggregate of individuals distributed over a wide area, cannot be analogies of a visible or sensible kind ; but can only be analogies between the sys- tems, or methods, of organization. Such analogies as exist result from the one unquestionable community between the two organizations: there is in both a mutual dependence of parts. This is the origin of all organization ; and determines what similarities there are between an individual or- ganism and a social organism. Of course the similarities thus deter- mined are accompanied by transcend- ent differences, determined, as above said, by the unlikenesses of the ag- gregates. One cardinal difference is that, while in the individual organ- ism there is but one center of con- Sciousness capable of pleasure or pain, there are, in the social organ- ism, as many such centers as there are individuals, and the aggregate of them has no consciousness of pleasure or pain—a difference which entirely changes the ends to be pursued. Bearing in mind this qualification, let us now glance at the parallelisms in- dicated. - . - - A Society, like an individual, has a set of structures fitting it to act upon its environment—appliances for at- tack and defense, armies, navies, for- tified and garrisoned places. At the same time, a society has an industrial organization which carries on all those processes that make possible the na- tional life. Though these two sets of organs for external activity and inter- nal activity do not bear to one an- other just the same relation which the ESSAYS SI’ECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [59] outer and inner organs of an animal do (since the industrial structures in a society supply themselves with raw materials, instead of being supplied by the external organs), yet they bear a relation otherwise similar. There is at once a co-operation and an an- tagonism. By the help of the defen- sive system the industrial system is enabled to carry on its functions with- out injury from foreign enemies; and by the help of the industrial system, which supplies it with food and ma- terials, the defensive system is ena- bled to maintain this security. At the same time the two systems are opposed in so far that they both de- pend for their existence upon the common stock of produce. Further, in the social Organism, as in the in- dividual organism, this primary co-op- eration and antagonism subdivides into secondary co-operations and an- tagonisms. If we look at the indus- trial organization, we see that its agricultural part and its manufactur- ing part aid one another by the ex- change of their products, and are yet otherwise opposed to one another; since each takes of the other’s prod- ucts the most it can get in return for its own products. Similarly throughout the manufacturing system itself. Of the total returns secured by Manchester for its goods, Liver- pool obtains as much as possible for the raw material, and Manchester gives as little as possible—the two at the same time co-operating in Secret- ing for the rest of the community the woven fabrics it requires, and in jointly obtaining from the rest of the community the largest payment in other commodities. And thus it is in all kinds of direct and indirect ways throughout the industrial structures. Men prompted by their own needs as well as those of their children, and bodies of such men more or less ag- gregated, are quick to find every un- satisfied need of their fellow-men, and to satisfy it in return for the satisfac- tion of their own needs ; and the working of this process is inevitably such that the strongest need, ready to pay the most for satisfaction, is that which draws most workers to satisfy it, so that there is thus a perpetual balancing of the needs and of the ap- pliances which subserve them. - This brings us to the regulative structures under which these two sys- tems of co-operating parts work. As in the individual organism, so in the social organism, the outer parts are under a rigorous central control. For adjustment to the varying and incal- culable changes in the environment, the external organs, offensive and de- fensive, must be capable of prompt combination; and that their actions may be quickly combined to meet each exigency as it arises, they must ibe completely subordinated to a su- preme executive power—armies and navies must be despotically con- trolled. Quite otherwise is it with the regulative apparatus required for the industrial system. This, which carries on the nutrition of a society, as the visceral system carries on the nutrition of an individual, has a regu- lative apparatus in great measure dis- tinct from that which regulates the external organs. It is not by any “ order in council’ that farmers are determined to grow so much wheat and so much barley, or to divide their land in due proportion between arable and pasture. There requires no tel- egram from the Home Office to alter the production of woolens in Leeds, so that it may be properly adjusted to the stocks on hand and the forth- coming crop of wool. Staffordshire produces its due quantity of pottery, and Sheffield sends out cutlery with rapidity adjusted to the consumption, without any legislative stimulus or restraint. The spurs and checks to production which manufacturers and manufacturing centers receive, have quite another origin. Partly by di- rect orders from distributors and partly by the indirect indications fur- nished by the market reports through- out the kingdom, they are prompted to secrete actively or to diminish their rates of secretion. The regulative apparatus by which these industrial 8 . (580) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. organs are made to co-operate har- moniously, acts somewhat as the sym- pathetic does in a vertebrate animal. There is a system of communications among the great producing and dis- tributing centers, which excites or re- tards as the circumstances vary. From hour to hour messages pass be- tween all the chief provincial towns, as well as between each of them and London; from hour to hour prices are adjusted, supplies are ordered hither or thither, and capital is drafted from place to place, according as there is greater or less need for it. All this goes on without any ministerial over- seeing—without any dictation from those executive centers which com- bine the actions of the outer organs. There is, however, one all-essential influence which these higher centers exercise over the industrial activities , -—a restraining influence which pre- vents aggression, direct and indirect. The condition under which only these producing and distributing processes can go on healthfully is that, wher- ever there is work and waste, there shall be a proportionate supply of materials for repair. And securing this is nothing less than securing ful- fillment of contracts. Just in the same way that a bodily organ which performs function, but is not ade- quately paid in blood, must dwindle, and the organism as a whole eventu- ally suffer; so an industrial center which has made and sent out its spe- cial commodity, but does not get adequately paid in other commodities, must decay. And when we ask what is requisite to prevent this local in- nutrition and decay, we find the re- quisite to be that agreements shall be carried out; the goods shall be paid for at the stipulated prices; that jus- tice shall be administened. - One further leading parallelism must be described—that between the metamorphoses which occur in the two cases. These metamorphoses are analogous in so far that they are changes in the ratios of the inner and outer systems of organs; and also in so far as they take place under analo- gous conditions. At the one extreme we have that small and simple type of society which a wandering horde of Savages presents. This is a type almost wholly predatory in its organi- zation. It consists of little else than a co-operative structure for carrying on warfare—the industrial part is almost absent, being represented only by the women. When the wan- dering tribe becomes a settled tribe, an industrial organization begins to show itself—especially where, by con- quest, there has been obtained a slave-class that may be forced to labor. The predatory structure, how- ever, still for a long time predomi- nates. Onitting the slaves and the women, the whole body politic con- sists of parts organized for offense and defense, and is efficient in pro- portion as the control of them is cen- tralized. Communities of this kind, continuing to subjugate their neigh- bors, and developing an organization of Some complexity, may nevertheless retain a mainly-predatory type, with just such industrial structures as are needful for supporting the offensive and defensive structures. Of this Sparta furnished a good example. The characteristics of such a social type are these—that each member of the ruling race is a soldier; that war is the business of life; that every one is subject to a rigorous disci- pline fitting him for this business; that centralized authority regulates all the Social activities, down to the details of each man's daily con- duct ; that the welfare of the State is everything, and that the indi- vidual lives for public benefit. So long as the environing societies are such as necessitate and keep in exer- cise the predatory organization, these traits continue; but when, mainly by conquest and the formation of large aggregates, the predatory activity be- comes less constant, and war ceases to be the occupation of every free man, the industrial structures begin to predominate. Without tracing the transition, it will suffice to take, as a Sample of the pacific or industrial ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [58] 0 type, the Northern States of America before the late war. Here military organization had almost disappeared; the infrequent local assemblings of militia had turned into occasions for jollity, and everything martial had fallen into contempt. the pacific or industrial type are these —that the central authority is rela- tively feeble ; that it interferes scarcely at all with the private actions of individuals; and that the State, instead of being that for the benefit of which individuals exist, has become that which exists for the benefit of individuals. It remains to add that this meta- morphosis, which takes place in Socie- ties along with a higher civilization, very rapidly retrogrades if the sur- rounding conditions become unfavor- able to it. During the late war in America, Mr. Seward’s boast—“I touch this bell, and any man in the remotest State is a prisoner of the Government” (a boast which was not an empty one, and which was by many of the Republican party greatly applauded)—shows us how rapidly, along with predatory activities, there tends to be resumed the needful type of centralized structure; and how there quickly grow up the correspond- ing sentiments and ideas. Our own history since 1815 has shown a double change of this kind. During the thirty years' peace, the predatory organization dwindled, the military sentiment greatly decreased, the in- dustrial organization rapidly devel- oped, the assertion of the individ- uality of the citizen became more decided, and many restrictive and despotic regulations were got rid of. Conversely, since the revival of pred- atory activities and structures on the Continent, our own offensive and defensive structures have been redeveloping, and the tendency to- ward increase of that centralized con- trol which accompanies such struct- ures has become marked. . . . And now, closing this somewhat elaborate introduction, I am prepared The traits of to deal with the question put to me. Prof. Huxley, after quoting some pas- sages from that essay on the “Social Organism” which I have supple- mented in the foregoing paragraphs; and after expressing a qualified con- currence which I greatly value as com- ing from So highly fitted a judge, pro- ceeds, with characteristic acumen, to comment on what seems an incon- gruity between certain analogies set forth in that essay, and the doctrine I hold respecting the duty of the State. Referring to a passage in which I have described the function of the individ- ual brain as “that of averaging the interests of life, physical, intellectual, moral, social,” and have compared it to the function of Parliament as “that of averaging the interests of the various classes in a community,” adding that “a good Parliament is one in which the parties answering to these respective interests are so bal- anced that their united legislation concedes to each class as much as consists with the claims of the rest” —Prof. Huxley proceeds to say: “All this appears to be very just. But if the resemblances between the body physio- logical and the body politic are any indica- tion, not only of what the latter is, and how it has become what it is, but what it ought to be, and what it is tending to become, I can- not but think that the real force of the anal- ogy is totally opposed to the negative view of State function. - . * “Suppose that, in accordance with this view, each muscle were to maintain that the nervous system had no right to interfere with its contraction, except to prevent it from hin- dering the contraction of another muscle; or each gland, that it had a right to secrete, so long as its secretion interfered with no other; suppose every separate cell left free to follow its own “interest,” and laissez-faire Lord of all, what would become of the body physio- logical?” - - - On this question the remark I have first to make is, that if I held the doc- trine of M. Proudhon, who deliber- ately named himself an “anarchist,” and if along with this doctrine I held the above-indicated theory of social structures and functions, the incon- sistency implied by the question put would be clear, and the question 10 [582] Essays SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL would be unanswerable. But since I entertain no such view as that of Proudhon—since I hold that within its proper limits governmental action is not simply legitimate but all-impor- tant—I do not see how I am con- cerned with a question which tacitly supposes that I deny the legitimacy and the importance. Not only do I contend that the restraining power of the State over individuals, and bodies or classes of individuals, is requisite, but I have contended that it should be exercised much more effectually, and carried out much further, than at present.” And as the maintenance of this control implies the maintenance of a controlling apparatus, I do not see that I am placed in any difficulty when I am asked what would happen were the controlling apparatus forbid- den to interfere. Further, on this general aspect of the question I have to add that, by comparing the delib- erative assembly of a nation to the deliberative nervous center of a verte- brate animal, as respectively averag- ing the interests of the society and of the individual, and as both doing this through processes of representation, I do not mean to identify the two sets of interests; for these in a society (or at least a peaceful society) refer mainly to interior actions, while in an individual creature they refer mainly to exterior actions. The “interests '' to which I refer, as being averaged by a repre- sentative governing body, are the con- flicting interests between class and class, as well as between man and ... man—conflicting interests the balanc- ing of which is nothing but the pre- venting of aggression and the admin- istration of justice. I pass now from this general aspect of the question, which does not con- Cern me, to a more special aspect which does concern me. Dividing the actions of governing structures, whether in bodies individual or bodies politic, into the positize/y regulative and the negatively regulative, or those which stimulate and direct, as dis- tinguished from those which simply restrain, I may say that if there is raised the question—What will hap- pen when the controlling apparatus does not act? there are quite different replies according as one or other sys- tem of organs is referred to. If, in the individual body, the muscles were Severally independent of the deliber- ative and executive centers, utter im- potence would result: in the absence of muscular co-ordination, there would be no possibility of standing, much less of acting on Surrounding things, and the body would be a prey to the first enemy. Properly to combine the ac- tions of these outer organs, the great nervous centers must exercise func- tions that are both positively regula- tive and negatively regulative—must both Command action and arrest ac- tion. Similarly with the outer organs of a political body. Unless the offen- sive and defensive structures can be despotically commanded by a central authority, there cannot be those prompt combinations and adjustments re- quired for meeting the variable actions of external enemies. But if, instead of asking what would happen supposing the outer organs in either case were without control from the great governi ing centers; we ask what would hap- pen were the inner organs (the indus- trial and commercial structures in the one case, and the alimentary and dis- tributive in the other) without such control, the answer is quite different. Omitting the respiratory and some minor ancillary parts of the individual organism, to which the social organ- ism has nothing analogous; and lim- iting ourselves to absorbtive, elabora- tive, and distributive structures, which are found in both; it may, I think, be successfully contended that in neither the one case nor the other do they re- quire the positively regulative control of the great governing centers, but only the negatively regulative. Let us glance at the facts.” - * See “Social Statics,” chap. xxi., “The IJuty of the State.” - * Lest there should be any misunderstand- ing of the terms positively regulative and mega- ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AN I) PRACTICAL. [583) 11 Digestion and circulation go on very well in though the higher nervous centers are either deranged or partly absent. The vital functions proceed properly during sleep, though less actively than when the brain is at work. In in- fancy, while the cerebro-spinal sys- tem is almost incapable, and cannot even perform such simple actions as those of commanding the Sphincters, the visceral functions are active and regular. Nor in an adult does that arrest of cerebral action shown by in- sensibility, or that extensive paralysis of the spinal system which renders all the limbs immovable, prevent these functions from being carried on for a considerable time; though they nec- essarily begin to flag in the absence of the demand which an active sys- tem of outer organs makes upon them. These internal organs are, indeed, so little under the positively directive control of the great nervous centers, that their independence is often very inconvenient. No mandate sent into the interior stops an attack of diar- rhea ; nor, when an indigestible meal excites the circulation at night, and prevents sleep, will the bidding of the brain cause the heart to pulsate more quietly. It is doubtless true that these vital processes are modified in important ways, both by general stim- ulation and by inhibition, from the cerebro-spinal system; but that they are mainly independent cannot, I think, be questioned. The facts that peristaltic motion of the intestines can go on when their nervous connec- tively regulative, let me briefly illustrate them. If “a man has land, and I either cultivate it for him, partially or wholly, or dictate any or all of his modes of cultivation, my action is positively regulative; but, if, leaving him ab- solutely unhelped and unregulated in his farming, I simply prevent him from taking his neighbor’s crops, or from making ap- proach-roads over his neighbor's land, or from depositing rubbish upon it, my action is negatively regulative. There is a tolerably sharp distinction between the act of securing a citizen's ends for him or interfering with his mode of securing them, and the act of check- ing him when he interferes with another citi- zen in the pursuit of his ends. lunatics and idiots, tions are cut, and that the heart (in cold-blooded vertebrates, at least) continues to pulsate for some time after being detached from the body, make it manifest that the spontaneous activities of these vital organs sub- serve the wants of the body at large without direction from its higher gov- erning centers. And this is made even more manifest if it be a fact, as alleged by Schmulewitsch experi- menting under Ludwig's direction, that, under duly-adjusted conditions, the secretion of bile may be kept up for some time when blood is passed through the excised liver of a newly- killed rabbit. There is an answer, not, I think, unsatisfactory, even to the crucial part of the question— “Suppose every separate cell left free to follow its own interests, and Jaissez- faire Lord of all, what would become of the body physiological ?” Limit- ing the application of this question in the way above shown to the organs and parts of organs which carry on vital actions, it seems to me that much evidence may be given for the belief that, when they follow their re- spective “interests" (limited here to growing and multiplying), the general welfare will be tolerably well secured. It was proved by Hunter's experi- ments on a kite and a sea-gull, that a part of the alimentary canal which has to triturate harder food than that which the creature naturally eats, ac- quires a thicker and harder lining. When a stricture of the intestine im- pedes the passage of its contents, the muscular walls of the intestine above, thicken and propel the contents with greater force. When there is some- where in the course of a circulation a serious resistance to the passage of blood, there habitually occurs hyper- trophy of the heart, or thickening of its muscular walls; giving it greater power to propel the blood. And sim- ilarly, when the duct through which it discharges its contents is obstructed, the gall-bladder thickens and strength- ens. These changes go on without any direction from the brain—without any consciousness that they are going 12 [584] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL on. They are affected by the growth, or multiplication, or adaptation, of the local units, be they cells or fibers, which results from the greater action or modified action thrown upon them. The only prerequisite to this sponta- neous adaptive change is, that these local units shall be supplied with ex- tra blood in proportion as they per- form extra function—a prerequisite answering to that secured by the ad- ministration of justice in a society; namely, that more work shall bring more pay. If, however, direct proof be called for that a system of organs may, by carrying on their several in- dependent activities uncontrolled, se- cure the welfare of the aggregate they form, we have it in that exten- sive class of creatures which do not possess any nervous systems at all; and which nevertheless show, some of them, considerable degrees of activity, The Oceanic Hydrozoa supply good examples. Notwithstanding “ the multiplicity and complexity of the or- gans which some of them possess,” these creatures have no nervous cen- ters—no regulative apparatus by which the actions of their organs are co-ordinated. One of their higher kinds is composed of different parts distinguished as coenosarc, polypites, tentacles, hydrocysts, nectocalyces, genocalyces, etc., and each of these different parts is composed of many partially-independent units—thread- cells, ciliated cells, contractile fibers, etc.; so that the whole organism is a group of heterogeneous groups, each one of which is itself a more or less heterogeneous group. And, in the absence of a nervous system, the ar- rangement must necessarily be such that these different units, and differ- eñt groups of units, severally pursuing their individual lives without positive direction from the rest, nevertheless do, by virtue of their constitutions, and the relative positions into which they have grown, co-operate for the maintenance of one another and the entire aggregate. And if this can be so with a set of organs that are not connected by nerves, much more can it be so with a set of organs which, like the viscera of a higher animal, have a special set of nervous commu- nications for exciting one another to Co-operation. . Let us turn now to the parallel classes of phenomena which the social organism presents. In it, as in the individual organism, we find that while the system of external organs must be rigorously subordinated to a great governing center which positively reg- ulates it, the system of internal organs needs no such positive regulation. The production and interchange by which the national life is maintained, go on as well while Parliament is not sitting as while it is sitting. When the members of the Ministry are following grouse or stalking deer, Liverpool im- ports, Manchester manufactures, Lon- don distributes, just as usual. All that is needful for the normal performance of these internal social functions is, that the restraining or inhibitory structures shall continue in action: these activi- ties of individuals, corporate bodies, and classes," must be carried on in such ways as not to transgress cer- tain conditions necessitated by the simultaneous carrying on of other ac- tivities. So long as order is main- tained, and the fulfillment of contracts is everywhere enforced—so long as there is secured to each citizen, and each combination of citizens, the full return agreed upon for work done or commodities produced; and so long as each may enjoy what he obtains by labor, without trenching on his neigh- bor's like ability to enjoy; these func- tions will go on healthfully—more healthfully, indeed, than when regu- lated in any other way. Fully to recognize the fact, it is needful only to look at the origins and "actions of the leading industrial structures. We will take two of them, the most remote from one another in their na- tures. The first shall be those by which food is produced and distributed. In the fourth of his “Introductory Lect- ures on Political Economy,” Arch- bishop Whately remarks that: ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [585] 13 “Many of the most important objects are accomplished by the joint agency of persons who never think of them, nor have any idea of acting in concert; and that, with a cer- tainty, completeness, and regularity, which probably, the most diligent benevolence, under the guidance of the greatest human wisdom, could never have attained.” To enforce this truth he goes on to say: “Let any one propose to himself the problem of supplying with daily provisions of all kinds such a city as our metropolis, containing above a million of inhabitants.” And then he points out the many immense difficul- ties of the task caused by inconstancy in the arrival of supplies; by the per- ishable nature of many of the com- modities; by the fluctuating number of consumers; by the heterogeneity of their demands; by variations in the stocks, immediate and remote, and the need for adjusting the rate of con- sumption; and by the complexity in the process of distribution, required to bring due quantities of these many commodities to the homes of all citi- zens. And, having dwelt on these many difficulties, he finishes his pict- ure by saying: “Yet this object is accomplished far better than it could be by any effort of human wis- dom, through the agency of men, who think each of nothing beyond his own immediate interest—who, with that object in view, per- form their respective parts with cheerful zeal —and combine unconsciously to employ the wisest means for effecting an object, the vast- ness of which it would bewilder them even to contemplate.” But though the far-spreading and complex organization by which foods of all kinds are produced, prepared, and distributed throughout the entire kingdom, is a natural growth and not a State manufacture; though the State does not determine where and in what quantities cereals and cattle and sheep shall be reared; though it does not arrange their respective prices so as to make supplies last until fresh sup- plies can come; though it has done nothing toward causing that great im- provement of quality which has taken place in food since early times; though it has not the credit of that elaborate apparatus by which bread, and meat, and milk, and groceries, come round to our doors with a daily pulse that is as regular as the pulse of the heart; yet the State has not been wholly pas- sive. It has from time to time done a great deal of mischief. When Ed- ward I. forbade all towns to harbor forestallers, and when Edward VI. made it penal to buy grain for the pur- pose of selling it again, they were pre- venting the process by which con- sumption is adjusted to supply; they were doing all that could be done to insure alternations of abundance and starvation. Similarly with the many legislative attempts since made to reg- ulate one branch or other of the food- industry, down to the corn-law sliding- scale of odious memory. For the marvelous efficiency of this organiza- tion we are indebted to private enter- prise; while the derangements of it we owe to the positively-regulative ac- tion of the Government. Meanwhile, the negatively-regulative action re- quired to keep this organization in order, Government has not duly per- formed. A quick and costless rem- edy for breach of contract, when a trader sells, as the commodity asked for, what proves to be wholly or in part some other commodity, is still wanting. Our second case shall be the organ- ization which so immensely facilitates commerce by transfers of claims and credits. Banks were not inventions of rulers or their counsellors. They grew up by small stages out of the transactions of traders with one an- other. Men who for security depos- ited money with goldsmiths, and took receipts; goldsmiths who began to lend out at interest the moneys left with them, and then to offer interest at lower rates to those who would de- posit money; were the founders of them. And when, as presently hap- pened, the receipt-notes became trans- ferable by indorsement, banking com- menced. From that stage upward the development, notwithstanding many hindrances, has gone on naturally. Banks have sprung up under the same 14 [586] Essays SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. stimulus which has produced all other kinds of trading bodies; the multi- plied forms of credit have been grad- ually differentiated from the original form ; and while the banking system has spread and become complex, it has also become consolidated into a whole by a spontaneous process. The clearing-house, which is a place for carrying on the banking between bankers, arose unobtrusively out of the effort to economize time and money. And when, in 1862, Sir John Lubbock—not in his legislative ca- pacity, but in his capacity as banker —succeeded in extending the privi- leges of the clearing-house to country banks, the unification was made per- fect; so that now the transactions of any trader in the kingdom with any other may be completed by the writ- ing off and balancing of claims in bankers’ books. This natural evolu- tion, be it observed, has reached with us a higher phase than has been reached where the positively-regulative control of the State is more decided. They have no clearing-house in France: and, in France, the method of making payments by checks, so dominant among Ourselves, is very little employed and in an imperfett way. I do not mean to imply that in England the State has been a mere spectator of this development. Un- fortunately, it has from the beginning had relations with banks and bankers: not much, however, to their advan- tage, or that of the public. The first kind of deposit-bank was in Some sense a State-bank; merchants left funds for security at the Mint in the Tower. But when Charles I. appro- priated their property without consent, and gave it back to them only under pressure, after a long delay, he de- stroyed their confidence. . Similarly, when Charles II., in furtherance of | State-business, came to have habitual transactions with the richer of the private bankers; and , when, having got nearly a million and a half of their money in the Exchequer, he stole it, ruined a multitude of merchants, dis- tressed ten thousand depositors, and made some lunatics and suicides, he gave a considerable shock to the bank- ing system as it then existed. Though the results of State-relations with banks in later times have not been so disastrous in this direct way, yet they have been indirectly disastrous—per- haps even in a greater degree. In return for a loan, the State gave the Bank of England special privileges; and for the increase and continuance of this loan the bribe was the mainte- nance of these privileges—privileges which immensely hindered the devel- opment of banks. The State did worse—it led the Bank of England to the verge of bankruptcy by a forced issue of notes, and then authorized it to break its promises to pay. Nay, worse still, it prevented the Bank of England from fulfilling its promises to pay when it wished to fulfill them. The evils that have arisen from the positively-regulative action of the State on Banks are too multitudinous to be here enumerated. They may be ſound in the writings of Tooke, Newmarch, Fullarton, Macleod, Wil- son, J. S. Mill, and others. All we have here to note is, that while the en- terprise of citizens in the pursuit of private ends has developed this great trading process, which so greatly fa- cilitates all other trading-processes, Governments have over and over again disturbed it to an almost fatal extent; and that while they have done immense mischief of one kind by their positively-regulative action, they have done immense mischief of another kind by failing in their negatively- regulative action. They have not done the one thing they had to do : they have not uniformly insisted on fulfillment of contract between the banker and the customer who takes his promise to pay on demand. - Between these two cases of the trade in food and the trade in money might be put the cases of other trades —all of them carried on by organiza- tions similarly evolved, and similarly more or less deranged from time to time by State-meddling. Passing over these, however, let us turn from ESSAYS SPECU LATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [587] 15 the positive method of elucidation to the comparative method. When it is questioned whether the spontaneous co-operation of men in pursuit of per- sonal benefits will adequately work out the general good, we may get guid- ance for judgment by comparing the results achieved in Societies where spontaneous co-operation has been most active and least regulated, with the results achieved in societies where spontaneous co-operation has been less trusted and State-action more trusted. Two cases furnished by the two leading nations on the Continent, will suffice : - - In France, the Ecole des Ponts et Chaussées was founded in 1747 for educating civil engineers; and in 1795 was founded the Ecole Polytechnique, serving, among other purposes, to give a general scientific training to those who were afterward to be more specially trained for civil engineering. Averaging the two dates, we may say that for a century France has had a State-established and State-maintained appliance for producing skilled men of this class—a double gland, we may call it, to secrete engineering faculty for public use. In England, until quite recently, we have had no insti- tution for preparing civil engineers. Not by intention, but unconsciously, we left the furnishing of engineering faculty to take place under the law of supply and demand—a law which at present seems to be no more recog- nized as applying to education, than it was recognized as applying to Com- merce in the days of bounties and re- strictions. This, however, by the way. We have here simply to note that Brindley, Smeaton, Rennie, Tel- ford, and the rest, down to George Stephenson, acquired their knowledge, and got their experience, without State aid or supervision. What have been the comparative results in the two nations 2 Space does not allow a detailed comparison : the latter re- sults must suffice. Railways origi- nated in England, not in France. Rail- ways spread through England faster than through France. Many railways in France were laid out and officered by English engineers. The earlier French railways were made by Eng- lish contractors; and English locomo- tives served the French makers as models. The first French work writ- ten on locomotive engines, published about 1840 (at least I had a copy at that date), was by the Comte de Pam- bour, who had studied in England, and who gave in his work nothing what- ever but drawings and descriptions of the engines of English makers. The second illustration is supplied to us by the model nation, now so commonly held up to us for imitation. Let us contrast London and Berlin in respect of an all essential appliance for the comfort and health of citizens. When, at the beginning of the seven- teenth century, the springs and local conduits, supplemented by water- carriers, failed to supply the London- ers; and when the water-famine, for a long time borne, had failed to make the Corporation do more than propose schemes, and had not spurred the central government to do anything; Hugh Myddleton, a merchant citi- zen, took in hand himself the work of bringing the New River to Islington. When he had half completed the work, the king came to his help—not, indeed, in his capacity of ruler, but in the capacity of speculator, invest- ing his money with a view to profit: his share being disposed of by his successor after the formation of the New River Company, which finished the distributing system. Subsequent- ly, the formation of other water-com- panies, utilizing other sources, has given London a water-supply that has grown with its growth. What, mean- while, happened at Berlin P Did there in 1613, when Hugh Myddleton completed his work, grow up there a like efficient system 2 Not at all. The seventeenth century passed, the eighteenth century passed, the mid- dle of the nineteenth century was reached, and still Berlin had no water- supply like that of London. What happened then P Did the paternal government at length do what had 16 [588] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. been so long left undone No. Did the citizens at length unite to secure the desideratum ? No. It was finally achieved by the citizens of another nation more accustomed to co-oper- ate in securing their own profits by ministering to public needs. In 1845 an English company was formed for giving Berlin an adequate water-Sup- ply; and the work was executed by English contractors—Messrs. Fox and Crampton. - Should it be said that great works of ancient nations, in the shape of aqueducts, roads, etc., might be in- stanced in proof that State agency secures such ends, or should it be said that a comparison between the early growth of inland navigation on the Continent and its later growth here, would be to our disadvantage, I reply that, little as they at first seem so, these facts are congruous with the general doctrine. While the preda- tory social type is dominant, and the industrial organization but little de- veloped, there is but one co-ordinating agency for regulating both sets of ac- tivities, just as we saw happens with the lower types of individual organ- isms. It is only when a considerable advance has been made in that met- amorphosis which develops the in- dustrial structures at the expense of the predatory structures, and which brings along with it a substantially in- dependent co-ordinating agency for the industrial structures—it is only then that the efficiency of these sponta- neous co-operations for all purposes of internal social life becomes greater than the efficiency of the central gov- erning agency. - - Possibly it will be said that, though, for subserving material needs, the ac- tions of individuals, stimulated by ne- cessity and made quick by Com- petition, are demonstrably adequate, they are not adequate for sub- serving other needs. I do not see, however, that the facts justify this position. We have but to glance around to find in abundance similarly- generated appliances for satisfying our higher desires, as well as our has been etc. lower desires. The fact that the Fine Arts have not thriven here as much as in Some Continental countries is ascribable to natural character, to ab- Sorption of our energies in other ac- tivities, and to the repressive influence of chronic asceticism, rather than to the absence of fostering agencies: these the interests of individuals have provided in abundance. Literature, in which we are second to none, owes, with us, nothing to State aid. The poetry which will live is poetry which written without official prompting, and, though we have ha- bitually had a prize-poet, paid to write loyal verses, it may be said, without disparaging the present one, that a glance over the entire list does not show any benefit derived by poetry from State patronage. Nor are other forms of literature any more indebted to State patronage. It was because there was public liking for fiction that fiction began to be produced, and the continued public liking causes a con- tinued production, including, along with much that is worthless, much that could not have been made bet- ter by any academic or other super- vision. And the like holds of biog- raphies, histories, scientific books, Or, as a still more striking case of an agency that has grown up to meet a non-material want, take the newspaper press. What has been the genesis of this marvelous appliance, which each day gives us an abstract of the world’s life the day before ? Under what promptings have there been got together its staffs of editors, sub-editors, article-writers, reviewers; its reporters of parliamentary debates, of public meetings, of law cases and police cases; its critics of music, theatricals, paintings, etc.; its corre- spondents in all parts of the world 2 Who devised and brought to perfec- tion this system which at six o'clock in the morning gives the people of Edinburgh a report of the debates that ended at two or three o’clock in the House of Commons, and at the same time tells them of events that occurred the day before in America ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL [589] 17 It is not a Government invention. It is not a Government suggestion. It has not been in any way improved On the or developed by legislation. - contrary, it has grown up in spite of many hindrances from the Govern- ment, and burdens which the Govern- ment has imposed on it. For a long time the reporting of parliamentary debates was resisted; for generations censorships and prosecutions kept newspapers down, and for several subsequent generations the laws in force negatived a cheap press, and the educational benefits accompany- ing it. From the war-correspondent whose letters give to the very nations that are fighting their only trustworthy accounts of what is being done, down to the newsboy who brings round the third edition with the latest tele- grams, the whole organization is a product of spontaneous co-operation among private individuals, aiming to benefit themselves by ministering to the intellectual needs of their fel- lows—aiming also, not a few of them, to benefit their fellows by giving them clearer ideas and a higher standard of right. Nay, more than this is true. While the press is not indebted to the Government, the Government is enormously indebted to the press, without which, indeed, it would stum- ble daily in the performance of its functions. This agency, which the State once did its best to put down, and has all along impeded, now gives to the ministers news in anticipation of their dispatches, gives to members of Parliament a guiding knowledge of public opinion, and enables them to speak from the House of Com- mons benches to their constituents, and gives to both legislative cham- bers a full record of their proceed- ings. . . - I do not see, therefore, how there can be any doubt respecting the suffi- ciency of agencies thus originating. The truth, that, in this condition of mutual dependence brought about by social life, there inevitably grow up arrangements such that each secures his own ends by ministering to the ends of others, seems to have been for a long time one of those open secrets which remain secret because they are so open ; and even now the conspicuousness of this truth seems to cause an imperfect consciousness of its full meaning. The evidence shows, however, that, even were there no other form of spontaneous co-oper- ation among men than that dictated by self-interest, it might be rationally held that this, under the negatively- regulative control of a central power, would work out, in proper order, the appliances for satisfying all needs, and carrying on healthfully all the essential Social functions. - But there is a further kind of spon- taneous co-operation, arising, like the other, independently of State action, which takes a large share in satisfy- ing certain classes of needs. Famil- iar though it is, this kind of sponta- neous co-operation is habitually ig- nored in sociological discussions, Alike from newspaper articles and parliamentary debates, it might be inferred that, beyond the force due to men's selfish activities, there is no other social force than the govern- mental force. There seems to be a deliberate omission of the fact that, in addition to their selfish interests, men have sympathetic interests, which, acting individually and co-oper. atively, work out results scarcely less remarkable than those which the sel- fish interests work out. It is true that, during the earlier phases of so- cial evolution, while yet the type is mainly predatory, agencies thus pre- duced do not exist: among the Spar- tans, I suppose, there were few, if any, philanthropic agencies. But as there arise forms of society leading toward the pacific type—forms in which the industrial organization develops itself, and men's activities become of a kind that do not perpetually sear their sym- pathies—these structures which their sympathies generate become many and important. To the egoistic in- terests, and the co-operations prompt- ed by them, there come to be added the altruistic interests and their co- i8 [590] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. operations; and, what the one set fails to do, the other does. That, in his presentation of the doctrine he op- poses, Prof. Huxley did not set down the effects of fellow-feeling as sup- plementing the effects of self-regard- ing feelings, surprises me the more, because he displays fellow-feeling himself in so marked a degree, and shows in his career how potent a so- cial agency it becomes. Let us glance rapidly over the results wrought out among ourselves by individual and combined “altruism *— to employ M. Comte's useful word. Though they show a trace of this feeling, I will not dwell upon the nu- merous institutions by which men are enabled to average the chances throughout life by insurance socie- ties, which provide against the evils entailed by premature deaths, acci- dents, fires, wrecks, etc., for these are mainly mercantile and egoistic in their origin. Nor will I do more than name those multitudinous Friendly Societies that have arisen spontane- ously among the working-classes to give mutual aid in time of sickness, and which the Commission now sit- ting is showing to be immensely ben- eficial, notwithstanding their defects; for these also, though containing a larger element of sympathy, are prompted chiefly by anticipations of personal benefits. Leaving these, let us turn to the organizations in which altruism is more decided—taking first that by which religious ministra- tions are carried on. Thoughout Scotland and England, cut away all that part of it which is not established by law—in Scotland, the Episcopal Church, the Free Church, the United Presbyterians, and other Dissenting bodies; in England, the Wesleyans, Independents, and the various minor sects. Cut off, too, from the Estab- lished Church itself, all that part added in recent times by voluntary zeal, made conspicuous enough by the new steeples that have been rising on all sides; and then also take out, from the remainder of the Established Church, that energy which has during these three generations been infused into it by competition with the Dis- senters; so reducing it to the de- graded, inert state in which John Wesley found it. Do this, and it be- comes manifest that more than half the organization, and immensely more than half its function, is extra-gov- ernmental. Look round, again, at the multitudinous institutions for mitigat- ing men's ills—the hospitals, dispen- Saries, almshouses, and the like—the various benevolent and mendicity so- cieties, etc., of which London alone contains between six and seven hun- dred. From our vast St. Thomas’s, exceeding the palace of the Legisla- ture itself in bulk, down to Dorcas so- cieties, and village clothing-clubs, we have charitable agencies, many in kind and countless in number, which Supplement, perhaps too largely, the legally-established one, and which, whatever evil they may have done along with the good, have done far less evil than the Poor-Law organiza- tion did before it was reformed in 1834. Akin to these are still more striking examples of power in agencies thus originating, such as that furnished by the Anti-slavery Society, which car- ried the emancipation of the slaves, notwithstanding the class opposition so predominant in the Legislature. And, if we look for more recent like instances, we have them in the organ- ization which promptly and efficiently dealt with the cotton-famine in Lan- cashire, and in that which last year ministered to the wounded and dis- tressed in France. Once more, con- sider our educational system as it ex- isted till within these few years. Such part of it as did not consist of private schools, carried on for person- al profit, consisted of schools or col- leges set up or maintained by men for the benefit of their fellows, and the posterity of their fellows. Omitting the few founded or partially found- ed by kings, the numerous endowed schools scattered throughout the kingdom originated from altruistic feelings (so far, at least, as they were not due to egoistic desires for good ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [591] 19 places in the other world). And then, after these appliances for teach- ing the poor had been almost entirely appropriated by the rich, whence came the remedy ? Another altruistic or- ganization grew up for educating the poor, struggled against the opposition of the Church and the governing classes, eventually forced these to enter into competition, and produce like altruistic organizations, until by school systems, local and general, ecclesiastical, dissenting, and Secular, the mass of the people had been brought from a state of almost entire ignorance to one in which nearly all of them possessed the rudiments of knowledge. But for these spontane- ously-developed agencies, ignorance would have been universal. Not only such knowledge as the poor now pos- sess, not only the knowledge of the trading-classes, not only the knowl- edge of those who write books and articles for the press, but the knowl- edge of those who carry on the busi- ness of the country as ministers and legislators, has been derived from these extra-governmental agencies, egoistic or altruistic. Yet now, strangely enough, the cultured intelli- gence of the country has taken to spurning its parent ; and that to which it owes both its existence and the con- sciousness of its own value is pooh- poohed as though it had done, and could do, nothing of importance. One other fact let me add: While such teaching organizations, and their results in the shape of enlightenment, are due to these spontaneous agen- cies, to such agencies also are due the great improvements in the quality of the culture now happily beginning to take place. The spread of scientific knowledge, and of the scientific spirit, has not been brought about by laws and officials. Our scientific societies have arisen from the spontaneous co-operation of those interested in the accumulation and diffusion of the kinds of truth they respectively deal with. Though the British Association has from time to time obtained cer- tain small subsidies, their results in the way of advancing science have borne but an extremely small ratio to the results achieved without any such aid. If there needs a conclusive illus- tration of the power of agencies thus arising, we have it in the history and achievements of the Royal Institution. From this, which is a product of altru- istic co-operation and which has had for its successive professors Young, Davy, Faraday, and Tyndall, there has come a series of brilliant discov- eries which it would be difficult to parallel by a series from any State- nurtured institution. I hold, then, that forced, as men in society are, to seek satisfaction of their own wants by satisfying the wants of others; and led as they also are by sentiments which social life has fostered, to satisfy many wants of others irrespective of their own ; they are moved by two sets of forces which, working together, will amply suffice to carry on all needful activities; and I think the facts fully justify this be- lief. It is true that a priori one woul not have supposed that by their un- conscious co-operations men could have wrought out such results, any more than one would have supposed, a priori, that by their unconscious co-operation they could have evolved Language. But reasoning a posteriori, which it is best to do when we have the facts before us, it becomes mani- fest that they can do this; that they have done it in very astonishing ways; and perhaps they may do it hereafter in ways still more transcending ex- pectation. Scarcely any scientific generalization has, I think, a broader inductive basis than we have for the belief that these egoistic and altruis- tic feelings are powers which, taken together, amply suffice to originate and carry on all the activities which constitute healthy national life: the only prerequisite being, that they shall be under the negatively-regulative control of a central power—that the entire aggregate of individuals, acting through the legislature and executive as its agents, shall put upon each in- dividual, and group of individuals, the 20 [592) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. restraints needful to prevent aggres- sion, direct and indirect. ... - And here I might go on to supple- ment the argument by showing that the immense majority of the evils which government aid is invoked to remedy, are evils which arise immedi- ately or remotely because it does not perform properly its negatively-regula- tive function. From the was - probably, 4, Ioo, ooo, ooo of national capital in unproductive railways, for which the Legislature is responsible by permitting the original proprietary contracts to be broken,* down to the railway accidents and loss of life caused by unpunctuality, which would never have grown to its present height were there an easy remedy for breach of contract between company and passenger; nearly all the vices of railway management have arisen from the non-administration of justice. And everywhere else we shall find that, were the restraining action of the State prompt, effective, and cost- less to those aggrieved, the pleas put in for positive regulation would nearly all disappear. I am thus brought naturally to re- mark on the title given to this theory of State functions. That “Adminis- trative Nihilism” adequately describes the view set forth by Von Humboldt, may be I have not read his work. But I cannot see how it adequately describes the doctrine I have been de- fending; nor do I see how this can be properly expressed by the more positive title, “police-government.” The conception suggested by police- government does not include the con- ception of an organization for exter- nal protection. So long as each na- tion is given to burglary, I quite ad- mit each other nation must keep guards, under the forms of army or navy, or both, to prevent burglars from breaking in. And the title po- lice-government does not in its ordi- nary acceptation comprehend these of * See Essays on “Railway Morals and Railway Policy.” waste of, fensive and defensive appliances need- ful for dealing with foreign enemies. At the other extreme, too, it falls short of the full meaning to be ex- pressed. While it duly conveys the idea of an organization required for checking and punishing criminal ag- gression, it does not convey any idea of the no less important organization required for dealing with civil aggres- sion—an organization quite essential for properly discharging the negative- ly-regulative function. Though la- tent police-force may be considered as giving their efficiency to legal de- cisions on all questions brought into nisi Arius courts, yet, since here po- lice-force rarely comes into visible play, police-government does not sug- gest this very extensive part of the administration of justice. Far from contending for a laissez-faire policy in the sense which the phrase commonly suggests, I have contended for a more active control of the kind distinguish- able as negatively regulative. One of the reasons I have urged for ex- cluding State action from other spheres, is, that it may become more efficient within its proper sphere. And I have urged that the wretched performance of its duties within its proper sphere continues, because it is mainly occupied with other duties.* The facts that often, in bankruptcy cases, three-fourths and more of the assets go in costs; that creditors are led by the expectation of great delay and a miserable dividend to accept almost any composition offered , and that so the bankruptcy-law offers a premium to roguery; are facts which would long since have ceased to be facts, had citizens been mainly occu- pied in getting an efficient judicial system. If the due performance by the State of its all-essential function had been the question on which elec- tions were fought, we should not see, as we now do, that a shivering cotta- ger who steals palings for firewood, or a hungry tramp who robs an orchard, |gets punishment in more than the old *See Essay on “Over-Legislation.” ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. 1593] 21 Hebrew measure, while great financial frauds which ruin their thousands bring no punishments. Were the negatively-regulative function of the State in internal affairs dominant in the thoughts of men, within the Leg- islature and without, there would be tolerated no such treatment as that suffered lately by Messrs. Walker, of Cornhill; who, having been robbed of £6000 worth of property and hav- ing spent £950 in rewards for appre- hending thieves, and in prosecuting them, cannot get back the proceeds of their property found on the thieves— who bear the costs of administering justice, while the Corporation of Lon- don makes £940 profit out of their loss. It is in large measure because I hold that these crying abuses and inefficiencies, which everywhere char- acterize the administration of justice need more than any other evils to be remedied ; and because I hold that remedy of them can go on only as fast as the internal function of the State is more and more restricted to the administration of justice; that I take the view which I have been re- explaining. It is a law universal/y illustrated by organizations of every Áind, that, in proportion as there is to e efficiency, there must be specialization, &oth of structure and function—speciali- zation, which, of necessiº, implies ac- companying Zimitation. And, as I have elsewhere argued, the development of representative government is the de- velopment of a type of government fitted above all others for this nega- tively-regulative control, and above all others, ill fitted for positively-regu- lative control.* This doctrine, that while the negatively-regulative con- trol should be extended and made better, the positively-regulative con- trol should be diminished, and that the one change implies the other, may be properly called the doctrine of Specialized Administration—if it is to be named from its administrative as- pect. I regret that my presentation * See Essay on “ Representative Govern- ment: what is it good for *** lead to misinterpretation. of this doctrine has been such as to Either, it is that I have not adequately explains ed it, which, if true, surprises me, or else it is that the space occupied in seeking to show what are not the du- ties of the ‘State is so much greater than the space occupied in defining its duties, that these last make but little impression. In any case, that Prof. Huxley should have construed my view in the way he has done, shows me that it needs fuller exposi- tion ; since, had he put upon it the construction I intended, he would not, I think, have included it under the title he has used, nor would he have seen it needful to raise the ques- tion I have endeavored to answer. II. “THE COLLECTIVE WISDOM.” A TEST of senatorial capacity is a desideratum. We rarely learn how near the mark or how wide of the mark the calculations of statesmen are ; the slowness and complexity of social changes, hindering, as they do, the definite comparison of results with anticipations. Occasionally, however, parliamentary decisions ad- mit of being definitely valued. One which was arrived at a few weeks ago furnished a measure of legislative judgment too significant to be passed by. i f . - On the edge of the Cotswolds, over- hanging the valley of the Severn, oc- cur certain springs, which, as they happen to be at the end of the long- est of the hundred streams which join to form the Thames, have been called by a poetical fiction “the sources of the Thames.” Names, even when poetical fictions, suggest conclusions; and conclusions drawn from words instead of facts are equally apt to in- fluence conduct. Thus it happened that, when, recently, there was formed a company for supplying Cheltenham and some other places from these 22 [594] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. springs, great opposition arose. The Złmes published a paragraph, head ed, “Threatened Absorption of the Thames,” stating that the application of this company to Parliament had “caused some little consternation in the city of Oxford, and will, doubt- less, throughout the valley of the Thames; ” and that “such a meas- ure, if carried out, will diminish the water of that noble river a million of gallons per day.” A million is an alarming word—suggests something necessarily vast. Translating words into thoughts, however, would have calmed the fears of the Zimes para- graphist. Considering that a million gallons would be contained by a room fifty-six feet cube, the nobility of the Thames would not be much endan- gered by the deduction. The simple fact is, that the current of the Thames, above the point at which the tides influence it, discharges in twenty-four hours eight hundred times this amount. - When the bill of this proposed water company was brought before the House of Commons for second reading, it became manifest that the imaginations of members were af- fected by such expressions as the “sources of the Thames,” and “a million gallons daily,” in much the same way as thé imaginations of the ignorant. Though the quantity of water proposed to be taken bears, to the quantity which runs over Ted- dington weir, about the same ratio that a yard bears to half a mile, it was thought by many members that its loss would be a serious evil. method of measurement would be ac- curate enough to detect the difference between the Thames as it now is, and the Thames minus the Cerney springs; and yet it was gravely stated in the House that, were the Thames diminished in the proposed way, “the proportion of sewage to pure water would be seriously increased.” Tak- ing a minute out of twelve hours, would be taking as large a proportion as the Cheltenham people wish to take from the Thames. Neverthe- No less, it was contended that to let Cheltenham have this quantity would be “to rob the towns along the banks of the Thames of their rights.” Though, of the Thames flowing by each of these towns, some 999 parts out of Iooo pass by unused, it was held that a great injustice would be committed were one or two of these 999 parts appropriated by the inhab- itants of a town who can now obtain daily but four gallons of foul water per head. But the apparent inability thus shown to think of causes and effects in something like their true quantitive relations, was still more conspicuously shown. It was stated by several members that the Thames Navigation Commissioners would have opposed the bill if the commission had not been bankrupt; and this hypothetical opposition appeared to have weight. If we may trust the reports, the House of Commons listened with gravity to the assertion of one of its members, that, if the Cerney springs were di- verted, “shoals and flats would be created.” Not a laugh nor a cry of “Oh oh,” appears to have been pro- duced by the prophecy, that the vol- ume and scouring power of the Thames would be seriously affected by taking away from it twelve gallons per second 1 The whole quantity which these springs supply would be delivered by a current moving through a pipe one foot in diameter at the rate of less than two miles per hour. Yet, when it was said that the naviga- bility of the Thames would be inju- riously affected by this deduction, there were no shouts of derision. On the contrary, the House rejected the Cheltenham Water Bill by a ma- jority of one hundred and eighteen to eighty-eight. It is true that the data were not presented in the above shape. But the remarkable fact is, that, even in the absence of a specific comparison, it should not have been at once seen that the water of springs, which drain but a few square miles at most, can be but an inappreciable part of the water which runs out of * ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [595] 23 the Thames basin, extending over several thousand square miles. In- itself, this is a matter of small mo- ment. It interests us here simply as an example of legislative judgment. The decision is one of those small holes through which a wide prospect may be seen, 2nd a disheartening prospect it is. In a very simple case there is here displayed a scarcely credible inability to see how much effect will follow so much cause ; and yet the business of the assembly ex- hibiting this inability is that of deal- sing with causes and effects of an ex- tremely involved kind. All the proc- esses going on in Society arise from the concurrences and conflicts of hu- man actions, which are determined in their nature and amounts by the human constitution as it now is—are as much results of natural causation as any other results, and equally im- ply definite quantitive relations be- tween causes and effects. Every leg- islative act presupposes a diagnosis and a prognosis; both of them in- volving estimations of social forces and the work done by them. Before it can be remedied, an evil, must be traced to its source in the motives and ideas of men as they are, living under the social conditions which exist—a problem requiring that the actions tending toward the result shall be identified, and that there shall be something like a true idea of the quantities of their effects as well as the qualities. A further estimation has then to be made of the kinds and degrees of influence that will be ex- erted by the additional factors which the proposed law will set in motion : what will be the resultants produced by the new forces co-operating with pre-existing forces—a problem still more complicated than the other. We are quite prepared to hear the unhesitating reply, that men inca- pable of forming an approximately true judgment on a matter of simple physical causation may yet be very good law-makers. So obvious will this be thought by most, that a tacit implication to the contrary will seem to them absurd ; and that it will seem to them absurd is one of the many indications of the profound ignorance that prevails. It is true that mere empirical generalizations which men draw from their dealings with their fellows suffice to give them some ideas of the proximate effects which new enactments will work: and, see- ing these, they think they see as far as needful. Discipline in physical science, however, would help to show. them the utter inadequacy of calculat- ing consequences based on simple data. And if there needs proof that calculations of consequences so based are inadequate, we have it in the enormous labor annually entailed on the Legislature in trying to undo the mischiefs it has previously done. Should any say that it is useless to dwell on this incompetency, seeing that the House of Commons contains the select of the nation, than whose judgments no better are to be had, we reply, that there may be drawn two inferences which have important practical bearings. In the first place, we are shown how completely the boasted intellectual discipline of our upper classes fails to give them the power of following out in thought, with any correctness, the sequences of even simple phenomena, much less those of complex phenomena. And, in the second place, we may draw the corollary, that if the sequences of those complex phenomena which so- Acieties display, difficult beyond all others to deal with, are so unlikely to be understood by them, they may ad- vantageously be restricted in their in- terferences with them. - In one direction, especially, shall we see reason to resist the extension of legislative action. There has of late been urged the proposal that the class contemptuously described as di- viding its energies between business and bethels shall have its education regulated by the class which might, with equal justice, be described as dividing its energies between club- rooms and game preserves. This Scheme does not seem to us a hopefug 24 (596) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL one. Considering that during the last half century our society has been remolded by ideas that have come from the proposed pupil, and have had to overcome the dogged resistance of the proposed teacher, the propriety of the arrangement is not obvious. And if the propriety of the arrange- ment is not obvious on the face of it, still less obvious does it become when the competency of the proposed teacher comes to be measured. Brit- ‘ish intelligence, as distilled through the universities and redistilled into the House of Commons, is a product admitting of such great improvement in quality, that we should be sorry to see the present method of manufact- ure extended and permanently estab- lished. - . III. MORALS AND MORAL SENTIMENTS. IF a writer who discusses unsettled questions takes up every gauntlet thrown down to him, polemical writ- ing will absorb much of his energy. Having a power of work which unfort- unately does not suffice for executing with anything like due rapidity the task I have undertaken, I have made it a policy to avoid controversy as much as possible, even at the cost of being seriously misunderstood. Hence it happened that, when, in Macmillan's Magazine for July, 1869, Mr. Richard Hutton published, under the title of “A Questionable Parent- age for Morals,” a criticism upon a doctrine of mine, I decided to let his misrepresentations remain unnoticed until, in the course of my work, I ar- rived at the stage where, by a full ex- position of this doctrine, they would be set aside. It did not occur to me that, in the mean time, these erroneous statements, accepted as true state- ments, would be repeated by other writers, and my views commented upon as untenable. This, however, has happened. In more periodicals. than one, I have seen it asserted that Mr. Hutton has effectually disposed of my hypothesis. Supposing that this hypothesis has been rightly ex- pressed by Mr. Hutton, Sir John Lub- bock, in his “Origin of Civilization,” etc., has been led to express a partial dissent; which I think he would not have expressed had my own exposi- tion been before him. Mr. Mivart, too, in his recent “Genesis of Spe- cies,” has been similarly betrayed into misapprehensions. And now Sir Al- exander Grant, following the same lead, has conveyed to the readers of the Fortnightly ſeeziew another of these conceptions, which is but very partially true. Thus I find myself compelled to say as much as will serve to prevent further spread of the mis- - chief. If a general doctrine concerning a highly-involved class of phenomena could be adequately presented in a single paragraph of a letter, the writ- ing of books would be superfluous. In the brief exposition of certain ethi- cal doctrines held by me, which is given in Prof. Bain’s “Mental and Moral Science,” it is stated that they are— “as yet nowhere fully expressed. They form part of the more general doctrine of Evolu- tion which he is engaged in working out; and they are at present to be gathered only from scattered passages. It is true that, in his first work, ‘Social Statics,” he presented what he then regarded as a tolerably com- plete view of one division of Morals. But, without abandoning this view, he now re- gards it as inadequate—more especially in respect of its basis.” Mr. Hutton, however, taking the bare enunciation of one part of this basis, deals with it critically; and, in the absence of any exposition of it by me, sets forth what he supposes to be my grounds for it, and proceeds to show that they are unsatisfactory. If, in his anxiety to suppress what he doubtless regards as a pernicious doctrine, Mr. Hutton could not wait until I had explained myself, it might have been expected that he would use ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL [597] 25 whatever information was to be had for rightly construing it. So far from seeking out such information, how- ever, he has, in a way for which I cannot account, ignored the informa- tion immediately before him. .* The title which Mr. Hutton has chosen for his criticism is, “A Ques- tionable Parentage for Morals.” Now, he has ample means of knowing that I allege a primary basis of Mor- als, quite independent of that which he describes and rejects. I do not refer merely to the fact that, having, when he reviewed “Social Statics,” expressed his very decided dissent from this primary basis, he must have been aware that I allege it; for he may say that in the long interval which has elapsed he had forgotten all about it. But I refer to the dis- tinct enunciation of this primary basis in that letter to Mr. Mill from which he quotes. In a preceding paragraph of the letter, I have explained that, while I accept utilitarianism in the abstract, I do not accept that current utilitarianism which recognizes for the guidance of conduct nothing be- yond empirical generalizations; and I have contended that— “Morality, properly so called—the science of right conduct—has for its object to deter- mine how and zwhy certain modes of conduct are detrimental, and certain other modes beneficial. These good and bad results can- not be accidental, but must be necessary con- sequences of the constitution of things; and I conceive it to be the business of Moral Sci- ence to deduce, from the laws of life and the conditions of existence, what kinds of action necessarily tend to produce happiness, and what kinds to produce unhappiness. Hav- ing done this, its deductions are to be recog- nized as laws of conduct; and are to be con- formed to irrespective of a direct estimation of happiness or misery.” - Nor is this the only enunciation of what I conceive to be the primary ba- sis of morals, contained in this same letter. A subsequent paragraph, sep- arated by four lines only from that which Mr. Hutton extracts, com- mences thus: ... • . . “Progressing civilization, which is of ne- cessity a succession of compromises between that which exists. old and new, requires a perpetual readjust- ment of the compromise between the ideal and the practicable in social arrangements; to which end, both elements of the compromise must be kept in view. If it is true that pure rectitude prescribes a system of things far too good for men as they are, it is not less true that mere expediency does not of itself tend to establish a system of things any better than - While absolute morality owes to expediency the checks which prevent it from rushing into Utopian absurdities, ex- pediency is indebted to absolute morality for all stimulus to improvement. Granted that we are chiefly interested in ascertaining what is relatively right, it still follows that we must first consider what is absolutely right; since the one conception presupposes the other.” I do not see how there could well be a more emphatic assertion that there exists a primary basis of morals independent of, and in a sense ante- cedent to, that which is furnished by experiences of utility; and, conse- quently, independent of, and in a sense antecedent to, those moral sen- timents which I conceive to be gener- ated by such experiences. Yet no one could gather from Mr. Hutton's article that I assert this; or would even find reasons for a faint suspicion that I do so. From the reference made to my further views, he would infer my ac- |ceptance of that empirical utilitarian- ism which I have expressly repudi- ated. And the title which Mr. Hut- ton gives to his paper clearly asserts, by implication, that I recognize no “parentage for morals' beyond that of the accumulation and organization of the effects of experience. I cannot believe that Mr. Hutton intended to convey this erroneous impression. He was, I suppose, too much ab- sorbed in contemplating the p oposi- tion he combats to observe, or, at least, to attach any weight to, the propositions which accompany it. But I regret that he did not perceive the mischief he was likely to do me by spreading this one-sided state- ment. - I pass now to the particular ques- tion at issue—not the “parentage for morals,” but the parentage of moral sentiments. In his version of my view on this more special doctrine, 26 (598) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL |Mr. Hutton has similarly, I regret to say, neglected the data which would have helped him to draw an approxi- mately true outline of it. It cannot well be that the existence of such data was unknown to him. They are con- tained in the “Principles of Psychol- ogy;” and Mr. Hutton reviewed that work when it was first published. In the chapter on The Feelings, which occurs near the end of that work, there is sketched out a process of genesis by no means like that which Mr. Hutton indicates; and had he turned to that chapter he would have seen that his description of the gene- sis of the moral sentiments out of or- ganized experiences is not such a one as I should have given. Let me quote a passage from that chapter : “Not only are those emotions which form the immediate stimuli to actions thus explic- able, but the like explanation applies to the emotions that leave the subject of them com- paratively passive: as, for instance, the emo- tion produced by beautiful scenery. The gradually increasing complexity in the groups of sensations and ideas co-ordinated, ends in the co-ordination of those vast aggregations of them which a grand landscape excites and suggests. The infant taken into the midst of mountains is totally unaffected by them; but is delighted with the small group of at- tributes and relations presented in a toy. The child can appreciate, and be pleased with, the more complicated relations of household objects and localities, the garden, the field, and the street. But it is only in youth and mature age, when individual things and small assemblages of them have become familiar and automatically cognizable, that those immense assemblages which land- scapes present can be adequately grasped, and the highly aggregated states of conscious- ness produced by them, experienced. Then, however, the various minor groups of States, that have been in earlier days severally pro- duced by trees, by fields, by streams, by cas- cades, by rocks, by precipices, by mountains, by clouds, are aroused together. Along with the sensations immediately received, there are partially excited the myriads of sensa- tions that have been in times past received from objects such as those presented; fur- ther, there are partially excited the various incidental feelings that were experienced on all these countless past occasions; and there are probably also excited certain deeper, but now vague, combinations of states, that were organized in the race during barbarous times when its pleasurable activities were chiefly among the woods and waters. And out of all these excitations, some of them actual, but Consequences of most of them nascent, is composed the emo- tion which a fine landscape produces in us.” It is, I think, amply manifest that the processes here indicated are not to be taken as intellectual processes —not as processes in which recog- nized relations between pleasures and their antecedents, or intelligent adap- tations of means to ends, form the dominant elements. The state of mind produced by an aggregate of picturesque objects is not one re- Solvable into propositions. The sen- timent does not contain within it- Self any consciousness of causes and happiness. The vague recollections of other beauti. ful scenes and other delightful days which it dimly rouses, are not aroused because of . any rational co-ordina- tions of ideas that have been formed in by-gone days. Mr. Hutton, how- ever, has assumed that in the gene- sis of moral feelings as due to in- herited experiences of the pleasures and pains arising from certain modes of conduct, I am speaking of reason- ed-out experiences—experiences con- sciously accumulated and generalized. He altogether overlooks the fact that the genesis of emotions is distinguish- ed from the genesis of ideas in this : that whereas the ideas are composed of elements that are simple, definitely related, and (in the case of gen- eral ideas) constantly related, emo- tions are composed of enormously complex aggregates of elements which are never twice alike, and that stand in relations which are never twice alike. The difference in the result- ing modes of consciousness is this : In the genesis of an idea the success- ive experiences, be they of sounds, colors, touches, tastes, or be they of the special objects that combine many of these into groups, have so much in common that each, when it occurs, can be definitely thought of as like those which preceded it. But in the genesis of an emotion the successive experiences so far differ that each of them, when it occurs, suggests past experiences which are not specifically ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL [599] 27 similar, but have only a general sim- ilarity; and, at the same time, it sug- gests benefits or evils in past expe- rience which likewise are various in their special natures, though they have a certain community of general nature. Hence it results that the consciousness aroused is a multitu- dinous, confused consciousness, in which, along with a certain kind of combination among the impressions received from without, there is a vague cloud of ideal combinations akin to them, and a vague mass of ideal feelings of pleasure or pain that were associated with these. We have abundant proof that feelings grow up without reference to recognized causes and consequences, and with- out the possessor of them being able to Say why they have grown up ; though analysis, nevertheless, shows that they have been formed out of connected experiences. The famil- iar fact to which, I suppose, almost every one can testify, that a kind of jam which was, during childhood, re- peatedly taken after medicine, may become by simple association of sensa- tions so nauseous that it cannot be tolerated in after-life, illustrates clearly enough the way in which repugnances may be established by habitual associ- ation of feelings, without any idea of causal connection ; or rather, in spite of the knowledge that there is no caus- al connection. Similarly with pleas- urable emotions. The cawing of a rook is not in itself an agreeable sound—musically considered, it is very much the contrary. Yet the cawing of rooks usually produces in people very pleasurable feelings— feelings which most of them suppose to result from the quality of the sound itself. Only the few who are given to self-analysis are aware that th cawing of rooks is agreeable to them because it has been connected with countless of their greatest gratifica- tions—with the gathering of wild- flowers in childhood; with Saturday- afternoon excursions in school-boy days; with midsummer holidays in the country, when books were thrown aside, and lessons were replaced by games and adventures in the fields; with fresh, sunny mornings in after- years, when a walking-excursion was an immense relief from toil. As it is, this sound, though not causally re- lated to all these multitudirous and varied past delights, but only often associated with them, can no more be heard without rousing a dim con- sciousness of these delights, than the voice of an old friend unexpectedly coming into the house can be heard without suddenly raising a wave of that feeling that has resulted from the pleasures of past companionship. If we are to understand the genesis of emotions, either in the individual or in the race, we must take account of this all-important process. Mr. Hutton, however, apparently over- looking it, and not having reminded himself, by referring to the “Princi- ples of Psychology,” that I insist upon it, represents my hypothesis to be that a certain sentiment results from the consolidation of intellectual conclusions ! He speaks of me as believing that “what seems to us now the ‘necessary' intuitions and a priori assumptions of human nature, are likely to prove, when scientifically analyzed, nothing but a similar con- glomeration of our ancestors’ best observations and most useful empirical rules.” He supposes me to think that men having, in past times, come to see that truthfulness was useful, “the habit of approving truth-speak- ing and fidelity to engagements, which was first based on this ground of utility, became so rooted, that the utilitarian ground of it was forgotten, and we find ourselves springing to the belief in truth-speaking and fidelity to engagements from an inherited tendency.” Similarly throughout, Mr. Hutton has so used the word “utility,” and so interpreted it on my behalf, as to make me appear to mean that moral sentiment is formed out of conscious generalizations respecting what is beneficial and what detrimen- tal. Were such my hypothesis; his criticisms would be very much to the 28 [600] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL point; but as such is not my hypoth- esis, they fall to the ground. The experiences of utility I refer to are those which become registered, not as distinctly-recognized connections between certain kinds of acts and certain kinds of remote results, but those which become registered in the shape of associations between groups of feelings that have often recurred together, though the relation between them has not been consciously gen- eralized—associations the origin of which may be as little perceived as is the origin of the pleasure given by the sounds of a rookery; but which nevertheless, have arisen in the course of daily converse with things, and serve as incentives or deterrents. In the paragraph which Mr. Hutton has extracted from my letter to Mr. Mill, I have indicated an analogy be- tween those effects of emotional ex- periences out of which I believe moral sentiments have been developed, and those effects of intellectual experi- ences out of which I believe space-in- tuitions have been developed. Right- ly considering that the first of these hypotheses cannot stand if the last is disproved, Mr. Hutton has directed part of his attack against this last. But would it not have been well if he had referred to the “Principles of Psychology,” where this last hypoth- esis is set forth at length, before crit- icising it? Would it not have been well to have given an abstract of my own description of the process, in- stead of substituting what he supposes my description must be 2 Any one who turns to the “Principles of Psy- chology” (first edition, pp. 218–245), and reads the two chapters. The Perception of Body as presenting Statical Attributes, and The Percep- tion of Space, will find that Mr. Hut- ton's account of my view on this mat- ter has given him no notion of the view as it is expressed by me; and will, per- haps, be less inclined to smile than he was when he read Mr. Hutton’s ac- count. I cannot here do more than thus imply the invalidity of such part of Mr. Hutton's argument as proceeds upon this incorrect representation. The pages that would be required for properly explaining the doctrine that space-intuitions result from organized experiences may be better used for ex- plaining this analogous doctrine at present before us. This I will now endeavor to do ; not indirectly by correcting misapprehensions, but di- rectly by an exposition which shall be as brief as the extremely involved nature of the process allows. An infant in arms, that is old enough to gaze at objects around with some vague recognition, smiles in response to the laughing face and soft, caressing voice of its mother. Let there come some one who, with an angry face, speaks to it in loud, harsh tones. The Smile disappears, the features contract into an expression of pain, and, begin- ning to cry, it turns away its head and makes such movements of escape as are possible. What is the meaning of these facts : Why does not the frown make it smile, and the mother's laugh make it weep? There is but one an- swer. Already in its developing brain there is coming into play the structure through which one cluster of visual and auditory impressions excites pleas- urable feelings, and the structure through which another cluster of visual and auditory impressions excites pain- ful feelings. The infant knows no more about the relation existing be- tween a ferocious expression of face, and the evils that may follow the per- ception of it, than the young bird just out of its nest knows of the possible pain and death which may be inflicted by a man coming toward it; and as certainly in the one case as in the other, the alarm felt is due to a par- tially-established nervous structure. Why does this irtially-established nervous structure betray its presence thus early in the human being? Sim- ply because, in the past experiences of the human race, smiles and gentle tones in those around have been the habitual accompaniments of pleasura- ble feelings; while pains of many kinds, immediate and more or less re- mote, have been continually associated ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. |601| 29 with the impressions received from arouses only a formless feeling of knit brows and set teeth and grating voice. Much deeper down than the history of the human race must we go to find the beginnings of these connec- tions. The appearances and sounds which excite in the infant a vague dread, indicate danger ; and do so be- cause they are the physiological ac- companiments of destructive action —some of them common to man and inferior mammals, and consequently understood by inferior mammals, as every puppy shows us. What we call the natural language of anger, is due to a partial contraction of those muscles which actual combat would call into play; and all marks of irritation, down to that passing shade over the brow which accompanies slight annoyance, are incipient stages of these same contractions. Conversely with we call that state of mind which amicable feeling : this, too, has a phys- iological interpretation.* Let us pass now from the infant in arms to the children in the nursery. What have the experiences of each one of these been doing in aid of the emotional development we are con- sidering 2 growing more agile by exercise, its manipulative skill increasing by prac- tice, its perceptions of objects grow- ing by use quicker, more accurate, more comprehensive ; the associations between these two sets of impressions received from those around, and the pleasures and pains received along with them, or after them, have been by frequent repetition made stronger, and their adjustments better. The dim sense of pain and the vague glow of delight which the infant felt, have, in the urchin, severally taken shapes that are more definite. The angry voice of a nurse-maid no longer *Hereafter I hope to elucidate at length these phenomena of expression. For the present, I can refer only to such further in- dications as are contained in two essays on The Physiology of Laughter and the Origin and Function of Music. (Published in HUM'soldT LIBRARY, No. 17.) the natural language of pleasure, and of While its limbs have been dread, but also a specific idea of the slap that may follow. The frown on the face of a bigger brother, along with the primitive, indefinable sense of ill, brings the sense of ills that are definable in thought as kicks, and cuffs, and pullings of hair, and losses of toys. The faces of parents, look- ing now Sunny, now gloomy, have grown to be respectively associated with multitudinous forms of gratifi- cation and multitudinous forms of discomfort or privation. Hence these appearances and sounds, which imply amity or enmity in those around, be- come symbolic of happiness and mis- ery ; so that eventually perception of the one set or the other can scarcely occur without raising a wave of pleas- urable feeling or of painful feeling. The body of this wave is still substan- tially of the same nature as it was at first; for though in each of these mul- titudinous experiences a special set of facial and vocal signs has been connected with a special set of pleas- ures or pains, yet since these pleas- ures or pains have been immensely varied in their kinds and combina- tions, and since the signs that preceded them were in no two cases quite alike, it results that to the last the conscious- ness produced remains as vague as it is voluminous. The myriads of partially- aroused ideas resulting from past ex- periences are massed together and Superposed, so as to form an aggre- gate in which nothing is distinct, but which has the character of being pleas- urable or painful according to the nature of its original components; the chief difference between this devel. oped feeling and the feeling aroused in the infant being, that on bright or dark background forming the body of it may now be sketched out in thought the particular pleasures or pains which the particular circum- stances suggest as likely. What must be the working of this process under the conditions of ab- original life? The emotions given to the young savage by the naturål lan- guage of love and hate in the mem- 30 [602] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL bers of his tribe, gain first a partial definiteness in respect to his inter- course with his family and playmates; and he learns by experience the util ity, in so far as his own ends are con- cerned, of avoiding courses which call from others manifestations of anger, and taking courses which call from them manifestations of pleasure. Not that he consciously generalizes. He does not at that age, probably not at any age, formulate his experiences in the general principle that it is well for him to do things which bring Smiles from others, and to avoid do- ing things which bring frowns. What happens is, that having, in the way shown, inherited this connection be- tween the perception of anger in others and the feeling of dread, and having discovered that particular acts of his bring on this anger, he can- not subsequently think of committing one of these acts without thinking of the resulting anger, and feeling more or less of the resulting dread. He has no thought of the utility or inutil- ity of the act itself; the deterrent is the mainly vague, but partially defi- nite, fear of evil that may follow. So understood, the deterring emotion is one that has grown out of experiences of utility, using that word in its eth. ical sense; and if we ask why this dreaded anger is called forth from others, we shall habitually find that it is because the forbidden act en- tails pain somewhere—is negatived by utility. On passing from the do- mestic injunctions to the injunctions current in the tribe, we see no less clearly how these emotions produced by approbation and reprobation come to be connected in experience with ac- tions that are beneficial to the tribe, and actions that are detrimental to the tribe; and how there conse- quently grow up incentives to the one class of actions and prejudices against the other class. From early boyhood the young savage hears recounted the daring deeds of his chief—hears them in words of praise, and sees all faces glowing with admiration. From time to time also he listens while some pears. one’s Cowardice is described in tones of Scorn, and with contemptuous met- aphors, and sees him meet with de- rision and insult whenever he ap- That is to say, one of the things that comes to be strongly as- Sociated in his mind with smiling faces, which are symbolical of pleas- ures in general, is courage; and one of the things that comes to be associ- ated in his mind with frowns and other marks of enmity, which form his symbol of unhappiness, is coward- ice. These feelings are not formed in him because he has reasoned his way to the truth that courage is use- ful to the tribe, and, by implication, to himself, or to the truth that cow- ardice is a cause of evil. In adult life he may, perhaps, see this; but he certainly does not see it at the time when bravery is thus associated in his consciousness with all that is good, and cowardice with all that is bad. Similarly there are produced in him feelings of inclination or repugnance toward other lines of conduct that have become established or inter- dicted, because they are beneficial or injurious to the tribe; though neither the young nor the adults know why they have become established or in- terdicted. Instance the praiseworthi- ness of wife-stealing, and the vicious- ness of marrying within the tribe. We may now ascend a stage to an order of incentives and restraints de- rived from these. The primitive be- lief is that every dead man becomes a demon, who remains somewhere at hand, may at any moment return, may give aid or do mischief, and is continually propitiated. Hence, among other agents whose approba- tion or reprobation is contemplated by the savage as a consequence of his conduct, are the spirits of his ances- tors. When a child he is told of their deeds, now in triumphant tones, now in whispers of horror; and the instilled belief that they may inflict some vaguely-imagined but fearful evil, or give some great help, becomes a powerful incentive or deterrent. Especially does this happen when the ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [603] 31 narrative is of a chief, distinguished for his strength, his ferocity, his per- sistence in that revenge which the experiences of the savage make him regard as beneficial and virtuous. The consciousness that such a chief, dreaded by neighboring tribes, and dreaded, too, by members of his own tribe, may reappear and punish those who have disregarded his injunctions, becomes a powerful motive. But it is clear, in the first place, that the im- agined anger and the imagined satis- faction of this deified chief are sim- ply transfigured forms of the anger and satisfaction displayed by those around ; and that the feelings accom- panying such imaginations have the same original root in the experiences which have associated an average of painful results with the manifesta- tion of another’s anger, and an aver- age of pleasurable results with the manifestation of another’s satisfac- tion. And it is clear; in the second place, that the actions thus forbidden and encouraged must be mostly ac- tions that are respectively detrimental and beneficial to the tribe; since the successful chief is usually a better judge than the rest, and has the pres- ervation of the tribe at heart. Hence experiences of utility, consciously or unconsciously organized, underlie his injunctions; and the sentiments which, prompt obedience are, though very in- directly and without the knowledge of those who feel them, referable to experiences of utility. This transfigured form of restraint, differing at first but little from the original form, admits of immense de- velopment. peated from generation to generation, make more and more superhuman the early-recorded hero of the race. His powers of inflicting punishment and giving happiness become ever greater, more multitudinous and varied; so that the dread of divine displeasure, and the desire to obtain divine appro- bation, acquire a certain largeness and generality. Still the conceptions remain anthropomorphic. The re- Accumulating traditions, growing in grandeur as they are re- vengeful deity continues to be thought of in terms of human emotions, and continues to be represented as dis- playing these emotions in human ways. Moreover, the sentiments of right and duty, so far as they have become developed, refer mainly to divine commands and interdicts; and have little reference to the natures of the acts commanded or interdicted. In the intended offering up of Isaac, in the sacrifice of Jephthah's daugh- ter, and in the hewing to pieces of Agag, as much as in the countless atrocities committed from religious mo- tives by other early historic races, we see that the morality and immorality of actions, as we understand them, are at first little recognized; and that the feelings, chiefly of dread, which serve in place of them, are feelings felt toward the unseen beings supposed to issue the commands and interdicts. Here it will be said that, as just admitted, these are not the moral. sentiments properly so called. This is true. They are simply sentiments that precede and make possible those highest sentiments which do not re- fer either to personal benefits or evils to be expected from men, or to more remote rewards and punishments. Several comments are, however, call- ed, forth by this criticism. One is, that if we glance back at past beliefs and their correlative feelings, as shown in Damte's poem, in the mys- tery plays of the middle ages, in St. Bartholomew massacres, in burnings. for heresy, we get proof that in comr. paratively modern times right and wrong meant little else than subor- dination or insubordination—to a di- vine ruler primarily and under him to a human ruler. Another is, that down to our own day this conception largely prevails, and is even embod- ied in elaborate ethical works—in- stance the “Essays on the Principles of Morality,” by Jonathan Dymond, which recognizes no ground of moral obligation, save the will of God as expressed in the current creed. And yet a further is, that while in sermons the torments of the damned and the 32 1604] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. joys of the blessed are set forth as the dominant deterrents and incentives, while and we have prepared for us printed instructions “how to make the best of both worlds,” it cannot be de- nied that the feelings which impel and restrain men are still largely compos- ed of elements like those operative on the savage—the dread, partly vague partly specific, associated with the idea of reprobation, human and di- vine, and the sense of satisfaction, partly vague, partly specific, associat- ed with the idea of approbation, hu- man and divine. - But during the growth of that civil- ization which has been made possible by these ego-altruistic sentiments, there have been slowly evolving, the altruistic sentiments. Development of these has gone on only as fast as society has advanced to a state in which the activities are mainly peace- ful. The root of all the altruistic sen- timents is sympathy ; and sympathy could become dominant only when the mode of life, instead of being one that habitually inflicted direct pain, became one which conferred direct and indirect benefits; the pains in- flicted being mainly incidental and indirect. Adam Smith made a large step toward this truth when he recog- nized sympathy as giving rise to these superior controlling emotions. His “Theory of Moral Sentiments,” how- ever, requires to be supplemented in two ways. The natural process by which sympathy becomes developed in- to a more and more important element of human nature, has to be explained ; and there has also to be explained the process by which sympathy produces the highest and most complex of the altruistic sentiments—that of 'justice. Respecting the first process, I can here do no more than say that sympathy may be proved, both inductively and deductively, to be the concomitant of gregariousness; the two having all along increased by reciprocal aid. Multiplication has ever tended to force into an association, more or less close, all creatures having kinds of food and supplies of food that permit associa- tion; and established psychological laws warrant the inference that some , sympathy will inevitably result from habitual manifestations offeelings in presence of one another, and that the gregariousness being augmented by the increase of sympathy, further fa- cilitates the development of sympathy. But there are negative and positive checks upon this development—nega- tive, because sympathy cannot advance faster than intelligence advances, since it presupposes the power of interpret- ing the natural language of the va- rious feelings, and of mentally repre- senting those feelings; positive, be. cause the immediate needs of self-pres- ervation are often at variance with its promptings, as, for example, during the predatory stages of human prog- ress. For explanations of the sec- ond process, I must refer to “The Principles of Psychology” (§ 202, first edition, and $ 215, second edi- tion) and to “Social Statics,” Part II., Chapter W.” Asking that in de- fault of space these explanations may be taken for granted, let me here point out in what sense even sym- pathy, and the sentiments that result from it, are due to experiences of utility. If we suppose all thought of rewards or punishments, immediate or remote, to be left out of consider- ation, it is clear that any one who hesitates to inflict a pain because of the vivid representation of that pain which rises in his consciousness, is restrained, not by any sense of obli- gation or by any formulated doctrine of utility, but by the painful associa- tion established in him. And it is clear that if, after repeated experi- ences of the moral discomfort he has felt from witnessing the unhappiness indirectly caused by some of his acts, he is led to check himself when again tempted to those acts, the restraint * I may add that in “Social Statics,” Chapter XXX., I have indicated, in a gen- eral way, the causes of the development of sympathy and the restraints upon its develop- ment—confining the discussion, however, to the case of the human race, my subject limit- ing me to that. The accompanying teleology I now disclaim. * * ~ : * - - - ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [605] 33 is of like nature. Conversely with the pleasure-giving acts: repetitions of kind deeds, and experiences of the sympathetic gratifications that follow, tend continually to make stronger the association between such deeds and feelings of happiness. - Eventually these experiences may be consciously generalized, and there may result a deliberate pursuit of the sympathetic gratifications. There may also come to be distinctly recog- nized the truths that the remoter re- sults are respectively detrimental and beneficial—that due regard for others is conducive to ultimate personal welfare and disregard of others to ultimate personal disaster; and then there may become current such sum- mations of experience as “honesty is the best policy.” But so far from re- garding these intellectual recogni- tions of utility as preceding and caus- ing the moral sentiment, I regard the moral sentiment as preceding such recognitions of utility, and making them possible. The pleasures and pains directly resulting in experience from sympathetic and unsympathetic actions, had first to be slowly associat- ed with stich actions, and the result- ing incentives and deterrents frequent- ly obeyed, before there could arise the perceptions that sympathetic and un- sympathetic actions are remotely ben- eficial or detrimental to the actor; and they had to be obeyed still longer and more generally before there could arise the perceptions that they are socially beneficial or detrimental. When, how- ever, the remote effects, personal and social, have gained general recogni- tion, are expressed in current maxims, and lead to injunctions having the re- ligious sanction, the sentiments that prompt sympathetic actions and check unsympathetic ones are immensely strengthened by their alliances. Ap- probation and reprobation, divine and human, come to be associated in thought with the sympathetic and un- sympathetic actions respectively. The commands of the creed, the legal penalties, and the code of social conduct, unitedly enforce them; ciples of conduct. and every child as it grows up, daily has impressed on it, by the worós and faces and voices of those aroundi, the authority of these highest priº- And now we may see why there arises a belief in the special sacredness of these highest principles, and a sense of the supreme authority of the altru- istic sentiments answering to them. Many of the actions which, in early social states, received the religious sanction and gained public approba- tion, had the drawback that such sympathies as existed were outraged, and there was hence an imperfect satisfaction. Whereas these altruistic actions, while similarly having the religious sanction and gaining public approbation, bring a sympathetic consciousness of pleasure given or of pain prevented ; and beyond this, bring a sympathetic consciousness of human welfare at large, as being fur- thered by making altruistic actions habitual. Both this special and this general sympathetic consciousness become stronger and wider in propor. tion as the power of mental represen- tation increases, and the imagination of consequences, immediate and re- mote, grows more vivid and compre- hensive. Until at length these ai- truistic sentiments begin to call in question the authority of those ego- altruistic sentiments which once ruled unchallenged. They prompt resist- ance to laws that do not fulfill the conception of justice, encourage men to brave the frowns of their fellows by pursuing a course at variance with customs that are perceived to be socially injurious, and even cause dissent from the current religion ; either to the extent of disbelief in those alleged divine attributes and acts not approved by this supreme moral arbiter, or to the extent of entire re- jection of a creed which ascribes such attributes and acts. - Much that is required to make this hypothesis complete must stand over until, at the close of the second vol. ume of “The Principles of Psychol- ogy,” I have space for a full exposi- 34 [606) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. tion. What I have said will make it sufficiently clear that two funda- mental errors have been made in the interpretation put upon it. Both Utility and Experience have been construed in senses much too narrow. Utility, convenient a word as it is from its comprehensiveness, has very inconvenient and misleading impli- cations. faintly suggests the pleasures, posi- tive or negative, which are the ulti- mate ends, and which, in the ethical meaning of the word, are alone con- sidered ; and, further, it implies con- scious recognition of means and ends —implies the deliberate taking of some course to gain a perceived ben- efit. Experience, too, in its ordinary acceptation, connotes definite percep- tions of causes and consequences, as standing in observed relations, and is not taken to include the connec- tions formed in consciousness be- tween states that recur together, when the relation between them, causal or other, is not perceived. It is in their widest senses, however, that I habit- ually use these words, as will be man- ifest to every one who reads the “Principles of Psychology; ” and it is in these widest senses that I have used them in the letter to Mr. Mill. I think I have shown above that, when they are so understood, the hypothesis briefly set forth in that letter is by no means so indefensible as is supposed. At any rate, I have shown—what seemed for the present needful to show—that Mr. Hutton's versions of my views must not be ac- cepted as correct. . . . IV. REASONS FOR DISSENTING FROM THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMTE. To M. Auguste Laugel, the writer of an article * on my “First Princi- ples,” I am much indebted for the * In the Revue des AXaux Mondes. It vividly suggests uses and means and proximate ends, but very careful exposition he has made of some of the leading views set forth in that work; and for the catholic and sym- pathetic spirit in which he has dealt with them. In one respect, however, M. Laugel conveys to his readers an erroneous impression—an impression doubtless derived from what appears to him adequate evidence, and doubt- less expressed in perfect sincerity. M. Laugel describes me as being, in part, a follower of M. Comte. After describing the influence of M. Comte as traceable in the works of some other English writers, naming espe- cially Mr. Mill and Mr. Buckle, he goes on to say that this influence, though not avowed, is easily recogniz- able in the work he is about to make known ; and in several places through- out his review, there are remarks having the same implication. I greatly regret having to take excep- tion to anything said by a critic so candid and so able. But the Revue des ZXeux Mondes circulates widely in England, as well as elsewhere; and finding that there exists in some minds, both here and in America, an impression similar to that entertained by M. Laugel—an impression likely to be confirmed by his statement— it appears to me needful to meet it. Two causes of quite different kinds have conspired to diffuse the erro- neous belief that M. Comte is an ac- cepted exponent of scientific opinion. His bitterest foes and his closest friends, have unconsciously joined in propagating it. On the one hand; M. Comte having designated by the term “Positive Philosophy” all that definitely-established knowledge which men of science have been gradually organizing into a coherent body of doctrine; and having habitu- ally placed this in opposition to the incoherent body of doctrine defended by theologians; it has become the habit of the theological party to think of the antagonist scientific party, under the title of “positivists.” And thus, from the habit of calling them “positivists,” there has grown up the assumption that they call themselves ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [607] 35 “positivists,” disciples of M. Comte. On the other hand, those who have accepted M. Comte's system, and believe it to be the philosophy of the future, have naturally been prone to see every- where the signs of its progress; and wherever they have found opinions in harmony with it, have ascribed these opinions to the influence of its orig- inator. It is always the tendency of discipleship to magnify the effects of the master's teachings; and to credit the master with all the doctrines he teaches. In the minds of his follow- ers, M. Comte's name is associated with scientific thinking, which, in many cases, they first understood from his exposition of it. as they inevitably are by this associa- tion of ideas, they are reminded of M. Comte wherever they meet with thinking which corresponds, in some marked way, to M. Comte's descrip- tion of scientific thinking; and hence are apt to imagine him as introducing into other minds, the conceptions which he introduced into their minds. Such impressions are, however, in most cases quite That M. Comte has given a general exposition of the doctrine and method elaborated by Science, is true. But it is not true that the holders of this doctrine and followers of this method, are disciples of M. Comte. Neither their modes of in- quiry nor their views concerning hu- man knowledge in its nature and limits, are appreciably different from what they were before. If they are “positivists,” it is in the sense that all men of science have been more or less consistently “positivists; ” and the applicability of M. Comte's title to them, no more makes them his disciples, than does its applicability to men of science who lived and died before M. Comte wrote, make these his disciples. M. Comte himself by no means claims that which some of his adherents are apt, by implication, to claim for him. He says:–“Il y a, sans doute, beaucoup d’analogie entre ma philosophie positive et ce que and that they are the Influenced unwarranted. les savans anglais entendent, depuis Newton Surtout, par philosophie ſta- turelle; ” (see Avertissement) and für. ther on he indicates the “grand mouvement imprimé à l'esprit humain, ily a deux siècles, par l'action com- binee des préceptes de Bacon, des conceptions de Descartes, et des dé- couvertes de Galilee, comme le mo- ment oil l'esprit de la philosophie pos- itive a commencé a se prononcer dans le monde.” That is to say, the gen- eral mode of thought and way of in- terpreting phenomena, which , M. Comte calls “Positive Philosophy,” he recognizes as having been growing for two centuries; as having reached, when he wrote, a marked develop- ment; and as being the heritage of all men of science. - That which M. Comte proposed to . do, was to give scientific thought and method a more definite embodiment and organization; and to apply it to the interpretation of classes of phe- nomena not previously dealt with in a scientific manner. The conception was a great one ; and the endeavor to work it out was worthy of sympathy and applause. Some such conception was entertained by Bacon. He, too, aimed at the organization of the sci- ences; he, too, held that “Physics is the mother of all the sciences; ” he, too, held that the sciences can be ad- vanced only by combining them, and saw the nature of the required combi- nation; he, too, held that moral and civil philosophy could not flourish when separated from their roots in natural philosophy; and thus he, too, had some idea of a social science growing out of physical science. But the state of knowledge in his day prevented any advance beyond the general conception: indeed, it was marvelous that he should have ad- vanced so far. Instead of a vague, undefined conception, M. Comte has presented the world with a defined and highly-elaborated conception. In working out this conception he has shown remarkable breadth of view, great originality, immense fer- tility of thought, unusual powers of 36 [608] SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. ESSAYS - generalization. Considered apart from the question of its truth, his sys- tem of Positive Philosophy is a vast achievement. But after according to M. Comte high admiration for his conception, for his effort to realize it, and for the faculty he has shown in the effort to realize it, there remains the inquiry—Has he succeeded ?. A thinker who re-organizes the scien- tific method and knowledge of his age, and whose re-organization is ac- cepted by his successors, may rightly be said to have such successors for his disciples. But successors who ac- cept this method and knowledge of his age, minus his re-organization, are certainly not his disciples. How then stands the case with M. Comte There are some few who receive his doctrines with but little reservation; and these are his disciples truly so called. There are others who re- gard with approval certain of his lead- ing doctrines, but not the rest: these we may distinguish as partial adher- ents. There are others who reject all his distinctive doctrines; and these must be classed as his antago- nists. The members of this class stand substantially in the same posi- tion as they would have done had he not written. Declining his re-organ- ization of scientific doctrine, they possess this scientific doctrine in its pre-existing state, as the common her- itage bequeathed by the past to the present; and their adhesion to this scientific doctrine in no sense impli- cates them with M. Comte. In this class stand the great body of men of science. And in this case I stand. Coming thus to the personal part of the question, let me first specify those great general principles on which M. Comte is at one with pre- ceding thinkers; and on which I am at one with M. Comte. All knowledge is from experience, holds M. Comte ; and this I also hold—hold it, indeed, in a wider Sense than M. Comte : since, not only do I believe that all the ideas acquired by individuals, and consequently all the ideas transmitted by past generations are thus derived; but I also contend that the very faculties by which they are acquired, are the products of ac- cumulated and organized experiences received by ancestral races of beings (see Principles of Psychology). But the doctrine that all knowledge is from experience, is not originated by M. Comte ; nor is it claimed by him. He himself says—“Tous les bons es- prits répètent, depuis Bacon, qu'il n'y a de connaissances réelle que celles qui reposent sur des faites observés.” And the elaboration and definite estab- lishment of this doctrine, has been the special characteristic of the Eng- lish school of Psychology. Nor am. I aware that M. Comte, accepting this doctrine, has done anything to make it more certain, or give it greater def- initeness. Indeed it was impossible for him to do so; since he repudiates that part of mental science by which alone this doctrine can be proved. It is a further belief of M. Comte, that all knowledge is phenomenal or relative ; and in this belief I entirely agree. But no one alleges that the relativity of all knowledge was first enunciated by M. Comte. Among others who have more or less consist- ently held this truth, Sir William Hamilton enumerates, Protagoras, Aristotle, St. Augustin, Boethius, Averroes, Albertus Magnus, Gerson, Leo Hebraeus, Melancthon, Scaliger, Francis Piccolomini, Giordano Bruno, Campanella, Bacon, Spinoza, Newton, Kant. And Sir William Hamilton, in his “Philosophy of the Uncondi- tioned,” first published in 1829, has given a scientific demonstration of this belief. Receiving it in common with other thinkers, from preceding thinkers, M. Comte has not, to my knowledge, advanced this belief. Nor indeed could he advance it, for the reason already given—he denies the possibility of that analysis of thought which discloses the relativity of all cognition. - M. Comte reprobates the interpre- tation of different classes of phenom- ena by assigning metaphysical entities ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL, as their causes; and I coincide in the opinion that the assumption of such separate entities, though convenient, if not indeed necessary, for purposes of thought, is, scientifically considered, illegitimate. This opinion, is, in fact, a corollary from the last; and must stand or fall with it. But , like the last it has been held with more or less consistency for generations. M. Comte himself quotes Newton's fa- vorite saying—“O ! Physics, beware of Metaphysics : " Neither to this doctrine, any more than to the pre- ceding doctrines, has M. Comte given a firmer basis. He has simply re-asserted it; and it was out of the question for him to do more. In this case, as in the others, his denial of subjective psychology debarred him from proving that these meta- physical entities are mere symbolic conceptions which do not admit of verification. Lastly, M. Comte believes in in- variable natural laws—absolute uni- formities of relation among phenom- ena. But very many before him have believed in them too. Long familiar even beyond the bounds of the scientific world, the proposition that there is an unchanging order in things, has, within the scientific world, held, for generations, the position of an established postulate ; by some men of science recognized only as holding of inorganic phenomena; but recognized by other men of Science, as universal. And M. Comte, accept- ing this doctrine from the past, has left it substantially as it was. Though he has asserted new uniformities, I do not think scientific men will ad- mit that he has so demonstrated them, as to make the induction more cer- tain; nor has he deductively estab- lished the doctrine, by showing that uniformity of relation is a necessary corollary from the persistence of force, as may readily be shown. These, then, are the pre-established general truths with which M. Comte Sets out—truths which cannot be re- garded as distinctive of his philosophy. “But why,” it will perhaps be asked, “is it needful to point out this; seeing that no instructed reader supposes. these truths to be peculiar to M. Comte 2* I reply that though no dis- ciple of M. Comte would deliberately claim them for him ; and though no theological antagonist at all familiar with Science and philosophy, supposes M. Comte to be the first propounder of them; yet there is so strong a tend- ency to associate any doctrines with the name of a conspicuous recent ex- ponent of them, that false impressions are produced, even in spite of better knowledge. Of the need for making this reclamation, definite proof is at hand. In the No. of the Rezue des ment, may be found, on p. 936, the words—“Toute religion, comme toute philosophie, a la prétention de donner une explication de l'univers. La philosophie qui s'appelle Zositive se distingue de toutes les philosophies et de toutes les religions en Ce qu’elle a renoncé à cette ambition de l'esprit humain;” and the remainder of the paragraph is devoted to explaining the doctrine of the relativity of knowledge. The next paragraph begins—“Tout imbu de ces idées, que nous exposons sans les discuter pour le moment, M. Spencer divise, etc.” Now this is one of those collocations of ideas which tends to create, or to strengthen, the erroneous impression I would dissi- pate. I do not for a moment suppose that M. Laugel intended to say that these ideas which he describes as ideas of the “Positive Philosophy,” are pe- culiarly the ideas of M. Comte. But little as he probably intended it, his expressions suggest this conception. In the minds of both disciples and an- tagonists, “the Positive Philosophy ’’ means the philosophy of M. Comte ; and to be imbued with the ideas of “the Positive Philosophy” means to be imbued with the ideas of M. Comte— to have received these ideas from M. Comte. After what has been said above, I need scarcely repeat that the conception thus inadvertently sug- gested, is a wrong one. M. Comte's brief enunciations of these general 88 (6101 ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. truths, gave me no clearer apprehen- sions of them than I had before. Such clarifications of ideas on these ultimate questions, as I can trace to any par- ticular teacher, I owe to Sir William Hamilton. r From the principles which M. Comte held in common with many preceding and contemporary thinkers, letus pass now to the principles that are distinctive of his system. Just as entirely as I agree with M. Comte on those cardinal doctrines which we jointly inherit; so entirely do I disa- gree with him on those cardinal doc- trines which he propounds, and which determine the organization of his phi- losophy. The best way of showing this will be to compare side by side, the— Propositions held by M. Comte. * “. . . chacune de nos con- ceptions principales, chaque branche de nos connaissan- ces, passe successivement par trois 6tats theoriques dif- férens: l'état theologique, ou fictif ; l'état métaphysique, ou abstrait; l'état scientifique, ou positif. En d'autres ter- mes, l'esprit humain, par sa nature, emploie successive- ment dans chacune de ses re- cherches tróis methodes de philosopher, dont le caractère est essentiellement different et même radicalement op- posé : d'abord la méthode theologique, ensuite la méth- ode métaphysique, et enfin la méthode positive.” P. 3. Propositions which I hold. The progress of our conceptions, and of each branch of knowledge, is from beginning to end intrinsically alike. There are not three methods of philosophizing radically opposed; but one method of philosophizing which re- mains, in essence, the same. At first, and to the last, the conceived causal agencies of phe- nomena, have a degree of generality correspond- ing to the width of the generalizations which experiences have determined, and they change just as gradually as experiences accumulate. The integration of causal agencies, originally thought of as multitudinous and local, but finally believed to be one and universal, is a process which involves the passing through all intermediate steps between these extremes; and any appearance of Stages can be but su- perficial. Supposed concrete and individual causal agencies, coalesce in the mind as fast as groups of phenomena are assimilated, or seen to be similarly caused. Along with their coalescence, comes a greater extension of their individualities, and a concomitant loss of distinctness in their individualities. Gradually by continuance of such coalescences, causal agencies become, in thought, diffused and indefinite. And eventually without any change in the nature of the process, there is reached the consciousness of a universal causal agency, which cannot be conceived.* - “Le système theologique As the progress of thought is one, so is the est parvenu a la plus haute end one. There are not three possible termi- * A clear illustration of this process, is furnished by the recent mental integration of Heat, Light, Electricity, etc., as modes of molecular motion. If we go a step back, we see that the modern conception of Electricity, resulted from the integration in consciousness, of the two forms of it evolved in the galvanic battery and in the electric-machine. And going back to a still earlier stage, we see how the conception of statical electricity, arose by the coalescence in thought, of the previously-separate forces manifested in rubbed amber, in rubbed glass, and in lightning. With such illustrations before him, no one can, I think, doubt that the process has been the same from the beginning. - * - - ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. 1611] 30 perfection dont il soit suscep- tible, quand il a substitué l'action providentielle d'un être unique au jeu varié des nombreuses divinités indé- pendantes qui a-vaient été im- aginées primitivement. De même, le dernier terme du système metaphysique con- siste a concevoir, au lieu des: différentes entités particuliè- res, une seule grande entité générale, la nature, envisagée comme la source unique de tous les phénomènes. Pa- reillement, la perfection du système positif, vers laquelle il tend sans cesse, quoigu'il soit très-probable qu'il ne doive jamais l’atteindre, serait de pouvoir se représenter tous les divers phénomènes obser- vables comme des cas par- ticuliers d'un seul fait géné- ral, tel que celui de la gravita- tion, par exemple.” P. 5. “. . . la perfection du sys- tème positif, vers laquelle il tend sans cesse, quoigu'il soit très-probable qu'il ne doive jamais l’atteindre, Serait de pouvoir se représenter tous les divers phénomènes obser- vables comme des Cas par- ticuliers d'un seul fait général. P. 5. . . . considerant comme absolument inaccessible, et vide de sens pour nous la recherche de ce qu'on appelle les causes, soit premières, soit. finales.” P. I4. nal conceptions; but only a single terminal con- ception. When the theological idea of the - providential action of one being, is developed to its ultimate form, by the absorption of all independent secondary agencies, it becomes the conception of a being immanent in all phenomena; and the reduction of it to this state, implies the fading-away, in thought, of all those anthropomorphic attributes by which the aboriginal idea was distinguished. The alleged last term of the metaphysical system —the conception of a single great general en- tity, nature, as the source of all phenomena— is a conception identical with the previous one : the consciousness of a single source which in coming to be regarded as universal, ceases to be regarded as conceivable, differs in nothing but name from the consciousness of one being, manifested in all phenomena. And similarly, that which is described as the ideal state of science—the power to represent all observable phenomena as particular cases of a single general fact implies the postulating of some ultimate existence of which this single fact is alleged ; and the postulating of this ultimate existence, involves a state of consciousness in- distinguishable from the other two. Though along with the extension of general- izations, and concomitant integration of con- ceived causal agencies, the conceptions of causal agencies grow more indefinite ; and though as they gradually coalesce into a uni- versal causal agency, they cease to be repre- sentable in thought, and are no longer sup- posed to be comprehensible ; yet the con- sciousness of cause remains as dominant to the last as it was at first ; and can never be got rid of. The consciousness of cause can be abol- ished only by abolishing consciousness itself.” (First Principles, § 26.) * Possibly it will be said that M. Comte himself admits, that what he calls the perfection of the positive system, will probably never be reached; and that what he condemns is the inquiry into the natures of causes and not the general recognition of cause. To the first of these allegations, I reply that, as I understand M. Comte, the obstacle to the perfect realiza- tion of the positive philosophy is the impossibility of carrying generalization so far as to re- duce all particular facts to cases of one general fact—not the impossibility of excluding the consciousness of cause. And to the second allegation I reply, that the essential principle of his philosophy, is an avowed ignoring of cause altogether. For if it is not, what becomes of Áis alleged distinction between the perfection of the positize system and the perfection of the meta- physical system # And here let me point out that, by affirming exactly the opposite to that which M. Comte thus affirms, I am excluded from the positive school. If his own definition of positivism is to be taken, then, as I hold that what he defines as positivism is an absolute impossibility, it is clear that I cannot be what he calls a positivist. 40 [612] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. “Ce n'est pas aux lecteurs de cet ouvrage que je croirai jamais devoir prouver que les idées gouvernent et bou- leversent le monde, ou, en d'autres termes, que tout le mécanisme social repose fina- lement sur des opinions. . Ils savent surtout que la grande crise politique et morale des sociétés actuelles tient, en dernière analyse, a l'anar- chie intellectuelle.” P. 48.* “. . . je ne dois pas négli- ger d’indiquer d’avance, comme une propriété essen- tielle de l'échelle encyclopé- Ideas do not govern and overthrow the world: the world is governed or overthrown by feelings, to which ideas serve only as guides. The so- cial mechanism does not rest finally upon opinions; but almost wholly upon character. Not intellectual anarchy, but moral antago- nism, is the cause of political crises. All socia! phenomena are produced by the totality of human emotions and beliefs: of which the emotions are mainly pre-determined, while the beliefs are mainly post-determined. Men's desires are chiefly inherited; but their beliefs are chiefly acquired, and depend on surround- ing conditions; and the most important sur- rounding conditions depend on the social state which the prevalent desires have produced. The social state at any time existing, is the resultant of all the ambitions, self-interests, fears, reverences, indignations, sympathies, etc., of ancestral citizens and existing citizens. The ideas current in this social state, must, on the average, be congruous with the feelings of citizens; and therefore, on the average, with the social state these feelings have pro- duced. Ideas wholly foreign to this social state cannot be evolved, and if introduced from without, cannot get accepted—or, if ac- cepted, die out when the temporary phase of feeling which caused their acceptance, ends. Hence, though advanced ideas when once established, act upon society and aid its fur- ther advance; yet the establishment of such ideas depends on the fitness of the society for receiving them. Practically, the popular character and the social state, determine what ideas shall be current; instead of the current ideas determining the social state and the character. The modification of men's moral natures, caused by the continuous discip- line of social life, which adapts them more and more to social relations, is therefore the chief proximate cause of Social progress. (Social Statics, chap. xxx.) The order in which the generalizations of science are established, is determined by the frequency and impressiveness with which dif- ferent classes of relations are repeated in con- * A friendly criticalleges that M. Comte is not fairly represented by this quotation, and that he is blamed by his biographer, M. Littré, for. his too-great insistence on feeling as a inotor of humanity. If in his “Positive Politics,” which I presume is here referred to, M. Comte abandons his original position, so much the better. But I am here dealing with what is known as “the Positive Philosophy;” and that the passage above quoted does not misrepresentit, is proved by the fact that this doctrine is re-asserted at the commencement of the Sociology. ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [613] 41 dique que je vais proposer, Sa conformité générale l'ensemble de l’histoire scien- tifique : en ce Sens, que, mal- gré la simultanéité réelle et continue du développement des differentes sciences, cel- les qui seront classées comme antérieures seront, en effet, plus anciennes et constam- ment plus avancées que cel- les présentees comme posté- rieures.” P. 84. . . . . . . . “Cet ordre est détermine par le degré de simplicité, ou, ce qui revient au méme, par le degré de généralité des phénomènes.” P. 87. “En résultat définitif, la mathématique, l'astronomie, la physique, la chimie, la physiologie, et la physique sociale ; telle est la formule enclyopédique qui, parmi le très-grand nombre de clas- sifications que comportent les six sciences fondamen- tales, est seule logiquement conforme à la hiêrarchie na- turelle et invariable des phé- nomènes.” P. II.5. - “On conçoit, en effet, que l'étude rationelle dé chaque science fondamentale exi- geant la culture préalable de toutes celles qui la précèdent dans notre hiérarchie encly- opédique, n'a pu faire de pro- grès réels et prendre son vér- itable caractère, qu'après un grand développement des sciences antérieures relatives a des phénomènes plus gé- néraux, plus abstraits, moins compliqués, et indépendans des autres. C'est donc dans cet ordre que la progression, quoique simultanée, a dā avoir lieu.” P. roo. avec scious experience; and this depends, partly on the directness zwith zväich personal welfare is affected; partly on the conspicuousness of one or &oth the phenomena between zwhich a relation is to be perceived; partly on the absolute frequency zºrith which the relations occur, partly on their relative frequency of occurrence ; partly on their degree of simplicity; and partly on their degree of abstractness. (First Principles, Ist ed., § 36.) * The sciences as arranged in this succession specified by M. Comte, do not logically con- form to the natural and invariable hierarchy of phenomena ; and there is no serial order what- ever in which they can be placed, which repre- sents either their logical dependence or the dependence of phenomena. (See Genesis of Science.) The historical development of the sciences Åas not taken place in this serial order; nor in any other serial order. There is no “true filiation of the sciences.” From the begin- ning, the abstract sciences, the abstract-con- crete sciences, and the concrete sciences, have progressed together: the first solving problems which the second and third presented, and . growing only by the solution of the problems; and the second similarly growing by joining the first in solving the problems of the third. All along there has been a continuous action and reaction between the three great classes of sciences—an advance from concrete facts to abstract facts, and then an application of such abstract facts to the analysis of new orders of concrete facts. (See Genesis of Sci- ence.) Such then are the organizing principles of M. Comte's philosophy. Leav- ing out of his “Exposition ” those pre-established general doctrines which are the common property of modern thinkers; these are the general doc- 42 [614] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. trines which remain—these are the doctrines which fundamentally distin- guish his system. From every one of them I dissent. To each proposition, I oppose either a widely-different proposition, or a direct negation ; and I not only do it now, but have done it from the time when I became acquainted with his writings. This rejection of his cardinal principles should, I think, alone suffice; but there are sundry other views of his, some of them largely characterizing his system, which I equally reject. How organic beings have originated, is an inquiry which M. Comte deprecates as a useless speculation : as- Serting, as he does, that species are immutable. M. Comte contends that of what is commonly known as mental science, all that most important part which consists of the subjective an- alysis of our ideas, is an im- possibility. M. Comte's ideal of so- ciety is one in which govern- ment is developed to the greatest extent—in which class-functions are far more under conscious public regu- lation than now—in which hierarchical organization with unquestioned authority shall guide everything—in which the individual life shall be subordinated in the greatest degree to the social life, - - M. Comte, not including in his philosophy the con- sciousness of a cause mani- Let us glance at them. This inquiry, I believe, admits of answer, and will be answered. That division of Biol- ogy which concerns itself with the origin of species, I hold to be the supreme division, to which all others are subsidiary. For on the verdict of Biology on this matter, must wholly depend our conception of human nature, past present, and future; our theory of the mind; and our theory of society. I have very emphatically expressed my be- lief in a subjective science of the mind, by writing a Principles of Psychology, one half of which is subjective. That form of society towards which we are progressing, 1 hold to be one in which govern- ment will be reduced to the smallest amount possible, and freedom increased to the greatest amount possible—one in which human nature will have become so molded by social discip- line into fitness for the social state, that it will need little external restraint, but will be self- restrained—one in which the citizen will toler- ate no interference with his freedom, save that which maintains the equal freedom of others—one in which the spontaneous co- operation which has developed our industrial system, and is now developing it with increas- ing rapidity, will produce agencies for the dis- charge of nearly all social functions, and will leave to the primary governmental agency noth- ing beyond the function of maintaining those conditions to free action, which make such spontaneous co-operation possible—one in which individual life will thus be pushed to the greatest extent consistent with social life; and in which social life will have no other end than to maintain the completest sphere for individual life. - º - ? I conceive, on the other hand, that the ob- ject of religious sentiment will ever continue to be, that which it has ever been—the un- ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [615) 43 fested to us in all phenom- ena, and yet holding that there must be a religion, which must have an object, takes for his object—Human- ity. “This Collective Life (of Society) is in Comte's system the Etre Suprême; the only one we can know, therefore the only one we can worship.” known source of things. While the forms un- der which men are conscious of the unknown source of things, may fade away, the substance of the consciousness is permanent. Beginning with causal agents conceived as imperfectly known; progressing to causal agents con- ceived as less known and less knowable; and coming at last to a universal causal agent pos- ited as not to be known at all ; the religious sentiment must ever continue to occupy itself with this universal causal agent. Having in the course of evolution, come to have for its object of contemplation, the Infinite Unknow- able, the religious sentiment can never again (unless by retrogression) take a Finite Know- able, like Humanity, for its object of contem- plation. Here, then, are sundry other points, all of them important, and the last two supremely important, on which I am diametrically opposed to M. Comte ; and did space permit, I could add many others. Radically differing from him as I thus do, in everything distinctive of his philoso- phy; and having invariably expressed my dissent, publicly and privately, from the time I became acquainted with his writings; it may be imagined that I have been not a little startled to find myself classed as one of the same school. That those who have read First Principles only, may have been betrayed into this error in the way above shown, by the ambiguous use of the phrase “Positive Philoso- phy,” I can understand. But that any who are acquainted with my pre- vious writings,...should suppose I have any general sympathy with M. Comte, save that implied by preferring proved facts to Superstitions, astonishes me. It is true that, disagreeing with M. Comte, though I do, in all those fun- damental views that are peculiar to him, I agree with him in sundry minor views. The doctrine that the education of the individual should accord in mode and arrangement with the education of mankind, con- sidered historically, I have cited from him ; and have endeavored to enforce it. I entirely concur in his opinion that there requires a new order of scientific men, whose function shall be that of co-ordinating the results arrived at by the rest. To him I be- lieve I am indebted for the concep- tion of a social consensus; and when the time comes for dealing with this conception, I shall state my indebted- ness. And I also adopt his word, Sociology. There are, I believe, in the part of his writings which I have read, various incidental thoughts of great depth and value ; and I doubt not that were I to read more of his writings, I should find many others.” It is very probable, too, that I have said (as I am told I have) some things which M. Comte had already said. It would be difficult, I believe, to find any two men who had no opinions in common. And it would be-extremely strange if two men, starting from the same general doctrines established by modern science, should traverse some of the same fields of inquiry, without their lines of thought having any points of intersection. But none of these minor agreements can be of much weight in comparison with the fundamental disagreements above * M. Comte's “Exposition " I read in the original in 1853; and in two or three other places have referred to the original to get his exact words. The Inorganic Physics, and the first chapter of the Biology, I read in Miss Martineau's condensed translation, when it appeared. The rest of M. Comte's views I know only through Mr. Lewes's out- line, and through incidental references, 44 (616) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. specified. Leaving out of view that general community which we both have with the scientific thought of the age, the differences between us are essential, while the correspondences are non-essential. And I venture to think that kinship must be determined by essentials, and not by non-essen- tials.” Joined with the ambiguous use of the phrase “Positive Philosophy,” which has led to a classing with M. Comte of many men who either ignore or reject his distinctive principles, there has been one special circum- stance that has tended to originate and maintain this classing in my own case. The assumption of some rela- tionship between M. Comte and my- self, was unavoidably raised by the title of my first book—Social Statics. When that book was published, I was unaware that this title had been before used had I known the fact, I should certainly have adopted an alternative title which I had in view.f * In his recent work, Auguste Comte et la Ahilosophie Positive, M. Littré, defending the Comtean classification of the sciences from the criticism I made upon it in the “Genesis of Science,” deals with me wholly as an antagonist. The chapter he devotes to his reply, opens by placing me in direct antithe- sis to the English adherents of Comte, named in the preceding chapter. t I believed at the time, and have never doubted until now, that the choice of this title was absolutely independent of its previous use by M. Comte. While writing these pages, I have found reason to think the con- trary. On referring to Social Statics, to see what were my views of social evolution in 1856, when M. Comte was to me but a name, I met with the following sentence:–“Social philosophy may be aptly divided (as political economy has been) into statics and dynam- ics” (p. 409). This I remembered to be a reference to a división which I had seen in the Political Economy of Mr. Mill. But why had I not mentioned Mr. Mill's name P On referring to the first edition of his work, I found at the opening of Book iv., this sen- tence;—“The three preceding parts include as detailed a view as the limits of this trea- tise permit, of what, by a happy generaliza- tion of a mathematical phrase, has been called the Statics of the subject.” Here was the solution of the question. The division had not been made by Mr. Mill, but by some writer (on Political Economy I supposed) If, however, instead of the title, the work itself be considered, its irrelation to the philosophy of M. Comte, be- comes abundantly manifest. There is decisive testimony on this point. In the AVorth British Rezniew for August, 1851, a reviewer of Socia/ Statics says— “The title of this work, however, is a complete misnomer. According to all anal- ogy, the phrase “Social Statics” should be used only in some such sense as that in which, as we have already explained, it is used by Comte, namely, as designating a branch of inquiry whose end it is to ascertain the laws of social equilibrium or order, as distinct ideally from those of social move- ment or progress. Of this. Mr. Spencer does not seem to have had the slightest notion, but to have chosen the name for his work only as a means of indicating vaguely that it proposed to treat of social concerns in a sci- entific manner.” P. 321. Respecting M. Comte's application of the words statics and dynamics to Social phenomena, now that I know what it is, I will only say that while I perfectly understand how, by a defen- sible extension of their mathematical meanings, the one may be used to indicate social functions in balance, and the other social functions out of balance, I am quite at a loss to understand how the phenomena of structure can be included in the one any more than in the other. But the two things which here concern me, are, first, to point out that I had not “the slightest notion ” of giving Social Statics the meaning which M. Comte gave it; and, second, to explain the meaning which I did give it. The units of any aggregate of matter, are in equilibrium when they severally act did not know. who was not named by him ; and whom I It is now manifest, however, that while I supposed I was giving a more extended use to this division, I was but re- turning to the original use which Mr. Mill had limited to his special topic. Another thing is, I think, tolerably manifest. As I evidently wished to point out my obligation to some unknown political economist, whose division I thought I was extending, I should have named him had I known who he was. And in that case should not have put this extension of the division as though it were TheW. ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [617) 45 and re-act upon each other on all sides with equal forces. A state of change among them implies that there are forces exercised by some that are not counterbalanced by like forces exercised by others; and a state of rest implies the absence of such un- counterbalanced forces—implies, if the units are homogeneous, equal dis- tances among them—implies a main- tenance of their respective spheres of molecular motion. Similarly among the units of a society, the fundamental condition to equilibrium, is, that the restraining forces which the units ex- ercise on each other, shall be bal- anced. If the spheres of action of some units are diminished by exten- sion of the spheres of action of others, there necessarily results an unbal- anced force which tends to produce political change in the relations of individuals ; and the tendency to change can cease, only when individ- uals cease to aggress on each other's spheres of action——only when there is maintained that law of equal freedom, which it was the purpose of Social Staſics to enforce in all its conse- quences. Besides this totally-unlike conception of what constitutes Social Statics, the work to which I applied that title, is fundamentally at variance with M. Comte's teachings in almost everything. So far from alleging, as M. Comte does, that society is to be re-organized by philosophy; it alleges that society is to be re-organized only by the accumulated effects of habit on character. Its aim is not the increase of authoritative control over citizens, but the decrease of it. A more pronounced individualism, in- stead of a more pronounced national- ism, is its ideal. So profoundly is my political creed at variance with the creed of M. Comte, that, unless I am misinformed, it has been instanced by a leading English disciple of M. Comte, as the creed to which he has the greatest aversion. One point of coincidence, however, is recognizable. The analogy between an individual organism and a social organism, which was held by Plato and by Hobbes, is asserted in Social Statics, as it is in the Sociology of M. Comte. Very rightly, M. Comte has made this anal- ogy the cardinal idea of this division of his philosophy. In Social Statics, the aim of which is essentially ethical, this analogy is pointed out incident- ally, to enforce certain ethical con- siderations; and is there obviously suggested partly by the definition of life which Coleridge derived from Schelling, and partly by the generali- zations of physiologists there referred to (chap. xxx. §§ 12, 13, 16). Ex- cepting this incidental agreement, however, the contents of Social Statics are so wholly antagonistic to the philosophy of M. Comte, that, but for the title, the work would never, I think, have raised the remembrance of him—unless, indeed, by the asso- ciation of opposites.* And now let me point out that which really has exercised a profound influence over my course of thought. The truth which Harvey’s embryo- logical inquiries first dimly indicated, which was afterward more clearly perceived by Wolff, and which was put into a definite shape by Von Baer —the truth that all organic develop- ment is a change from a state of homogeneity to a state of heterogene- * Let me add that the conception devel- oped in Social Statics, dates back to a series of letters on the “ Proper Sphere of Govern- ment,” published in the AVoſzconformist news- paper, in the latter half of 1842, and repub- lished as a pamphlet in 1843. In these letters will be found, along with many crude ideas, the same belief in the conformity of social phenomena to unvariable laws ; the same be- lief in human progression as determined by such laws; the same belief in the moral modification of men as caused by social disci- pline; the same belief in the tendency of social arrangements. “of themselves to as- sume a condition of stable equilibrium; ”, the same repudiation of state-control over various departments of social life; the same limita- tion of state-action to the maintenance of equitable relations among citizens. ... The writ- ing of Social Statics arose from a dissatisfac- tion with the basis on which the doctrines set forth in those letters were placed: the second half of that work is an elaboration of these doctrines; and the first half a state- ment of the principles from which they are deducible. . . . . . , , -’ “ - - 46 (618] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. ity—this it is from which very many of the conclusions which I now hold, have indirectly resulted. In Socia/ Statics, there is everywhere mani- fested a dominant belief in the evolu- tion of man and of society. There is also manifested the belief that this evolution is in both cases determined by the incidence of conditions—the actions of circumstances. And there is further, in the sections above refer- red to, a recognition of the fact that Organic and Social evolutions, conform to the same law. Falling amid beliefs in evolutions of various orders, every- where determined by natural causes (beliefs again displayed in the Zheory of Population and in the Principles of Asychology); the formula of Von Baer acted as an organizing principle. The extension of it to other kinds of phenomena than those of individual and Social Organization, is traceable through successive stages. It may be seen in the last paragraph of an essay on “The Philosophy of Style,” pub- lished in October, 1852; again in an essay on “Manners and Fashion,” published in April, 1854; and then in a comparatively advanced form, in an essay on “Progress: its Law and Cause,” published in April, 1857. Afterward, there came the recogni- tion of the need for further limitation of this formula ; next the inquiry into those general laws of force from which this universal transformation necessa- rily results; next the deduction of these from the ultimate law of the persistence of force : next the percep- tion that there is everywhere a proc- ess of Dissolution complementary to that of Evolution ; and, finally, the determination of the conditions (speci- fied in the foregoing essay) under which Evolution and Dissolution re- spectively occur. The filiation of these results, is, I think, tolerably manifest. The process has been one of continuous development, set up by the addition of Von Baer's law to a number of ideas that were in harmony with it. And I am not conscious of any other influences by which the process has been affected. in the foregoing essay. It is possible, however, that there may have been influences of which I am not conscious; and my opposition to M. Comte's system may have been one of them. The presentation of antagonistic thoughts, often produces greater definiteness and development of one's own thoughts. It is probable that the doctrines set forth in the essay on “The Genesis of Science,” might never have been reached, had not my very decided dissent from M. Comte's conception led me to work them out; and but for this, I might not have arrived at the clas- sification of the sciences exhibited Very possi- bly there are other cases in which the stimulus of repugnance to M. Comte's views, may have aided in elaborating my own views; though I cannot call to mind any other cases. Let it by no means be supposed from all I have said, that I do not re- gard M. Comte's speculations as of great value. True or untrue, his system as a whole, has doubtless produced important and salutary revolutions of thought in many minds; and will doubtless do so in many more. Doubt- less, too, not a few of those who dis- sent from his general views, have been healthfully stimulated by the consid- eration of them. The presentation of Scientific knowledge and method as a whole, whether rightly or wrongly co- ordinated, cannot have failed greatly to widen the conceptions of most of his readers. And he has done espe- cial service by familiarizing men with the idea of a social science, based on the other sciences. Beyond which benefits resulting from the general character and scope of his philosophy, I believe that there are scattered through his pages, many large ideas that are valuable not only as stimuli, but for their actual truth. It has been by no means an agree- able task to make these personal ex- planations; but it has seemed to me a task not to be avoided. Differing so profoundly as I do from M. Comte on all fundamental doctrines, save those which we inherit in common Essays SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL [619) 47 from the past; it has become needful to dissipate the impression that I agree with him—needful to show that a large part of what is currently known as “positive philosophy,” is not “positive philosophy’ in the sense of being peculiarly M. Comte's philosophy; and to show that beyond that portion of the so-called “positive philosophy’ which is not peculiar to him, I dissent from it. . And now at the close, as at the out- set, let me express my great regret that these explanations should have been called forth by the statements of a critic who has treated me so liber- ally. Nothing will, I fear, prevent the foregoing pages from appearing like a very ungracious response to M. Laugel's sympathetically-written re- view. I can only hope that the grav- ity of the question at issue, in So far as it concerns myself, may be taken in mitigation, if not as a sufficient apology. IV. WHAT IS ELECTRICITY } PROBABLY few, if any, competent physicists have, of late years, used the term “electric fluid '' in any other than a conventional sense. When distinguishing electricity into the two kinds, “positive ’’ and “negative,” or “vitreous ” and “resinous,” they have used the ideas suggested by these names merely as convenient symbols, and not as representatives of different entities. And, now that heat and light are proved to be modes of motion, it has become obvious that all the allied manifestations of force must be modes of motion. What is the particular mode of mo- tion which constitutes electricity, thus becomes the question. That it is some kind of molecular vibration, dif- ferent from the molecular vibrations which luminous bodies give off, is, I presume, taken for granted by all who bring to the consideration of the mat- ter a knowledge of recent discoveries. Beyond those simple oscillations of molecules, from which light and heat result, may we not suspect that there will, in some cases, arise compound oscillations 2 Let us consider whether the conditions under which electricity arises are not such as to generate compound oscillations; and whether the phenomena of electricity are not such as must result from oscillations; and whether the phenomena of elec- tricity are not such as must result from compound oscillations. The universal antecedent to the pro- duction of electricity is the immediate or mediate contact of heterogeneous Substances—substances that are hete- rogeneous either in their molecular con- stitutions, or in their molecular states. If, then, electricity is some mode of molecular motion, and if, whenever it is produced, the contact of substances having unlike molecules, or molecules in unlike states, is the antecedent, there seems thrust upon us the con- clusion that electricity results from Some , mutual action whose motions are unlike. must this mutual action be 2 4. Before proceeding to answer this question, it will be needful to dispose of a demurrer that may be entered against the assumption, that unlike molecules have unlike motions in whatever states of aggregation they may be. It is currently admitted that, So long as they exist in the form of a gas, the particles of each kind of mat- ter have a rate of vibration peculiar to themselves—a rate unlike the rates which the particles of other kinds of matter have. Prof. Tyndall has shown further that, when aggregated into a liquid, particles of any kind still maintain a rate of vibration syn- chronous with that which they had when diffused as a gas. But it is al- leged that, on coalescing into solid masses, particles of different orders no longer maintain their distinctive rates of vibration. It is concluded that they severally take on vibrations of all orders, because solid matters, of whatever kinds, send off ethereal un- What of molecules 43 (620) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. dułations of all lengths; as is proved by the fact that each of them pro- duces a continuous spectrum. I vent- ure to think, however, that this infer- ence is not a legitimate one. It seems to me demonstrably at variance with ultimate mechanical laws; and I think the facts are explicable without as- suming it. To take the first—the a priori argument—it is incongruous with the doctrine of the persistence of force. Any difference between the vibrations of two orders of molecules, A and B, existing in a gaseous state, implies some kind of difference be- tween the characters of the molecules. Be this a difference of inertia, of bulk, or of form, matters not to the argu- ment; in any case, it is expressible as some unlikeness between the forces with which the molecules severally act and react on the medium that moves them. To say that, under the same conditions, the molecules A and B have different rates differential force, is to assert an effect without a cause, which is to deny the persistence of force. And if there ex- ists between them some differential force, by virtue of which they react differently on incident forces, and ac- quire different rates of vibration, then this differential force must continue, under all states of aggregation, to pro- duce its differential effect. To say that, when molecules of the kind A and molecules of the kind B are sev- erally aggregated into solids, there ceases to be any distinction between their vibrations, is to say that the dif- ferential force ceases to produce any effect, and this is to deny the persist- ence of force. But now, passing to the a £offeriori aspect of the question, it will be asked, How, then, can two solids, unlike in the natures of their molecules, severally produce, when heated, spectra that appear to be iden- tical—spectra that severally imply ethereal undulations of all lengths The answer to this question is to be sought in the effects produced on the mutual actions of molecules by their state of aggregation. Were all the of vibration, though there exists between them no particles similarly conditioned—were they all restrained by each other in like ways and degrees, then no reason for differences in their times of vibra- tion could be assigned. But they are differently conditioned in two ways— One of them contingent, the other necessary. In the first place, the process of consolidation, however it has gone on, is almost sure to have induced unlike states of tencion throughout the mass—here the crys- talization being more complete; there the cooling having gone on more rap- idly. In the second place, the super- ficial particles, the layer of particles below it, and the subjacent particles to some depth, are subject to sets of restraining forces quite different from those which the inner particles are subject to ; since, while the inner par- ticles are exposed to the actions of par- ticles all around them, the outer parti- cles are exposed to such actions only On one side. And, as the periods of Oscillation must be in part determined by the amounts and distributions of the tensions, it follows that the rates of Oscillation of particles on the surface must be unlike those of particles near the surface, and progressively more unlike those of particles successively farther away from the surface. Hence, besides impressing on the surround- ing medium undulations correspond- ing with their own, the surface-mole- cules will conduct to the surrounding medium the somewhat different undu- lations passed on to them by the sub- jacent molecules; and the still more different undulations passed on to them by molecules placed still deeper, and so on. Besides waves like their own, and waves a little unlike their own, and waves still more unlike their own, they will generate waves of various orders widely unlike their own. They will give off various vibrations shorter than their own, answering to the differ- ences between the vibrations conveyed through them ; and various vibrations longer than their own, answering to the periodic coincidences of the vibra- tions conveyed through them. Thus it becomes comprehensible how mole- ESSAYS SPECULATIVE ANL) PRACTICAL. [621) 49 cules of two different orders, having strongly contrasted rates of vibration, may, when severally aggregated with solid masses, both produce continuous spectra, and so appear to be in like states of agitation. From this preliminary explanation, let us now return to the question pro- pounded—What must be that mutual action of molecules having unlike mo- tions, which, as we see, is the univer- sal antecedent of electrical disturb- ance 2 The answer to this question does not seem difficult to reach, if we take the simplest case—the case of contact-electricity. When two pieces of metal of the same kind, and at the same temperature, are applied to one another, there is no electrical excita- tion ; but, if the metals applied to one another be of different kinds, there is a genesis of electricity. This, which e * has been regarded as an anomalous fact—a fact so anomalous that it has been much disputed because appar- ently at variance with every hypothe- sis—is a fact to which an interpreta- tion is at once supplied by the hy- pothesis that electricity results from the mutual disturbances of unlike mo- lecular motions. For, if, on the one hand, we have homoge:eous metals in contact, their respective molecules, oscillating synchronously, will give and take any forces which they impress on one another without producing an oscillation of a new order. But, if, on the other hand, the molecules of the one mass have periods of oscilla tion different from those of the other mass, then their mutual impacts will not agree with the period of oscilla- tion of either, but will generate a new rhythm, differing from, and much slower than, that of either. The pro- duction of what are called “beats '' in acoustics, will best illustrate this. It is a familiar fact that two strings, vibrating at different rates, from time to time concur in sending off ačrial waves in the same direction at the same instant; that then, their vibra- tions getting more and more out of correspondence, they send off their aërial waves in the same direction at exactly intermediate instants; and presently, coming once more into cor- respondence, they agai: generate co- inciding waves. So that, when their periods of vibration differ but little, and when consequently it takes an appreciable time to complete their alternations of agreement and disa- greement, there results an audible alternation in the Sound—a succession of pulses of louder and feebler sound. In other words, besides the primary, simple, and rapid series of waves, con- stituting the two sounds themselves, there is a series of slow compound waves, resulting from their repeated conflicts and concurrences. Now, if, instead of the two strings communi- cating their vibrations to the air, each communicated its vibrations to the other, we should have just the same alternation of concurrent and conflict- ing pulses. And if each of the two strings was combined with an aggre- gate of others ſike itself, in such way that it communicated to its neighbors both its normal and its abnormal vi. brations, it is clear that through each aggregate of Strings timere would be propagated one of these compound waves of oscillation, in addition to their simple rapid oscillations. This illustration will, I think, make it mani- fest that when a mass of molecules, whºun have a certain period of vibra- tion, is placed in contact with a mass of molecules which have another pe. riod of vibration, there must result an alternation of coincidences and antag. orisms in the moiecular motions, such as will make the molecules aiter- nately increase and decrease one an- other’s motions. There will be in- stants at which they are moving in the same direction, and intervening in- stants at which they are moving in op- posite directions; whence will arise periods of greatest and least devia- tions from their ordinary motions. And these greatest and least devia- tions, being communicated to neigh- boring molecules, and passed on by them to the next, will result in waves of perturbation propagated throughout each mass. - - 50 [622] ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. Let us now ask what will be the mutual relations of these waves. tion and reaction being equal and op- posite, it must happen that whatever effect a molecule of the mass A pro- duces upon an adjacent molecule of the mass B, must be accompanied by an equivalent reverse effect upon 1t- self. at any instant moving in Such way as to impress on a molecule of the mass B an additional momentum in any given direction, then the momentum of the molecule of B, in that direction, will be diminished to an equal amount. That is to say, to any wave of in- creased motion propagated through the molecules of B, there must be a reactive wave of decreased motion propagated in the Opposite direction through the molecules of A. See, then, the two significant facts. Any addition of motion, which at one of these alternate periods is given by the molecules of A to the molecules of B, must be propagated through the mole- cules of B in a direction away from A ; and simultaneously there must be a subtraction from the 'motion of the molecules of A, which will be propa- gated through them in a direction away from B. To every wave of ex- cess sent through the one mass, there will be a corresponding wave of defect sent through the other; and these positive and negative waves will be ex- actly coincident in their times, and ex- actly equal in their amounts. Whence it obviously follows that, if these waves, proceeding from the surface of contact through the two masses in contrary directions, are brought into relation, they will neutralize each other. Action and reaction being equal and opposite, these plus and minus molecular motions will cancel one another if they are added to- gether, and there will be a restoration of equilibrium. These positive and negative waves of perturbation will travel through the two masses of molecules with great facility. It is now an estab- lished truth that molecules absorb, in the increase of their own vibrations, Ac- If a molecule of the mass A is those rhythmical impulses or waves which have periodic times the same as their own; but that they cannot thus absorb successive impulses that have periodic times different from their own. Hence these differential undulations, being very long undula- tions in comparison with those of the molecules themselves, will readily pass through the masses of molecules, or be conducted by them. Further observe that, if the two masses of molecules continue joined, these positive and negative differential waves traveling away from the surface of contact in opposite directions, and severally ar- riving at the outer surfaces of the two masses, will be reflected from these ; and, traveling back again toward the surface of contact, will there meet and neutralize one another, Hence no current will be produced along a wire joining the Outer surfaces of the masses; since neutralization will be more readily effected by this return of the waves through the masses themselves. But, though no external current arises, the masses will con- tinue in what we call opposite electric states, as a delicate electrometer shows that they do. And further, if they are parted, the positive and nega- tive waves which have the instant be- fore been propagated through them respectively, remaining unneutralized, the masses will display their opposite electric states in a more conspicuous way. The residual positive and nega- tive waves will then neutralize each other along any conductor that is placed between them, seeing that the flus waves eommunicated from the one mass to the conductor, meet- ing with the minus waves commu- nicated from the other, and being mutually canceled as they meet, the conductor will become a line of least resistance to the waves of each Iſla SS. Let us pass now to the allied phe- nomena of thermo-electricity. Sup- pose these two masses of metal to be heated at their surfaces of contact; the forms of the masses being such that their surfaces of contact can be ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. [623] 51 considerably heated without their re- moter parts being much heated. What will happen 2 Prof. Tyndall has shown, in the cases of various gases and liquids, that, other things equal, when molecules have given to them more of the insensible motion which we call heat, there is no alteration in their periods of oscillation, but an in- crease in the dimensions of their os- cillations; the molecules make wider excursions in the same times. As above implied, we have good reason to conclude that the like is true of solids; the apparent proof of changed periods of vibration being explicable in the manner shown. Assuming this, it will follow that, when the two metals are heated at their surfaces of contact, the result will be the same as before in respect of the natures and intervals of the differential waves. There will be a change, however, in the strengths of these waves. For, if the two orders of molecules have sev- erally given to them increased quan- tities of motion, the perturbations which they impress on each other will also be increased. These somewhat stronger positive and negative waves of differential motion will, as before, travel through either mass away from the surfaces of contact—that is, to- ward the cold extremities of the masses. From these cold extremities they will, as before, rebound toward the surfaces of contact ; and as be- fore will tend thus to equilibriate each other. But they will meet with resistance in thus traveling back. It is a well-ascertained fact that raising the temperatures of metals decreases their conducting powers. Hence, if the two cold ends of the masses be put in connection by some other mass whose molecules can take on with fa- cility these differential undulations— that is, if the two ends be joined by a conductor, the positive and negative waves will meet and neutralize one another along this conductor, instead of being reflected back to the sur- faces of contact. In other words, there will be established a current along the wire joining the two cold ends of the metallic masses. Carried a step further, this reason- ing affords us an explanation of the thermo-electric pile. If a number of these bars of different metais, as an- timony and bismuth, are soldered together, end to end, in alternate order, AB, AB, AB, etc., then, so long as they remain cold, there is no mani- festation of an electric current ; or, if all the joints are equally heated, there is no manifestation of an electric cur- rent beyond that which would arise from any relative coolness of the two ends of the compound bar. But, if alternate joints are heated, an electric current is produced in a wire joining the two ends of the compound bar—a current that is intense in proportion to the number of pairs. What is the cause of this? Clearly, so long as all the joints are of the same tempera- ture, the differential waves propagated from each joint toward the two adja- cent joints will be equal and opposite to those from the adjacent joints, and no disturbance will be shown. But if alternate joints are heated, the posi- tive and negative differential waves propagated away from them will be stronger than those propagated from the other joints. Hence, if the joint of bar A with bar B be heated, the other end of the bar B, which is joined to A2, not being heated, will receive a stronger differential wave than it sends back. In addition to the wave which its molecules would otherwise induce in the molecules of A2, there is an effect which it conducts from AI ; and this extra impulse propagated to the other end of B2 is added to the impulse which its heated molecules would otherwise give to the molecules of A3; and so on throughout the series. The waves being added together, become more violent, and the cur- rent through the wire joining the extremities of the series, more in- ten Se. - - This interpretation of the facts of thermo-electricity will probably be met by the objection that there are, in 52 [624) ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. some cases, thermo-electric currents developed between masses of metal of the same kind, and even between different parts of the same mass. tween the rates of vibration of mole- cules in contact is the cause of these electric disturbances; then, heat ought not to produce any electric disturb- ances when the molecules are of the same kind ; since we have reason to conclude that heat does not change the periodic times of molecºlar vibra- tions. This objection, which seems at first sight a serious one, introduces us to a confirmation. For, where the masses of molecules are homogeneous in all other respects, difference of femperature does not generate any thermo-electric current. The junc- tion of hot with cold mercury sets up no electric excitement. In all cases where thermo-electricity is generated between metals of the same kind, there is evidence of heterogeneity in their molecular structures—either one has been hammered and the other not, or one is annealed and the other unannealed. And, where the cur. rent is between different parts of the same mass, there are differences in the crystalline states of the parts, or differences between the ways in which the parts have cooled after being cast. That is to say, there is proof that the molecules in the two masses, or in different parts of the same mass, are in unlike relations to their neighbors —are in unlike states of tension. Now, however true it may be that molecules of the same kind vibrate at the same rate, whatever may be their temperature, it is obviously true so long only as their motions are not modified by restraining forces. If molecules of the same kind are in one mass arranged into that state which produces crystallization, while another mass they are not thus bound together; or if in the one their molec- ular relations have been modified by hammering, and in the other not; the differences in the restraints under which they respectively vibrate will effect their rates of vibration. And It may be urged that, if unlikeness be- other. in if their rates of vibration are rendered unequal, then the alleged cause of electrical disturbance comes into ex- istence. • To sum up, may it not be said that by some such action alone can the phenomena of electricity be ex- plained; and that some such action must inevitably arise under the con- ditions : On the one hand, electricity, being a mode of motion, implies the transformation of some pre-existing motion—implies also, a transformation such that there are two new kinds of motion simultaneously generated, equal and opposite in their directions —implies further that these differ in being //us and minus, and being therefore carable of neutralizing each On the other hand, in the above cases, molecular motion is the only source of motion that can be as- signed ; and this molecular motion must, under the circumstances, pro- duce effects of the kind witnessed. Molecules vibrating at different rates cannot be brought in proximity with- out affecting one another's motions. They must affect one another's mo- tions by periodically adding to, or deducting from one another’s mo- tions; and any excess of motion which those of the one order receive, must be accompanied by an equiva- lent defect of motion in those of the other order. When such molecules are units of aggregates placed in con- tact, they must pass on these pertur- bations to their neighbors. And so, from the surface of contact, there must be waves of excessive and de- fective molecular motion, equal in their amounts, and opposite in their directions—waves which must exactly compensate one another when brought into relation. . In brief, I think it will be admitted that the cause alleged is “a true cause,” and that it is a cause which must work some such effects as those described. Is it possible for differently vibrating molecules to be brought together without affecting one another's mo- tions 2 If it is impossible—if they must affect one another’s motions, > ESSAYS SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL, [625] 53. then there must be some resulting cal phenomena of the simplest kind. phenomena. And if these phenomena | Hereafter I may possibly endeavor to are not what we call electric phenom- show how this hypothesis furnishes ena, what are they - interpretations of other forms of elec- I have here dealt only with electri-ltricity. - - C O N T E N T S. PAGE I. SPECIALIZED ADMINISTRATION. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 1 II. “THE CollBCTIVE WISDOM ".................. * - - - - - - - - - - - - - - . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2I III. MoRALS AND MORAL SENTIMENTs......................... . . . . . . . . . ........ 24 IV. 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